Page 26 of Made for Sinners

With a deep breath, I opened the album.

The first page was a family photo—Dante’s family, I assumed. A group of men and women, dressed to the nines, their expressions ranging from bored to outright hostile. I scanned their faces, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar. But they were strangers. Just like Dante was now.

Flipping through the pages, I found more photos—candid shots, formal portraits, even grainy images that looked like they’d been pulled from security footage. It was overwhelming, the sheer number of faces staring back at me, and frustration curled in my stomach, sharp and bitter.

How was I supposed to find one man in this sea of strangers?

I grabbed my phone, snapping a picture of the open album before texting Dante.

Me:This is going to take forever. You couldn’t narrow it down for me?

Dante:You’re the one who worked with him. Figure it out.

I exhaled sharply, tossing the phone onto the couch. Typical. No help, no explanation—just orders, like I was still supposed to play along with whatever game he’d decided we were in.

My gaze drifted back to the album. The faces blurred together, their sharp suits and designer dresses doing nothing to distract from the hollowness settling deep in my bones. I used to think I knew Dante. Used to think I understood him. But now?

Now, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

My eyes flickered to the credit card sitting beside the contract.

A bitter laugh slipped past my lips. Of course. This was how he fixed things. Not with apologies. Not with explanations. Just with money.

I picked up the card, turning it over between my fingers. If Dante wanted me to swipe until the chip melted, maybe that was the only thing left between us. A transaction. A debt to be settled.

Slipping the card into my wallet, I grabbed my coat.

Twenty minutes later the car rolled smoothly down the highway, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows as I leaned back against the leather seat. The credit card burned a hole in my wallet, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something close to anticipation. If Dante wanted to throw money at me, fine. I’d take it. I’d take all of it. And I’d make damn sure he regretted it.

Marco had been all too happy to drive me. Probably because he wanted a front-row seat to whatever chaos I was about to unleash. He lounged in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the gear shift, his smirk visible even in the dim glow of the dashboard.

“So, what’s the plan, little sister?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. “Gonna buy the entire Gucci store? Maybe a couple of diamond-encrusted toasters?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m thinking bigger. Maybe a yacht. Something tasteful.”

Marco chuckled. “I’d pay to see Dante’s face when that charge hits.”

I smirked, but before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my lap. The name on the screen made my stomach tighten.

Dante.

Of course.

I sighed, debating whether to ignore him, but I knew better. He’d just keep calling until I picked up. With a resigned breath, I swiped to answer.

“What?” I said, not bothering with pleasantries.

There was a beat of silence, then his voice, sharp and edged with irritation. “Who are you with?”

I frowned, glancing at Marco, who raised an eyebrow in silent question. “One of my brothers,” I said, my tone deliberately casual.

Dante’s silence stretched long enough to make my skin prickle. When he finally spoke, his voice was ice. “That’s unacceptable.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re my fiancée, Emilia,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t go anywhere with anyone unless they’re one of my men.”

I scoffed. “I’m not your fiancée yet. The contract hasn’t been signed.”

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