Page 40 of Made for Sinners

I didn’t need him.

I hated that I cared.

I hated the way my chest tightened every time I thought about him, the way my pulse quickened when we were in the same room. I hated the way he could make me feel so small and so alive all at once.

But most of all, I hated how much I missed him.

Not the cold, distant version of Dante who had walked into that office and shut me out like I was nothing. No, I missed the man I’d caught glimpses of—the one who could be gentle, the one who made me feel like I wasn’t just another piece in his game.

But maybe that man had never really existed. Maybe Dante had been wearing a mask all along, and I’d been too blind—or too stupid—to see it.

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair before turning away from the door. I refused to knock. I refused to chase him. If Dante wanted to retreat into his fortress of solitude, that was his choice.

Sure enough, as soon as I stepped into the kitchen, still dressed in the oversized T-shirt I’d slept in, I found Dante waiting for me. He was already dressed in a crisp black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a steaming cup of espresso in one hand.

His dark eyes flicked over me, slow and assessing. “Good morning,moglie.”

I ignored the way my stomach twisted at the word. Wife. Like it was real. Like it meant something.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I want to go out.”

Dante arched a brow, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “No.”

I exhaled sharply, already irritated. “You don’t even know where I want to go.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He set his cup down with a quietclinkand leaned against the counter, his posture deceptively relaxed. “You’re not leaving this penthouse without me.”

I let out a humourless laugh. “So I’m a prisoner now?”

His smirk was infuriating. “You always were.”

I clenched my jaw, forcing down the urge to throw something at him. “Dante, I need air. I need space. I can’t just sit here all day waiting for you to?—”

“You’ll be joining me for lunch,” he interrupted smoothly. “Family dinner. Sunday tradition.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between us in a few measured strides. “You’re a Conti now,cara. That means Sunday dinners with the family.”

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? I invited your brothers as well.”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Oh great. Here we go again.”

Dante’s smirk widened. “I’ll have a dress sent for you. Be ready in an hour.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his Sunday tradition. But I knew it wouldn’t matter.

Dante Conti didn’t make requests.

He gave orders.

And I hated that I was already learning to pick my battles.

The restaurant wasan upscale Italian spot, the kind of place where the waiters wore suits and the wine list was longer than the actual menu. Dante’s family had taken over a private dining room in the back, a long table filled with expensive food and even more expensive tension.

I sat beside Dante, my body stiff, my fingers curled around the stem of my wine glass. Across from me, Marco and Giuseppe were engaged in some heated conversation about football, their voices loud enough to draw a few glances from the waitstaff.

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