Page 9 of Made for Sinners

But before I could retreat to the safety of my room, Dante’s voice stopped me cold.

“No,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “She can come too.”

My stomach dropped, and I turned to him, my eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

Dante met my gaze, his expression unreadable. “You should be there for this, Emilia.”

A thousand thoughts raced through my mind, each one more horrifying than the last. What was he planning to say? Was he going to tell my father about the wedding? About the stolen moments we’d shared—the way he’d pressed me into the couchin the family room, his hand slipping between my legs while his lips devoured mine. The way he’d kissed me like he was starving, like I was the only thing that could satisfy him?

Oh God. Was he going to tell my father I was a whore in front of his brothers and guards?

I swallowed hard, my chest constricting as I followed them down the hall, my feet moving on autopilot. My father’s study was a large, imposing room, the kind that smelled faintly of leather and cigars. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and a massive oak desk dominated the center of the space.

Dante moved with the kind of deliberate confidence that made the room feel smaller, his every step a reminder that this wasn’t just a visit—it was an invasion. He pulled out a chair from the massive oak desk, the scrape of its legs against the hardwood floor sharp and grating in the heavy silence. His dark eyes flicked to mine, and he gestured to the seat with a faint, almost mocking smile.

“Emilia,” he said, his voice smooth and predatory. “Take a seat.”

My stomach twisted, the knot of anxiety tightening with every second. I glanced at my father, hoping for some kind of intervention, but he was already settling into his own chair behind the desk, oblivious to the tension radiating off me. Luca and Rafe leaned casually against the far wall, their postures deceptively relaxed, while the guards stationed themselves near the door, their expressions blank but watchful.

I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor, but Dante’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t say anything else, and didn't need to. The unspoken command hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, and I hated how easily he could make me feel like a cornered animal.

With a deep breath, I forced myself to move. My legs felt like lead, every step a battle against the urge to turn and run. When I finally reached the chair, I sat stiffly, my back straight and myhands folded tightly in my lap. It was the only way to keep them from trembling.

Dante’s smirk deepened, a flicker of amusement crossing his face as he shrugged off his suit jacket. He draped it over the back of the chair with a casual elegance that made my skin crawl, then rolled up his sleeves with deliberate precision. The motion exposed the strong lines of his forearms, and I couldn’t help but notice the faint glint of a gun holstered at his side. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him armed, but something about the sight of it now, in this room, made my throat tighten.

“What do you want?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, sharp and brittle in the charged silence. My father shot me a warning look, but I didn’t care. The weight of Dante’s presence, the way he moved around the room like he owned it—it was too much.

Dante chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. He didn’t answer right away, instead moving to the other side of the desk. His fingers brushed over the papers scattered there, his movements slow and methodical, as if he had all the time in the world. The tension in the room was suffocating, every second stretching into an eternity as he toyed with us—no, withme.

When he finally spoke, his voice was like velvet wrapped around a blade. “My accountant finished their audit a month ago.”

My heart skipped a beat, the words hitting me like a slap. I glanced at my father, but his expression was unreadable, his focus entirely on Dante. I could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me—Luca’s, Rafe’s, the guards’—but it was Dante’s gaze that burned the most. He wasn’t looking at me, not yet, but I could feel the anticipation in the air, the way he was building toward something.

Dante picked up a piece of paper from the desk, his fingers tracing the edges as he continued. “The discrepancies startedsix months ago. Small amounts, at first. Barely noticeable. But they grew.” He paused, his eyes flicking to me for the briefest moment before returning to the paper. “Patterns emerged. Dates. Amounts. Always during the morning shift.”

My chest constricted, my breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. I gripped the edge of the chair, my nails digging into the wood as I fought to keep my composure. He was doing this on purpose—drawing it out, savoring every second of my discomfort. And I hated him for it.

“When only certain employees had access,” Dante continued, his tone maddeningly calm. He set the paper down and looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. The corners of his mouth curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Using specific employee codes.”

The air in the room seemed to freeze, the weight of his words settling over me like a lead blanket. My father’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face as he leaned forward. “Who was it?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

Dante didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The silence was deafening, a suffocating weight that pressed against my chest and made it hard to breathe. My father’s question hung in the air, unanswered, as Dante’s dark eyes bore into mine. There was no mercy in his gaze, no flicker of hesitation or doubt. He was enjoying this—watching me squirm, watching the walls of my carefully constructed life crumble around me.

“Emilia,” my father barked, his voice sharp and impatient. “Whose code is he talking about?”

I bent over the desk and looked at the paper.

4852.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat was dry, my tongue heavy, and my mind raced as I tried to piece together an explanation that made sense. But there was nothing.No excuse, no justification, no plausible way to explain what Dante was suggesting.

“I—I don’t know,” I stammered finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not possible. I did everything by the book. Someone must have?—”

“Don’t,” Dante interrupted, his voice cutting through mine like a blade. He leaned forward, his hands braced against the desk as he loomed over me, his presence overwhelming. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Emilia. We both know who had access to that code.”

My stomach twisted, nausea rising in my throat as I shook my head. “No,” I said, my voice trembling. “I didn’t?—”

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