Page 22 of Made for Sinners

I slammed my mug down on the table, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. “Why don’t you two go find a cliff and jump off it? Preferably together.”

Marco grinned, utterly unfazed. “Aw, come on, sis. Don’t be like that. We’re just trying to help you prepare for your new life as Mrs. Dante Conti. It’s a big step, you know. A lot of responsibility.”

“Right,” Giuseppe chimed in, his grin widening. “You’ll have to, what, sit around in a designer dress and look pretty? Maybe occasionally sign some checks? Sounds exhausting.”

I glared at both of them, my fingers tightening around the mug. “You two are insufferable.”

“And you’re a thief,” Marco shot back, his tone light but his words cutting. “Or at least, that’s what Dante thinks. So maybe focus less on insulting us and more on figuring out how you’re going to survive being married toIl Diavolo.”

My stomach twisted at the nickname. The Devil. It fit Dante too well—the cold calculation in his eyes, the way he moved through the world like it was his to command. And now, apparently, I was supposed to be part of his domain.

“Why don’t you two mind your own business?” I snapped, pushing back from the table. “You’re not helping.”

“We’re not trying to help,” Giuseppe said with a shrug. “We’re just enjoying the show.”

I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I grabbed my mug and stormed out of the kitchen, their laughter following me down the hallway like an annoying shadow.

The house felt more suffocating than usual today, the walls closing in on me with every step. My parents were still giving me the silent treatment, my brothers were treating my impending marriage like a joke, and Dante… Dante was a storm cloud looming over everything, dark and unrelenting.

I made my way to the living room, sinking into the couch with a heavy sigh. The coffee in my mug had gone cold, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I had much else to hold onto at the moment.

8

EMILIA

The contract was thicker than I expected. A small mountain of legal jargon, neatly typed and bound, sitting on my desk like a smug little dictator. I stared at it for a long moment, my fingers curled into fists at my sides.

I didn’t want to read it.

I didn’t want to touch it.

I wanted to shove it off the desk, watch the pages scatter across the floor like the broken pieces of my life. Or better yet, set the damn thing on fire and send Dante the ashes.

But then I thought about the look on his face if I actually pointed out something in the fine print—something he hadn’t expected me to catch. The thought was enough to make me reach for the pen resting on the edge of the desk, though my hand trembled slightly as I picked it up.

“Alright, Conti,” I muttered under my breath, flipping open the folder. “Let’s see what kind of nonsense you’ve cooked up.”

The first few pages were exactly what I expected: dry, formal language about “the union of two parties,” “mutual interests,” and “binding agreements.” Cold. Impersonal. Like my entire life had been reduced to a business transaction.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

Leave it to Dante to make something as personal as marriage sound like a hostile corporate takeover.

My eyes burned, but I forced myself to keep reading.

Then I hit the parts that made my stomach turn.

Page fifteen. Section 4.3. Subsection B.

I leaned forward, squinting at the text just to make sure I was reading it right.

“The wife shall be afforded all luxuries befitting her station, including but not limited to: housing, transportation, wardrobe, and personal spending allowance.”

I snorted, but the sound was hollow.Personal spending allowance.Like I was some pampered pet he was taking in, not a person with a mind and will of her own.

I grabbed a red pen from the desk drawer and underlined the phrase with a sharp, deliberate stroke before scribbling a note in the margin:Define ‘allowance.’ Asking for a friend.

The next section was even worse.

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