Page 36 of Made for Sinners

My breath caught in my throat.

"You live here now," he continued, his tone calm, almost gentle. "And you’re not leaving until you tell me where the twenty million is."

I stared at him, my pulse hammering in my ears.

There it was. The real reason for all of this.

"You son of a bitch," I whispered.

His lips twitched. "We’re married now, princess. You’ll have to come up with something more creative than that."

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to scream. But most of all, I wanted to run.

Because for the first time since this nightmare started, I realized something terrifying.

This wasn’t just a marriage.

It was a sentence—and I was the prisoner.

The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I sat frozen in the passenger seat, my fingers curled so tightly around the fabric of my dress that my knuckles ached. Dante, of course, was the picture of calm—one hand still resting lazily on the steering wheel, the other draped over the gear shift like he had all the time in the world.

Like he hadn’t just ripped my life out from under me and called it a wedding.

"You’re quiet," he observed, his voice smooth, almost amused. "Not having second thoughts already, are you?"

I turned my head slowly, my glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Oh, I don’t know, Dante. I think the second thoughts came somewhere between you blackmailing my father and shoving a wedding dress in my face."

His lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. "You could’ve said no."

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. And then what? You’d have let me walk away? Somehow, I doubt that."

Dante didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth was already there, sitting between us like an uninvited guest.

I was never walking away.

Not from this.

Not from him.

The weight of it settled over me, cold and final. I turned back toward the window, my reflection staring back at me in the glass—wide eyes, tense jaw, a woman who barely recognized herself anymore.

I swallowed hard. "So, what now?"

Dante shifted in his seat, finally reaching for the door handle. "Now," he said, stepping out of the car, "we go inside."

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Because stepping out of this car meant stepping into a life I hadn’t chosen. A life that belonged to him now.

Dante didn’t wait for me. Of course, he didn’t. He rounded the front of the car with slow, measured steps, opening my door like he was doing me some grand favor.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

"Emilia," he murmured, his voice low, warning. "Don’t make me carry you."

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