Page 133 of Made for Sinners

Rocco’s body slumped across the pristine white tablecloth, his blood a slow, spreading stain that crept toward the silverware like it had somewhere to be. No one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was the faint clink of Dante’s fork against his plate as he calmly resumed his dinner like he hadn’t just executed his cousin in front of twenty people and a thousand years of family legacy.

And me?

I sat frozen beside him, my wine glass trembling slightly in my hand, the stem slick between my fingers. My heart thudded in my chest like it was trying to claw its way out, but my face—my face was still. Blank. Perfect.

“Well,” I said, my voice dry, “first time I’ve seen you kill someone without getting blood on my dress.”

He laughed, dark and low.

I stared at the blood inching toward the breadbasket and thoughtwell, there goes the focaccia.

Dante didn’t look at me. He didn’t have to. His presence next to me was a wall of heat, of certainty, of power so absolute it made the air hard to breathe. He chewed slowly, deliberately, like this was just another course. Like Rocco’s death was a palate cleanser.

Across the table, Rafe finally moved, reaching for his wine glass with the same calm precision he used to sign death warrants. He took a sip, then set it down gently.

“Well,” he said, voice dry. “That was overdue.”

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room—quiet, cautious. No one dared raise their voice. No one dared look away from the body. Except for Luca, who reached acrossthe table and plucked a cannoli off the dessert tray like nothing had happened.

“Shame,” he said, licking powdered sugar off his thumb. “I liked that tie.”

I let out a breath.

And then I laughed.

Quietly. Just once. A sharp, disbelieving sound that slipped past my lips before I could stop it.

Dante turned to me then, finally, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” I said, lifting my wine glass in a mock toast. “Nothing says family bonding like a little light homicide.”

He didn’t smile. But his hand found mine beneath the table, his fingers curling around mine, grounding me.

I squeezed back.

After dinner—ifyou could call it that—Dante ordered the staff to clear the room. No one argued. No one asked questions. The body was gone within minutes, the table reset like Rocco had never existed. The blood was wiped clean. The wine was refilled.

The family remained.

Because that’s what we did.

We stayed.

We endured.

We smiled.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, staring out at the city below, the lights twinkling like stars fallen to earth. My reflection stared back at me—lips red, eyes sharp, diamond necklace glittering at my throat like a collar.

I looked like a queen.

But I felt like a weapon.

Behind me, I heard the soft click of shoes against marble. I didn’t turn.

He stepped closer, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His mouth brushed the shell of my ear.

“You were perfect tonight,” he murmured. “Poised. Unshaken. Mine.”

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