Page 105 of Made for Sinners

I didn’t move. Neither did he. My body coiled tight, ready to snap the second he gave me a reason.

The air between us stretched tight, taut as wire.

Then I felt Emilia’s hand on my arm, light but deliberate.

“We were just leaving,” I said, not taking my eyes off Rocco. “Excuse us.”

I didn’t wait for a respons, my hand finding Emilia’s again, and I led her through the crowd without another word. I turned, guiding Emilia away with a firm hand at her back. My grip wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be. I needed her out of that room. Now.

She didn’t say anything.

But I could feel the tension radiating off her like heat.

We moved quickly, weaving through the ballroom like ghosts, ignoring the curious glances and polite nods. I didn’t stop until we hit the foyer, where the air was cooler, quieter. I snapped my fingers at the valet, and the kid—barely out of high school—jumped like I’d fired a gun in his direction.

“Car,” I said. “Now.”

He nodded and ran.

Emilia stood beside me, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller.

I stepped close, lowering my voice. “What the fuck was that?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze was fixed on the ground, her lashes casting shadows against her cheeks.

I turned to Emilia, my hand still on her waist.

“Don’t say anything yet,” I told her. “Not until we’re in the car.”

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

I didn’t like this.

I didn’t like any of it.

The car pulled up seconds later, sleek and black and blessedly quiet. I opened the door and helped her in, then slid in beside her and shut the door with a solid thud.

The second the car pulled away from the curb, I turned to her.

“Now,” I said. “Tell me.”

She didn’t look at me. Not at first.

Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers twisting the edge of her clutch. When she finally spoke, her voice was low. Steady. But I could hear the tremor beneath it.

“It’s Rocco,” she said.

My blood went cold.

“What about him?”

“He’s the man in the photo,” she said. “The one from the hallway. The one in the album. The one who was in my father’s office the day I was given the wrong paperwork.”

I stared at her.

I stared at her.

My brain didn’t want to believe it.

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