Page 182 of Made for Sinners

I rolled my eyes, but my heart stuttered. “You already know what I look like.”

“Not like this,” he said. “Not in white. Not with the whole world watching and still knowing you’re mine.”

“You’re going to make me cry,” I warned.

He smirked. “Not until after I get you out of this dress.”

I laughed, and the sound felt like sunlight in my chest.

He spun me once, slow and deliberate, then pulled me back into his arms.

“I still can’t believe you bought me a vineyard,” I said, resting my head against his chest.

“I’d buy you a country if you asked.”

“I don’t want a country.”

“What do you want?”

I looked up at him. “You.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “You already have me.”

I smiled. “Good.”

Later,after the cake had been cut, the toasts given, and the guests had started to trickle out, I found myself barefoot in the vineyard, my heels dangling from one hand, my other hand wrapped around a bottle of wine I’d stolen from the bar.

Dante found me there, of course.

He always did.

He walked toward me slowly, his jacket gone, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked like sin and salvation and everything in between.

“You’re hiding,” he said.

“I’m celebrating,” I corrected, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “In solitude.”

He took the bottle from me and drank straight from it. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m married,” I said. “Again.”

He handed the bottle back. “Regretting it already?”

I took a sip. “Not even a little.”

He stepped closer, his hand sliding around my waist. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”

I leaned into him, my head resting against his shoulder. “I don’t want you to.”

We stood there for a long time, the vineyard stretching out around us in quiet, golden darkness. The fairy lights strung between the olive trees flickered like stars, the music had faded to a low hum in the distance, and the rest of the world felt far, far away.

Dante’s arm was warm around my waist, his chest solid against my back. I could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. It grounded me, tethered me to something real after days of chaos and fear and too many people trying to decide what I was worth.

But here, in this moment, I wasn’t currency. I wasn’t leverage. I wasn’t a pawn or a bride or a Conti.

I was just Emilia.

And I was his.

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