Page 42 of Made for Sinners

“Get used to it,” Gio replied, not missing a beat. “We’re family now, right?”

Dante’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the subtle twitch of his lips, like he was fighting back a smirk.

“Lucky me,” he said dryly, before turning back to Rafe.

Marco leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Does he always talk like he’s about to kill someone, or is that just his default setting?”

“Default,” I said, biting back a laugh.

And then, just as I was starting to think I might survive the night without losing my mind?—

The first gunshot rang out.

The sound shattered the air, piercing through the hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware.

For a split second, no one moved.

Then chaos erupted.

Dante was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping against the floor as he reached for me. “Giù!”

I barely had time to process the command before he was shoving me down, his body pressing against mine as bullets tore through the restaurant.

Glass shattered. People screamed.

The world tilted.

I hit the floor hard, my breath rushing out in a sharp gasp. Dante’s weight pinned me down, his arms braced on either side of me as he shielded me from the hail of gunfire.

It felt like it went on forever, before a stillness fell over the room that carried an echo of gunfire.

“Stai bene?”

I heard the words, but my thoughts were focused on red.

Blood dripped to the wooden floorboards in my line of vision, each drop falling like the ticking of a clock, slow and deliberate.It pooled and spread, glinting under the dim lights like a macabre mirror.

My ears rang with the echoes of chaos—the shouts, the gunfire, the splintering of wood and glass. It was over now, but the aftershocks rippled through me, leaving my body trembling and my mind blank.

Hands grasped my face, turning it abruptly. “Are you okay?”

Dante’s voice was sharp, urgent, pulling me back from the haze.

I blinked up at him, my vision swimming as my pulse roared in my ears. “I?—”

I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sure of anything.

His dark eyes scanned me, his grip on my face firm but not painful. “Are you hurt?”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on his face. The sharp angles of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, the blood smeared across his knuckles. “No,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. “I don’t think so.”

His jaw tightened, and he didn’t move for a moment, his gaze flicking over me one last time like he didn’t entirely trust my answer. Then, without a word, he pulled back, his movements precise and controlled, as if the violence around us hadn’t touched him.

I sat up slowly, my hands shaking as I took in the destruction around us. The restaurant was in ruins—tables overturned, glass shards scattered like confetti, bodies slumped in chairs or sprawled on the ground. Some were groaning, clutching wounds. Others weren’t moving at all.

The metallic tang of blood mixed with the acrid scent of gunpowder, making my stomach churn. I pressed a hand to my mouth, swallowing hard as bile rose in my throat.

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