Page 162 of Made for Sinners

With fire.

38

EMILIA

Iwoke to silence.

Not the kind I was used to—the heavy, watchful quiet of the Conti penthouse or the eerie stillness of Rocco’s estate. This was different. This silence was too clean. Too curated. Like someone had taken the world and pressed mute.

The sheets beneath me were soft. Egyptian cotton, maybe. The kind of luxury that whispered old money and whispered it in Russian.

I sat up slowly, blinking against the morning light that filtered through gauzy curtains. My head throbbed faintly, like I’d had too much wine the night before, but I knew that wasn’t it. I hadn’t had anything. I remembered the chapel. The tunnel. The woods.

And then… nothing.

I did a body scan, my breath caught in my throat.

Clothes: still on. My black dress from the night before, wrinkled but intact. No bruises. No soreness. No signs I’d been touched. My shoes were gone, but that was it. My hair was a mess, and my lipstick had faded, but I was whole.

I exhaled slowly, the knot in my chest loosening just enough to let in fear.

Where the hell was I?

The room was opulent—ornate crown molding, gold accents, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace. The bed I sat on was massive, the headboard carved from dark wood and inlaid with what looked like mother-of-pearl. A vanity sat in the corner, its surface covered in delicate perfume bottles and a silver hairbrush. A pair of velvet chairs flanked a fireplace that wasn’t lit.

It was beautiful.

It was a prison.

I slid off the bed and padded across the room, my bare feet silent on the polished floor. I pressed my ear to the door.

Voices.

Men. Arguing. The sharp cadence of Russian, fast and clipped, filled the hallway beyond. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable—anger. Frustration. One voice was deeper, louder. The other was tight, controlled, like it was trying not to explode.

I stepped back, heart pounding.

The doorknob turned.

I froze.

The door creaked open, and I braced myself to run, to fight, to scream.

But instead of a guard or a gunman, a girl—maybe sixteen, maybe younger—peeked around the doorframe.

She blinked at me, wide-eyed. “Oh! Hi!”

I stared.

She stepped inside like we were old friends, her long dark braid swinging behind her. She wore a soft pink sweater and jeans, and she carried a tray with a teapot and two cups.

“What…” I started, my voice hoarse. “What is this?”

She smiled brightly. “Tea. You looked like you might need it.”

I blinked. “No, I mean—where am I?”

“Oh,” she said, setting the tray down on the vanity. “This is my brother Nikolai’s house.”

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