Page 167 of Made for Sinners

And I started to plan.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I lay curled on top of the pristine sheets in the Romanov bedroom, my eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling, tracing the gold filigree with the kind of obsessive focus only fear could sharpen. The chandelier above me swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. No movement. Just the weight of silence pressing down on my chest like a stone.

I hadn’t touched the food.

I hadn’t changed out of my wrinkled dress.

I hadn’t cried.

Not because I wasn’t scared—I was. But fear was familiar now. It lived in my bones, curled around my spine like a second skin. I’d learned to wear it like perfume. Subtle. Lingering. Dangerous.

I kept waiting for Dante.

For the sound of boots on marble. For the crash of a door kicked open. For the heat of his fury to burn this place down.

But the hours passed, and nothing came.

No messages.

No rescue.

Just the slow tick of a grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional murmur of Russian voices outside my door.

39

DANTE

The Russians were late.

Which wasn’t surprising. They liked to make an entrance. Liked to remind you that they didn’t dance to anyone else’s rhythm—not even mine. But I didn’t mind. Let them be late. Let them think they had the upper hand. I’d already won the game before they walked through the door.

The meeting was held in one of the neutral estates on the outskirts of the city. A place with no blood on the walls—yet. The kind of place where men in suits smiled over crystal glasses while planning how to slit each other’s throats.

I stood at the head of the table, black suit pressed and perfect, tie knotted tight, watch ticking steadily on my wrist. The room was cold, the windows wide and bare, the long mahogany table polished to a mirror shine. My brother was already seated—Rafe to my right, arms crossed, jaw tight. Luca was late, as usual, but that was his charm.

A door opened at the far end of the hall.

And the Russians arrived.

Aleksander Romanov entered first, flanked by two men I didn’t recognize and one I did—Nikolai. The younger brother.The reasonable one. The one who’d made the mistake of letting his older brother use my wife as a bargaining chip.

Aleksander wore a navy suit and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked like a man who’d never been told no. And he didn’t like that I was the first to do it.

“Conti,” he said, voice smooth, accent sharp. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

I gave him a cold smile. “I don’t change my mind. I change the terms.”

He chuckled and took a seat across from me. Nikolai sat beside him, his expression unreadable. The others remained standing, silent shadows.

“Let’s get to it,” Aleksander said, leaning back in his chair. “You owe us twenty million.”

“And you owe me a wife,” I replied, voice calm.

He raised a brow. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

“For now.”

---