Page 142 of Made for Sinners

“I’m not asking to go clubbing in Moscow, Dante. I just want to breathe air that hasn’t been filtered through a chandelier.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “None of the men are free to go with you. And I’m not leaving the estate until this is handled.”

I crossed my arms. “So I’m a prisoner again.”

“You’re protected.”

I laughed, but it came out wrong—sharp and bitter. “Right. Protected. Like a glass doll on a shelf.”

His jaw ticked. “Emilia?—”

“Forget it,” I said, already turning. “I’ll go walk in circles around the fountain like a good little wife.”

I left before he could say anything else.

The gardens behind the estate were overgrown in places, wild and beautiful in a way that felt almost defiant. I followed the path around the perimeter, past the crumbling stone benches and the faded statues that looked like they were judging me. Eventually, I found myself near the chapel.

It was small, tucked into the far corner of the property, half-hidden by ivy and age. The wooden doors creaked when I pushed them open, and the scent of old incense and dust hit me like a memory I didn’t have.

The space was dim, lit only by the stained glass windows that filtered the sunlight into fractured rainbows. The pews were worn, the altar simple. It was quiet in a way the rest of the estate wasn’t.

I stepped inside.

“Signora?”

I turned to find an older man standing near the side entrance, a rake in one hand and a pair of gardening gloves in the other. He looked startled to see me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He smiled. “Not at all. It’s rare anyone comes here anymore.”

I walked toward him slowly. “You work the grounds?”

“For thirty years,” he said proudly. “Since before Rocco inherited the estate.”

I glanced around. “It’s beautiful. Peaceful.”

He nodded. “It was built by Dante’s great-grandfather. The chapel was meant to be a sanctuary. And a secret.”

I tilted my head. “A secret?”

He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “There’s a passage beneath the altar. A tunnel. Built during the war. In case the family ever needed to escape.”

My heart skipped. “A tunnel?”

He nodded. “Leads out into the woods behind the estate. It hasn’t been used in decades, but it’s still there.”

I tried to keep my voice even. “Could I see it?”

He looked uncertain. “It’s not really?—”

“Just for a moment,” I said, stepping closer. “Please.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Very well.”

He led me to the altar with slow, careful steps, like the chapel itself might wake up and scold us. The floor creaked beneath our feet, the sound swallowed by the thick stone walls and the dust-laced silence. I followed him behind the altar, where a simple wooden platform sat flush against the floor. At first glance, it looked like nothing—just part of the structure. But then he crouched and pressed his hand against one of the carved panels.

There was a soft click.

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