Page 28 of Made for Sinners

I smirked, typing out a quick reply.

Me:Productive. The chip’s still intact, though. I’m disappointed.

His response came almost immediately.

Dante:You’ll have to try harder.

I rolled my eyes, about to type back something equally sarcastic when another message popped up.

Dante:I didn’t peg you for a La Perla girl.

My blood ran cold as I read the message several times, the words sinking in deeper with each pass.

Of course, he got the transactions sent to him. Of course, he knew. Dante probably knew about every breath I took, every step I made in this ridiculous arrangement of his. And yet, we were here—trading jabs over text like this was some twisted game instead of a war. He thought I’d stolen $20 million from him. He thought I’d betrayed him. And still, he acted like this was a courtship, not a battle. The most ridiculous part? I was letting him.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, my pulse racing. Stay calm, Emilia, I told myself. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he gets under your skin.

Me:Something to show off to the house staff once you keep me locked in your castle.

The message sent, and I stared at the screen, my heart pounding as I waited for his reply. The little typing bubble popped up almost immediately, taunting me as I imagined that smug look on his face, the one that made me want to scream and kiss him in equal measure.

Dante:If you’re going to play the dramatic captive, at least wear something I’d actually want to rip off you.

My breath caught in my throat, and a flush crept up my neck.

Me:Good to know you’re already planning wardrobe destruction. Should I add that as a clause in the contract? “Husband agrees to replace all ruined garments.”

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, the sarcasm dripping from the words like venom.

His response came faster than I expected.

Dante:You don’t need a contract for that, princess. You just need to behave yourself.

That damned nickname set something off in me every time he used it. Like it was his way of reminding me that he held all the power here, that no matter how much I fought back, I was playing on his chessboard.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to let him get the last word.

Me:“Behave yourself”? You must be confusing me with someone else. That’s not really my thing.

I smirked as I typed and hit send, but the smirk faded the second his next message arrived.

Dante:I know. That’s what makes you fun.

I stared at the screen, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something about the way he said it—like he knew me too well, like he enjoyed the challenge I presented. My stomach twisted, a mix of anger and something far more dangerous curling low in my belly.

Of course, he thought this was a game. Of course, he thought he always had the upper hand.

But two could play this game.

Me:Glad I can keep you entertained. Let me know if I should order a clown costume to really sell it.

I sat back, satisfied, waiting for his response. The typing bubble appeared, then stopped, then appeared again. He was thinking about it, and that alone felt like a small victory.

Finally, his reply came through.

Dante:Don’t tempt me. I've always said how red looks good on you.

I let out an exasperated groan, tossing my phone onto the seat beside me. Of course, he had to turn it intothat. Every word out of his mouth—or in this case, his texts—was designed to get under my skin, to make me react.

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