Page 32 of Made for Sinners

Satisfied, I hit send.

But I wasn’t done. If I was going to make Dante regret giving me free rein, I couldn’t stop at just one absurd purchase. My next search was even more specific:custom luxury everyday items.The results were mesmerizing. A diamond-encrusted hairbrush? Yes, please. A pen crafted from meteorite fragments? Why not. A pair of solid gold chopsticks with ruby accents? Add to cart.

I went down the rabbit hole, clicking on anything that looked ridiculous enough to make Dante’s blood pressure spike. By the time I was done, I’d placed inquiries for everything from a sapphire-encrusted toilet seat (because why not?) to a set of platinum drinking straws decorated with emeralds.

By the time I finished my shopping spree, my phone buzzed with a notification from one of the boutiques:Your inquiry is being processed. Our team will reach out within 24 hours to discuss options.I smiled, imagining the look on Dante’s face when his finance team saw the requests piling up. Let him stew. If he wanted to keep tabs on my spending, he was about to realize just how expensive rebellion could be.

As I closed my laptop, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. This was petty, ridiculous, over-the-top in every way—and it felt glorious. For once, I was the one in control, even if it was just for a moment. Sure, Dante had the final say on everything, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. If he wanted to play games, I was more than happy to oblige.

A notification buzzed on my phone:Your Starbucks order is on the way.I grabbed the phone, scrolling through the longlist of purchases I’d made that morning. Mugs, lingerie, a venti caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle—it was all there, each transaction a tiny victory.

Maybe this arranged marriage thing wouldn’t be so bad—if it meant watching Dante lose his mind every time I decided to be a little…bad.

10

DANTE

The conference room was dimly lit, the heavy oak table polished to a mirror-like sheen. It reflected the tension in the room, amplifying the charged silence that hung between us. Luca leaned back in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world, his feet propped on the table, one scuffed boot dangerously close to the edge of Valentina’s pristine folder. His posture was relaxed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes gave him away. He was watching her like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Rafe, on the other hand, sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled, his entire being radiating cold authority. His gaze never wavered from Valentina, unflinching and unrelenting, like a man ready to rip the truth from her throat if she didn’t offer it willingly. His expression could have frozen hell itself, and yet Valentina didn’t so much as flinch.

She sat across from us, poised and composed, her back straight against the chair, her manicured nails tapping an unhurried rhythm against the armrest. If she was intimidated, she didn’t show it. Her presence was a contradiction—poised and elegant, yet sharp, dangerous. You could almost smell theblood on her hands even as she wore that expensive perfume, the kind that clung to the air long after she left the room.

“We’ve traced the money,” she said finally, her voice smooth and deliberate, like she was delivering the evening’s weather forecast instead of a revelation that could set this entire operation on fire. “It’s in the hands of the Russians.”

My jaw tightened, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. Of course, it was the Russians. It always came back to them. They were like a bad habit that refused to die, always worming their way into our business, always pushing the boundaries of what they could get away with.

Rafe’s voice broke the silence, low and dangerous. “And?”

Valentina’s dark eyes flicked to me for the briefest of moments, her gaze unreadable. Then she leaned forward slightly, her tone calm, measured, and utterly self-assured. “And,” she said, “I’m going to find out who the mole is. I have… connections.”

Luca barked out a laugh, the sound sharp and grating against the tense quiet. “Connections? You mean your Bratva boyfriend?” His smirk was pure arrogance as he tilted his head, daring her to deny it.

Valentina turned her head slowly, pinning Luca with a look that could have peeled paint from the walls. Her lips curved into a smile—small, cold, and calculated. It didn’t touch her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. “Nikolai and I haven’t spoken in months.”

“Sure,” Luca drawled, dragging out the word like it was a joke only he found funny. “And I’m the Pope.”

Her smile didn’t falter, but there was a flash of something in her eyes—something sharp and deadly, like a knife she hadn’t yet decided to use. “If you were the Pope, Luca,” she said sweetly, “we’d all be in hell already.”

Rafe’s palm hit the table, the sharp crack cutting through the escalating tension like a gunshot. “Enough,” he snapped, his voice cold and commanding. The room fell silent immediately, all eyes shifting to him. He didn’t tolerate distractions, and he sure as hell didn’t tolerate infighting.

He fixed Valentina with his icy stare, his voice a low growl. “Do what you need to do. But no mistakes. If this comes back on us?—”

“It won’t,” Valentina interrupted smoothly, her tone never wavering. “I know what I’m doing.”

Her confidence was unnerving. She said it like it was indisputable, like her word alone was enough to reassure him. And maybe it was. Rafe didn’t argue, though his jaw clenched slightly as he continued to watch her.

I leaned back in my chair, letting their argument fade into the background. My mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with the gnawing feeling in my gut. Valentina was too composed, too calm. She was playing her own game—she always was. Everything about her screamed ulterior motives.

I wouldn’t put it past her to use this situation to pressure me into accepting her father’s marriage contract.

The thought made my stomach churn.

Valentina was beautiful, sure, but she was as cold as the Siberian tundra her Bratva lover hailed from. She had a way of making you feel like you were the one being hunted, even when you were supposed to be in control. And everyone knew she was still stringing along that hedge fund guy. What was his name? Damien? Daniel? It didn’t matter. The guy with the punchable face and the too-perfect suits.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who let go of her options, and she sure as hell wasn’t the kind of woman you wanted to be tied to for life.

No, I wasn’t touching that contract. Not with a ten-foot pole.

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