Page 102 of Made for Sinners

“I’m okay,” I said again, softer this time, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just tired.”

He studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine as if he could pull the truth straight from my head. Then he nodded, his thumb brushing against the small of my back. “We’ll leave soon.”

I nodded, grateful.

But my mind was still racing.

Because now I had a name.

Rocco.

I’d seen him in the photo. I’d seen him in my father’s office. I’d seen him standing in the background like he didn’t matter.

But he did.

He mattered more than I could explain, and I needed to figure out why.

Before I could linger on the thought, the lights dimmed suddenly, drawing the crowd’s attention to the stage at the front of the ballroom. A man in a tuxedo stepped up to the microphone, his smile broad and practiced as his voice boomed over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his tone dripping with the kind of false charm that came naturally to people in rooms like this, “thank you all for being here tonight to support the St. Gabriel Alumni Fund. I’m pleased to announce that we’ve already raised over two million dollars so far, and we’re not done yet.”

Polite applause rippled through the room, a sea of gloved hands and sparkling jewelry.

I clapped along with everyone else, but my heart wasn’t in it. My gaze flicked toward the auction table at the far end of the room, where the bid sheet with R. Conti’s name still sat, mocking me.

“But before we continue,” the MC continued, his smile widening as his gaze swept over the crowd, “we’d like to take a moment to recognize one of our newest alumni couples—Dante and Emilia Conti.”

My stomach dropped.

Beside me, Dante stiffened, his grip on my back tightening ever so slightly.

And then the spotlight hit us.

It was blinding, harsh, and unforgiving, slicing through the dim elegance of the room and landing squarely on us. I felt the weight of a hundred eyes turning our way, the collective attention of the powerful and dangerous pressing down on me like a physical force.

I forced a smile, my lips curving mechanically as Dante took my hand. His grip was firm, grounding, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

He hated this.

So did I.

But we climbed the steps to the stage together, standing beneath the lights like royalty on parade.

The MC beamed at us, his polished smile never faltering. “Let’s give a round of applause to the Contis—proof that even in our world, love can bloom.”

The crowd clapped again, their applause polite, controlled, and entirely insincere.

I smiled.

Dante didn’t.

We stood there for what felt like an eternity, the lights too bright, the applause too forced. My cheeks ached from the effort of pretending, but I didn’t let the mask slip.

Then, just as the applause began to fade, the MC leaned in, his voice dropping low enough for only us to hear.

“Smile, kids,” he murmured, his tone laced with something sharp and condescending. “You’re the picture of power.”

And just like that, we were dismissed.

---