Page 19 of Made for Sinners

But I intended to find out.

The house felt heavier now.Not in the physical sense—though the walls themselves seemed to close in on me more with each passing day—but in the way silence had settled over everything like a suffocating fog. My mother and father hadn’t spoken to me since the night in my father’s study. Not a word. Not a glance. Not even the faintest acknowledgment that I existed.

My brothers, on the other hand, had taken a different approach.

“Nice going, Emilia,” Marco had said the morning after, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk that made me want to hurl the coffee pot at his head. “Really outdid yourself this time. You know, I always thought you’d screw up eventually, but I figured it’d be something small. Like a parking ticket. Not, you know,embezzling from the Contis.”

“I didn’t embezzle anything,” I snapped, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“Sure,” Giuseppe chimed in from the doorway, his grin wide and infuriating. “And I’m the next President of Italy.”

They thought it was funny. They thoughtIwas funny. A joke. An embarrassment. The girl who had somehow managed to get herself accused of stealing from one of the most dangerous families in the city.

I didn’t bother defending myself anymore. What was the point? No one believed me. Not my brothers, not my parents, and certainly not Dante.

Especially not Dante.

The thought of him made my stomach churn, and I shoved it aside, focusing instead on the coffee in front of me. It was lukewarm now, the steam long gone, but I didn’t care. It was something to hold, something to ground me in the midst of the chaos that had become my life.

The knock at the door came sharp and sudden, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

I froze, my grip tightening on the mug as my heart leapt into my throat. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I could feel it—the weight of his presence pressing against the walls of the house even before I heard my father’s voice call out from somewhere upstairs.

“Emilia, get the door.”

Of course. Because why would he bother? Why would anyone bother? I was the disgrace, the scapegoat, the one who had brought shame to the family.

Setting the mug down with trembling hands, I made my way to the door, each step heavier than the last. When I opened it, there he was.

Dante Conti.

He looked the same as always—impeccably dressed in a dark suit that fit him like it had been tailored by the gods themselves, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes cold and calculating. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, didn’t even look at me as he stepped inside, brushing past me like I was nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle in his path.

“Good to see you too,” I muttered under my breath, closing the door behind them.

Dante didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance in my direction as he made his way to the dining room, his movements deliberate and controlled. In one hand, he carried a leather folder, the sight of it making my stomach twist. I didn’t need to ask what was inside.

The marriage contract.

My throat tightened as I reluctantly followed him, my footsteps echoing in the silence like a death march. It felt like I was being led to the gallows, each step heavier than the last. He reached the dining table and placed the folder down with a precision that made my skin crawl. Everything about him was calculated, controlled, and I hated how small it made me feel.

Without a word, he pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit. I hesitated, my stomach churning, but before I could protest, Dante reached into his jacket and pulled out a brand new sleek iphone and a black credit card. He placed them on the table, the sharp sound of the card hitting the wood cutting through the tense air like a knife.

“These are yours,” he said, his voice flat, detached. “The phone is already set up. My number is in it, and it has everything you’ll need." He held up the black card. "Use it for anything—clothes, food, whatever.”

I stared at the items on the table, my chest tightening. The shiny black surface of the phone glinted under the light, and the card, embossed with my name, gleamed like a cruel joke. A bitter laugh nearly bubbled up inside me. Was this supposed to make me feel better?

“What is this?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

He finally looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable. “It’s what you’ll need,” he said simply, as if that explanation was enough.

“For what?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid the folder across the table toward me, his expression hardening. “Sign it,” he said, his tone cold and commanding.

I stared at him, my chest tightening as a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Anger, fear, defiance—they all swirled together, threatening to spill over. But I forced myself to stay calm, to keep my voice steady as I crossed my arms over my chest.

“You don’t want me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “I’ll ruin your life. I’ll give all your money to the poor.”

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