Page 72 of Made for Sinners

Dante exhaled through his nose, setting his glass down. "No. But I do expect you to help me find out who actually took it."

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. "You’re serious?"

His smirk returned, slow and knowing. "You don’t want Valentina involved, do you?"

I bristled. "Obviously not."

"Then keep looking through the albums." His voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge to it—something unyielding."Find the face that doesn’t belong. Find the person who’s been hiding in plain sight."

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. "You really think the answer is in those pictures?"

Dante nodded, his expression unreadable. "I do."

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "And if I find them?"

His smirk was slow, dangerous. "Then they die."

A shiver ran down my spine, but I didn’t look away. I knew better than to expect anything else. This was his world. This was what he did.

Dante sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. "I believe the Russians are involved," he said casually, like he was discussing the weather. "But I don’t know how yet."

I frowned. "Why the Russians?"

"Because they’ve been too quiet," he murmured, swirling the wine in his glass. "And in this business, silence is never a good thing."

I studied him, the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his fingers tapped against the table in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. He was opening up to me. Not completely, not entirely, but more than he ever had before.

And I hated that it made something in my chest tighten.

I exhaled slowly, setting my glass down. "Thank you."

Dante arched a brow. "For what?"

"For telling me the truth," I said, my voice quieter now. "For not keeping me in the dark."

His smirk softened, just slightly. "Don’t get used to it."

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my lips twitched despite myself.

Then, before I could stop myself, I said, "But you hurt me, Dante."

His smirk vanished.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into my lap. "You accused me. You made me feel like I was nothing. And even if I let you fuck me, that doesn’t mean I forgive you."

Dante’s jaw ticked, his dark eyes flashing with something unreadable. "I know."

I waited for him to argue, to push back, to tell me that I was being dramatic.

But he didn’t.

He just sat there, watching me, his fingers stilling against the table.

And for the first time, I thought maybe—just maybe—he actually understood.

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

Then, finally, Dante exhaled, his voice quieter now. "I don’t expect forgiveness, Emilia."

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