Page 30 of Made for Sinners

But, of course, reality had other plans.

My phone buzzed on the small table beside me, the screen lighting up with a text. I didn’t need to check to know who it was. Dante had been relentless lately, his messages a steady drip of taunts, commands, and the kind of flirtation that made my stomach twist in ways I didn’t want to think about.

Ignoring it seemed like the mature thing to do. So, naturally, I didn’t.

I picked up the phone, sliding my thumb across the screen to read the latest gem he’d sent.

Dante:Three hours and no snarky texts? Should I be worried?

I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t fall out of my head. Of course, he’d turn my silence into some kind of game. Everything with Dante was a game—one he always thought he was winning.

I set the phone back down without replying, determined not to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the sun lull me into a false sense of peace.

The nerve of him. As if I owed him anything. As if he hadn’t been the one to push me away, to bruise me—literally and figuratively—and then act like I was the problem. The audacity was almost impressive.

Almost.

I tried to push the thought of him out of my head, focusing instead on the rhythmic sound of the water lapping against the edges of the pool. But it was no use. Dante was like a splinter—small, sharp, and impossible to ignore. Even when he wasn’t here, he was everywhere. In my thoughts, in my phone, in the goddamn albums that sat like a ticking time bomb in my room.

Another buzz. Another message.

I groaned, snatching the phone off the table. This time, I didn’t bother trying to ignore it.

Dante:I saw something today, and it reminded me of you. Care to guess what it was?

I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. My first instinct was to fire back something cutting, something that would wipe that smug smirk off his face. But then I hesitated. That’s what he wanted. He thrived on the back-and-forth, on the push-and-pull that kept me tethered to him even when I wanted to run.

So, instead, I set the phone down again and reached for my glass of rosé. Let him stew in the silence for a while. Let him wonder if I was ignoring him—or if I was planning something worse.

The thought brought a small, satisfied smile to my lips. For once, I had the upper hand, and I wasn’t about to let it go.

Hours passed in a haze of sun and wine. By the time I dragged myself back inside, the sky was streaked with shades of orange and pink, the first hints of twilight creeping in. I felt lighter, the weight of the day’s frustrations momentarily dulled by the warmth of the sun and the buzz of alcohol.

But that lightness didn’t last long.

The albums were waiting for me, stacked neatly on the desk like they’d been placed there by some invisible hand. I frowned, certain I’d left them in a haphazard pile before heading outside. It was probably one of the house staff—always tidying, always organizing, always reminding me that nothing in this house was truly mine.

With a resigned sigh, I sat down and flipped open the next album. The faces blurred together as I turned page after page, my frustration mounting with each unfamiliar profile. Whoever this elusive cousin was, he was doing a damn good job of staying hidden.

I reached for my phone, considering another round of private investigator research, but stopped short. Dante’s messages were still there, unread, taunting me from the screen. I swiped them away with a sharp motion, determined not to let him distract me again.

But as the hours dragged on, my resolve began to waver. The albums were a dead end, the faces all blending into one indistinct mass of dark suits and cold smiles. My patience was wearing thin, and the wine was no longer enough to dull the edge of my frustration.

By the time I finally caved and picked up my phone, it was well past midnight. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and oppressive, like the walls were closing in.

Dante:Good girls don't ghost their fiancés.

I tapped out a quick reply, my fingers moving almost on their own.

Me:Bad girls make them beg for attention.

The response was immediate, as if he’d been waiting for me.

Dante:Don't worry, I haven't forgotten which one you are.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with anger. He always did this—pushed andpulled, baited and teased until I didn’t know which way was up. And the worst part? I let him. Every. Single. Time.

But not tonight. Tonight, I was done playing his games.

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