Page 15 of Made for Sinners

It wasn’t just Dante, though he terrified me in ways I couldn’t fully articulate. It was something deeper—an insidious dread that gnawed at the edges of my resolve. I was afraid of losing myself, of becoming someone I didn’t recognize. Someonewhose life was shaped entirely by the choices of others, rather than her own. A puppet on strings I couldn’t see, much less cut.

I wiped at my face with trembling hands, forcing myself to take a deep breath. I couldn’t let him see me like this. I couldn’t let him win. If Dante wanted to break me, he’d have to try harder than this.

A knock at the door startled me, and I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing. For a moment, I thought it might be him—Dante, come to twist the knife even further. But when I opened the door, it was Tony.

His expression was grim, his dark eyes filled with a mix of anger and something that almost looked like pity. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Tony,” I said, my voice hoarse from crying. “What do you want?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the room and sank onto the edge of my bed, his hands resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Say something,” I demanded, my voice trembling. “Anything.”

He looked up at me then, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t have spat at him,” he said finally, his tone low but firm.

I blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected reprimand. “That’s what you’re worried about?” I snapped, my anger flaring again. “That I offendedhim?”

Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand, Emilia. This isn’t just about you. This is about all of us. About the family.”

“Don’t you dare,” I said, pointing a trembling finger at him. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me this is for the family.You’re my brother, Tony. You’re supposed to protect me, not let them sell me off like some… some?—”

“Enough,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. He stood abruptly, his presence suddenly towering and imposing. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think any of us wanted this? You think I don’t hate what’s happening to you?”

“Then stop it!” I shouted, my voice breaking. “Do something! You’re my brother, Tony. You’re supposed to fight for me.”

His expression softened, the anger in his eyes giving way to something heavier. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “Not against him. Not against Dante. You don’t understand what he’s capable of, Emilia. None of us do.”

I shook my head, my chest tightening as the tears threatened to spill again. “You’re all cowards,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Every single one of you.”

Tony flinched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against my shoulder in a gesture that was almost comforting.

Almost.

7

DANTE

The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as I gripped the steering wheel, the engine’s low growl failing to drown out the chaos in my head.

I’d been on edge for days, my patience worn thin by the Ricci family’s incompetence and Emilia’s relentless defiance. She was a splinter under my skin—small, maddening, impossible to ignore. Every time I thought I’d rid myself of her, she found a way to burrow deeper. Her defiance, her fire—it left marks I couldn’t erase. I hated it. Hated her. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at me in her father’s study, her eyes blazing with fury and fear.

She made me want to crush her and protect her all at once.

“You’re a monster.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The thought made my jaw tighten, my foot pressing harder on the accelerator as the car surged forward. The streets were empty at this hour, the city’s pulse slowing to a quiet hum. It was the only time I found any semblance of peace, driving through the sleeping city with nothing but my thoughts for company.

And tonight, those thoughts were darker than usual.

I wanted to shoot something. Or someone. My fingers itched for the weight of a gun, the sharp crack of a bullet splitting the air. It wasn’t about violence for violence’s sake—it was about control. About reminding myself that I still had it, even when everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

By the time I reached the penthouse, the tension in my chest had coiled so tightly it felt like a vice. The elevator ride to the top floor was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting a version of myself I barely recognized—jaw clenched, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped into the sprawling space that overlooked the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the lights stretching out like a sea of stars. It should have been calming, but tonight it only reminded me of how far I’d come—and how much further I had to go.

I made my way to the office, the familiar scent of leather and aged whiskey greeting me like an old friend. The decanter on the sideboard gleamed in the dim light, and I poured myself a generous glass, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city outside.

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