Page 184 of Made for Sinners

Either way, I stood barefoot on the terrace of our villa, a glass of red in my hand and the sun sinking low over the hills, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. No gunfire. No blood. No Russians. Just the soft rustle of grapevines in the breeze and the faint sound of Dante cursing in Italian from inside the kitchen.

Apparently, he’d decided we were going to cook dinner together.

Which was cute. And wildly optimistic.

I took another sip of wine and leaned against the stone railing, letting my eyes drift over the vineyard that stretched out below us. It was ours now. Mine, technically. Dante had signed the deed over to me the day after our second wedding, like it was a bouquet of flowers instead of a multimillion-dollar estate with a functioning winery and a staff of twenty.

“You said you wanted something that was yours,” he’d told me, sliding the papers across the table. “This is me giving it to you.”

And he had.

The land. The house. The vines.

The future.

I heard the screen door creak open behind me.

“You’re not helping,” Dante said, stepping onto the terrace with a wooden spoon in one hand and a smear of tomato sauce on his shirt. “You said we were cooking together.”

“I’m supervising,” I said, lifting my glass. “It’s a vital role.”

He gave me a look, one brow arched, and set the spoon down on the table beside me. Then he reached for my wine and took a sip without asking.

“I was drinking that,” I said.

“You’re always drinking something.”

“Because I’m married to you.”

He smirked. “You’re welcome.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the view, but he didn’t let me get far. His arms slid around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, and his mouth found the curve of my neck.

“You’re relaxed,” he murmured, lips brushing my skin. “I like it.”

“I’m on vacation,” I said. “You’re lucky I’m wearing pants.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I wouldn’t complain if you weren’t.”

I tilted my head, letting him kiss his way up to my jaw. “You’re supposed to be stirring the sauce.”

“It’ll survive.”

I turned in his arms, looping mine around his neck. “You’re really bad at taking time off.”

He shrugged, mouth curving into a grin. “You’re really bad at staying out of trouble.”

“Touché.”

We stood there for a moment, the sun dipping lower, casting everything in gold. His eyes were softer here. Less guarded. Like the weight of the world had finally loosened its grip on him.

I liked this version of him.

I liked all versions of him, if I was being honest. Even the dangerous ones. Especially the dangerous ones.

But this one—this relaxed, sun-drenched, barefoot-in-Italy version—this one was mine.

“Do you think the winery will be successful?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

---