Page 21 of Made for Sinners

“I don’t remember his name,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. “He was tall, dark hair, kind of… average-looking?”

Dante raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You just described half the men in my organization.”

“Well, sorry for not taking detailed notes,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. “I was too busy trying to learn how to do my job without getting killed.”

He huffed, the sound laced with irritation, and ran a hand through his hair. “This is a waste of time.”

“Then let me see your social media,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

Dante froze, his expression shifting from irritation to outright offense. “My... Mywhat?” Dante asked, his voice dripping with disdain as if I’d just suggested he host a bake sale for charity.

“Your social media,” I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, feigning nonchalance. Inside, my heart was racing. “You know, Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, whatever it is mafia overlords use to keep up with their cousins’ brunch selfies and gym progress photos.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a split second, I thought he might actually laugh. But then his expression hardened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His dark eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding.

“You thinkIhave social media?” he asked, his tone flat, as if the very idea was beneath him.

“Well, yeah,” I said, shrugging. “How else are you supposed to keep track of your cousins? Maybe one of them posted apicture of themselves with a caption like, ‘Just stole a fortune using Emilia’s code. Hashtag Blessed.’”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and I could tell he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “I don’t have social media,” he said, his voice clipped. “Unlike you, I don’t have time to waste scrolling through pictures of overpriced coffee and meaningless quotes about self-care.”

“First of all,” I shot back, “self-care is not meaningless. Second, you’re missing out. There’s a whole world of information out there. For all you know, your cousin could’ve posted a TikTok dance in the vault with the stolen money. Crazier things have happened. This girl got flammed for dancing in the hospital room while her kid had pnemonia or -”

Dante exhaled sharply, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Emilia,” he said interrupting me, his tone low and warning, “this isn’t a joke. You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re not listening,” I countered, leaning forward to match his intensity. “I didn’t take your money. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. Someone else had access to my code, and if you’d stop treating me like a criminal for five seconds, maybe we could figure out who.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he stared at me. For a moment, the room was silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension. I held my ground, refusing to look away, even though his gaze felt like it was peeling back the layers of my soul.

Finally, he straightened, pushing his chair back with a deliberate scrape against the floor. “This conversation is over,” he said, his voice cold and final.

“You’re not even going to consider the possibility that I’m telling the truth?” My voice cracked, and I hated the way it sounded—fragile, desperate. I hated that he was doing this to me. That I cared what he thought at all. But beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, was something else. Something I didn’twant to name. Something that burned every time he looked at me like I was already his.

Dante picked up the folder and tucked it under his arm, his movements precise and controlled. “I’ve considered it,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. “And the evidence speaks for itself.”

I stood abruptly, my chair nearly toppling over as I glared at him. “You’re impossible, you know that? You walk in here, throw accusations around like they’re gospel, and expect me to just roll over and take it. Well, guess what, Dante? I’m not signing your stupid contract. Not until you prove I’m guilty.”

He paused in the doorway, his back to me, and for a moment, I thought he might actually respond. But then he turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the sharp edge of his profile.

“Sign it,” he said, his voice low and cutting, “or don’t. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re mine.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving me standing there, my chest heaving with a mix of anger and despair.

I stared at the empty doorway, my mind racing. Part of me wanted to chase after him, to scream and demand that he listen to me, that he believe me. But another part of me—the part that was exhausted from fighting, from being dismissed and underestimated—knew it wouldn’t make a difference.

Dante Conti had already made up his mind.

But so had I.

I wasn’t going to let him win.

Not like this.

The next morning,I was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and trying to ignore the smug looks my brothers were throwing my way. Marco was scrolling through his phone,a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, while Giuseppe leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he watched me with barely concealed amusement.

“You know,” Marco said, his voice dripping with faux concern, “if you’re going to marry Dante, you should probably start practicing your ‘yes, sir’s and ‘whatever you say, sir’s now. It’s all about submission.”

Giuseppe snorted, nearly doubling over with laughter. “Yeah, Emilia. Maybe invest in a leash. Dante strikes me as the type who’d appreciate a well-trained pet.”

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