Page 1 of Made for Sinners

1

DANTE

The city glows beneath me, bright enough to blind, but all I see is rot underneath the shine.

A thousand lights blink across the skyline, sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife. From up here, it looks untouchable—invincible—but it’s a lie. Everything can be touched. Everything can be taken.

Even kingdoms.

Especially mine.

I lift the glass to my lips, the whiskey burning its way down my throat like a challenge, daring me to feel something. Anything. But it doesn’t work. It never does. The fire fades too quickly, leaving behind nothing but the same gnawing ache in my chest.

The same storm in my head.

Her name claws at the edges of my thoughts, refusing to be silenced.

Emilia.

It tastes like acid on my tongue, bitter and corrosive, a poison I can’t spit out. I trusted her. I fucking trusted her. And now twenty million dollars is gone, and so is she.

I lift the empty glass again, forgetting it’s already dry. My hand tightens around it, frustration bubbling over, hot and sharp. The sound of shattering glass barely registers. Shards scatter across the counter, glinting under the dim light, and the sharp sting of a cut blooms in my palm.

I glance down, watching the blood bead along the edges of broken skin. The amber whiskey has bled into the marble countertop, spreading like an open wound.

Fitting.

I stare at the mess for a beat too long, the room spinning faintly around me. My pulse pounds in my ears, a dull roar that matches the tightness in my jaw. My head feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, every thought cutting, looping back to the same goddamn place.

I should’ve seen it coming.

Hell, Ididsee it coming.

Emilia was reckless—too bold for her own good. The first time I met her, she had the audacity to lift my watch right off my wrist. A thief. A liar. That’s who she was. That’s who she’s always been.

And yet, I let her in.

I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers catching in the mess of it. The silence presses in, thick and suffocating, amplifying the chaos in my head. She’s everywhere. In the air I breathe. Under my skin.

I press the heel of my hand against my temple, trying to push down the memory of her—the way she used to look at me, like she saw something worth saving. Like she saw me.

What a fucking joke.

She played me. Every touch, every stolen glance, every whispered word—it was all a goddamn lie.

I push away from the counter, the sharp crunch of glass under my shoes grounding me in the present. My reflectionstares back at me from the window, fractured by the city lights. The man in the glass looks haunted. Hollow. His eyes are shadowed, his mouth set in a grim line, and for a moment, I don’t recognize him.

I lean closer, my breath fogging against the glass.

I look like a man who’s lost control.

And that?

That’s unacceptable.

I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, forcing the tension out of them like I’ve done a hundred times before. It doesn’t help. The tightness in my chest remains, coiled and vicious, like it’s waiting for something to snap.

The air feels heavy, pressing against my skin like a weight I can’t shake. I grab the whiskey bottle again, tipping it back even though I know it’s empty. Nothing. Just another hollow, useless thing in a room full of them.

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