Page 11 of Made for Sinners

“I don’t know!” I cried, my voice breaking as tears spilled down my cheeks. “I don’t know how it happened, but it wasn’t me. Please, you have to believe me?—”

“Papà, basta,” Marco said, stepping between us. His gun was still in his hand, but his voice was calmer now, though no less tense. “Let’s figure this out before we start pointing fingers.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Dante said, his voice cold and final. He turned to my father, his expression hard.

"A Conti trained me! I followed every fucking protocol." I would beg this man who held and broke my heart to show mercy on me.

Il Diavlo.

Everyone knew what the Conti's did to those who stole from them. I would be no exception. I fixed my gaze on Dante. "Dante.. please..."

The silence that followed my plea was deafening. My father’s face was a storm of fury, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might snap. My brothers stood frozen, their guns still drawn, their eyes darting between me and Dante as if they were trying to decide who to aim at. And Dante… Dante just stood there, his dark eyes locked onto mine, his expression a carefully controlled mask that revealed nothing.

“Dante,” I whispered again, my voice trembling. “Please. You know me. You know I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do this.”

For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his gaze—hesitation, doubt, maybe even guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the cold, unyielding man I knew all too well. The man who had walked away from me a month ago without so much as a backward glance.

“You think I don’t want to believe you?” he said, his voice low and dangerous, like the calm before a storm. “You think I don’t want to find another explanation for this? But the facts don’t lie, Emilia. The money is gone. The code is yours. And someone has to answer for it.”

"I didn’t do it!” I cried, my voice breaking as tears spilled over. “I don’t know how my code was used, but it wasn’t me. Dante, you have to believe me.”

He stepped closer, his presence suffocating, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. ‘Belief doesn’t change the facts,’ he said, his voice like steel. ‘And it sure as hell doesn’t bring the money back.’

“Then find out who did it!” I shouted, my desperation bubbling over. “You’re the great Dante Conti, aren’t you? Il Diavlo! The man who always knows everything, who’s always ten steps ahead. So figure it out! Prove it wasn’t me!”

His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stared at me. For a moment, I thought he might actually listen, might actually consider the possibility that I was telling the truth. But then he turned away, his movements sharp and deliberate as he walked back to the desk.

“This isn’t about what I want to believe,” he said, his back to me. “This is about what the evidence says. And right now, the evidence says you’re guilty.”

“Dante,” Marco said, his voice steady but edged with tension. “If she says she didn’t do it, maybe we should?—”

“Enough,” my father snapped, cutting him off. He turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury.

“I didn’t do it,” I said again, my voice trembling as I looked at him. “I swear, Papà, I didn’t?—”

And if my father believed I’d stolen from them, if Dante believed it… I wouldn’t live to see another sunrise.

“Papà, please,” I begged, my voice barely above a whisper. “You have to believe me. I didn’t?—”

“Enough!” he shouted, his face red with rage. “You’ve disgraced this family!”

"Maybe the daughter should wait somewhere else." Rafe said checking his watch as if this was a casual Sunday afternoon discussion.

"Maybe you should wait somewhere else." My brother Tony spit out towards him.

"Tony!" I gasped.

"Emilia, go wait in the family room." My father said without looking at me.

I froze, my father’s command slicing through the room like a blade. My legs felt like they were made of lead, refusing to move even as my instincts screamed at me to run—run far away from this room, from this moment, from the suffocating weight of Dante’s gaze. But I couldn’t. Not when every fiber of my being was caught in the gravity of what was happening.

“Papà,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I took a hesitant step toward him. “Please, let me explain?—”

“Go,” he snapped, his voice thunderous, his eyes burning with a fury that made my stomach twist into knots. “Now, Emilia. Before I lose what little patience I have left.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. My gaze darted to Dante, hoping—praying—for some sign of mercy, some indication that he would step in, that he would stop this. But his face was a mask of cold indifference, his dark eyes unreadable as they flicked to mine for the briefest of moments before turning back to the papers on the desk.

He wasn’t going to help me. Not this time. Not ever.

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