Page 174 of Made for Sinners

Dante’s entire body went still.

“He was kind,” I said quickly, suddenly unsure. “He didn’t seem like—he didn’t act like he was setting me up. But… he knew. And they were waiting.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then, quietly, dangerously, “What was his name?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He never said. Just called me ‘signora’ and smiled a lot.”

Dante stood, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator preparing to strike. “I’ll find him.”

I believed him.

Because when Dante made a promise, it wasn’t just words.

It was a death sentence.

He stood slowly, pulling me up with him, and wrapped his arms around me. I rested my head against his chest, listening tothe steady beat of his heart. It was the only thing that felt real right now. The only thing that made sense.

“I thought I was going to die,” I said again, quieter this time.

He didn’t answer.

He just held me tighter.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Neither did Dante.

We lay in bed, tangled together, the sheets twisted around us like vines. His hand never left my skin—not even when I shifted, not even when I flinched in my sleep. Every time I stirred, he murmured something low and soothing, his breath warm against my neck, his presence grounding.

I kept seeing the red light of the camera.

Kept hearing the Russian’s voice in my ear.

Kept feeling the zip ties digging into my wrists.

But then Dante would touch me—just a brush of his fingers, a kiss to my temple—and the memories would fade, just enough for me to breathe.

“You’re safe,” he whispered once, when he thought I was asleep.

I didn’t respond.

Because I wasn’t sure I believed it.

But I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

Morning came slowly, bleeding through the curtains in pale streaks of gold. I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of Dante’s shirts, staring out the window at the city below. It looked the same as always—busy, beautiful, brutal.

But I wasn’t the same.

I felt like a cracked mirror. Still whole, still reflecting, but fractured in ways no one could see.

Dante walked in, shirtless and barefoot, a cup of coffee in each hand. He handed one to me without a word and sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine.

We drank in silence.

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