Page 170 of Made for Sinners

Of course they did.

Nikolai looked back at me, his expression unreadable. “Get him a drink,” he said to one of his men. “And clean up this mess.”

I adjusted my jacket, brushing a fleck of blood from my sleeve. “You’re forgetting something.”

He raised a brow.

“My wife.”

He stared at me for a beat.

Then he turned to his guards and said in Russian, “Let the girl go.”

I didn’t thank him.

I just turned and walked out, already dialing the number that would bring Emilia home.

Because this wasn’t about peace.

It was about war.

And now?

Now it was personal.

40

EMILIA

The car door clicked open from the outside.

I didn’t move.

I sat there, still and silent, my hands curled into fists in my lap, my body stiff from hours of waiting. The leather seat beneath me was warm from the sun, the tinted windows casting long shadows across the interior. I could hear voices outside—Italian, low and clipped—and the distant hum of traffic from the nearby road.

But none of it mattered.

Because I wasn’t inside the Romanov estate anymore. I wasn’t in that gilded cage with its velvet curtains and marble floors and polite guards who never looked me in the eye. I wasn’t under the watchful gaze of Nikolai or the looming threat of Aleksander. I wasn’t a bargaining chip.

Not anymore.

I was back.

Back in Conti territory.

Back where I belonged.

The man who opened the door didn’t speak. He just nodded once, gesturing for me to step out.

I slid out of the car, my legs shaky, my breath catching in my throat. The air smelled different here—warmer, sharper, like wood smoke and wine and something else I couldn’t name. Something that felt like home.

I stood on the gravel driveway of a sprawling estate I didn’t recognize.

I looked around, scanning the horizon, my heart thudding in my chest like it was trying to escape.

And then I saw him.

Dante.

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