Page 118 of Made for Sinners

Because she trusted me to make it right.

Because she believed I would.

I typed the words slowly, deliberately.

I am now.

I hit send.

The message delivered, and I stared at it for a long time, the blue bubble glowing faintly on the screen.

I am now.

It wasn’t a lie.

Because no matter what came next—no matter how bloody, how brutal, how personal—it didn’t matter.

She was with me.

She was the only thing that mattered.

Not the legacy. Not the name. Not the empire.

Her.

And I’d burn down the world before I let anyone take her from me again.

Even if that meant starting with my own family.

Especially if it meant starting with my own blood.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and turned away from the window, the weight in my chest shifting from guilt to resolve.

Rocco had made his choice.

Now I’d make mine.

30

EMILIA

Adrianna was already three glasses of wine in and halfway through a story about her latest disaster of a dinner party when I finally let myself relax.

“And then,” she said, gesturing wildly with her glass, “he tells me he wants to host the next one at his ‘private cigar lounge’—which, by the way, is just a glorified man cave with leather chairs and a humidor the size of a coffin. I told him, ‘Sweetheart, unless you’re serving filet mignon and not just whiskey and war stories, I’m not showing up in heels.’”

I snorted, nearly choking on my drink. “You said that to your husband?”

She grinned, stretching out on the couch like a cat in the sun. “Of course. He married me knowing I don’t do smoke-filled testosterone dens. If he wants me there, he can light a Diptyque candle and serve canapés.”

I laughed so hard I had to set my glass down before I dropped it. “You’re a menace.”

She gave me a satisfied shrug. “He knew what he was signing up for. Besides, he likes it when I give him hell.”

I took another sip of my wine—something white and expensive Dante had stocked in the penthouse fridge without asking. Not that I was complaining. I’d invited Adrianna over to distract myself, and so far, it was working. We were sprawled across the living room, surrounded by empty glasses, half a charcuterie board, and the remains of a bag of sour cream and onion chips we’d attacked like feral raccoons.

“So,” she said, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “You gonna tell me what’s actually going on, or are we just pretending this is a normal girls’ night?”

I hesitated.

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