Page 177 of Made for Sinners

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EMILIA

The dress was white.

Not ivory. Not champagne. Not some edgy off-white that whispered rebellion. No. This was pure, unapologetic white. The kind that screamed tradition and legacy and every impossible expectation stitched into the fabric like a threat.

And still—I wore it.

Because this wasn’t about rebellion.

Not today.

Today, I chose this.

The dress was custom Dior, fitted within an inch of my life. Hand-beaded lace hugged my torso, delicate and intricate, like spiderwebs spun from diamonds. The skirt flowed like water when I moved, layers of silk and tulle that pooled around my feet in a way that made me feel like royalty. Or a sacrifice. I hadn’t decided which yet.

The veil was long. Dramatic. The kind of thing that belonged in a cathedral, not a private estate guarded by men with guns under their jackets. But Dante had insisted.

“If I’m marrying you again,” he’d said, “I want the whole damn world to know.”

And so, the veil.

The diamonds.

The orchestra.

The guest list that read like a who’s who of organized crime and old money.

I stood in front of the mirror in the bridal suite, staring at a version of myself I barely recognized. My hair was swept up in a sleek chignon, a few soft tendrils framing my face. My makeup was flawless—sharp winged liner, soft blush, lips tinted just enough to look like I’d been kissed.

I looked… beautiful.

I looked like a bride.

“Holy shit,” Adrianna said behind me. “You look like a Vogue cover and a threat to national security at the same time.”

I smiled, turning slightly to face her. She wore a deep emerald gown that hugged her curves, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder in soft waves. Her husband, Michael, stood beside her in a perfectly tailored tux, looking both impressed and vaguely terrified.

“Is that a compliment?” I asked.

“It’s the highest form of one,” she said, stepping forward to adjust my veil. “You look like you could stab someone with a hairpin and still get a standing ovation.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I muttered.

She grinned. “You nervous?”

I hesitated.

Was I?

I wasn’t scared. Not of Dante. Not of the ceremony. Not even of the hundred pairs of eyes that would be watching my every move as I walked down the aisle.

But something inside me felt tight. Coiled. Like a spring wound too far.

“I’m not nervous,” I said finally. “I’m… aware.”

Adrianna raised a brow. “Of what?”

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