Page 46 of Made for Sinners

The phone barely rang twice before the realtor picked up, her voice smooth, professional, and just the right amount of eager.

“Mr. Conti,” she greeted. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you again.”

I leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that had been sitting there since the gunfire. “Did you put an offer into the house we talked about last week?.”

There was a pause, then the sound of clicking keys. “The estate?”

“Yes.” I glanced toward the closed bedroom door where Emilia had disappeared, the sharp slam still echoing in my ears. “At least it’s Something with space.”

Another pause. “For you or for?—?”

“For both of us,” I said, cutting her off before she could finish the question.

She made a thoughtful noise. “We put in that offer. It was accepted.”

I smirked. “Great.”

More clicking. “I have a few more properties that might interest you. High security, gated, enough land to keep prying eyes away. There’s an estate just outside the city—ten acres, private drive, fully modernized but still has that old-world charm. It’s a little more secluded, but?—”

“Ah.” I wanted something close. I wasn’t ready to leave the city entirely, not with everything happening. “Find me another one here. I want privacy, but I need accessibility.”

She hummed, considering. “That narrows the list, but I can work with it. There’s a private residence in the heart of the city—secluded, high-end security, a private courtyard. Or, if you want something more expansive, I know of a waterfront estate that offers complete discretion, gated access, and enough space to ensure no one gets near without your say-so.”

“Send me the details for both,” I said immediately. “All pictures, full specs. I want to go over everything before making a decision.”

“Of course, Mr. Conti,” she replied smoothly. “I’ll have everything in your inbox within the hour.”

I ended the call, slipping the phone back into my pocket. I wasn’t going to bring it up to Emilia yet—not until I was sure. But when the time was right, I’d show her the options.

Because whether she liked it or not, she wasn’t going anywhere. And if she was going to be stuck with me, I’d make damn sure she had nowhere to run.

“Of course. I’ll have everything in your inbox within the hour.”

I ended the call and set my phone down, exhaling slowly.

The penthouse had always been enough for me. It was efficient, controlled, a fortress in the middle of the city. But with Emilia here, it felt different. Too many walls. Not enough space.

Not enough escape routes.

I glanced at the bedroom door again, half-expecting her to come storming out, still fuming. But she stayed inside, locked away in whatever war she was waging with herself.

Good. Let her stew.

She thought she could fight this, fight me.

But she’d learn soon enough.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was I.

I sighed, pouring myself a whiskey, the familiar burn of it steadying my nerves.

The penthouse felt too quiet.

Not peaceful—never peaceful. The silence was charged, heavy, like the moment before a storm broke. It pressed against me, filling the space Emilia had vacated when she slammed the bedroom door.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling the whiskey glass between my fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the dim overhead light. The quiet gave me too much time to think, too much time to feel the cracks forming in the walls I’d spent years building.

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