Page 77 of Made for Sinners

I arched a brow. “Why? Afraid someone might look at me?”

His jaw ticked. “I know they will.”

I smirked, pressing my hands against his chest. “Then maybe you should let me go before I cause a scene.”

Dante’s eyes darkened. “You want a scene?”

Before I could respond, he spun me around, pressing my back against the door. His hands gripped my hips, his body flush against mine, trapping me completely.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, his lips grazing my ear. “You want to push me. You want to make me lose control.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling against the wood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dante chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “Liar.”

His hands slid lower, gripping the hem of my dress, his fingers teasing the bare skin of my thighs. “You put this on for me,” he said, his voice a dark promise. “Didn’t you?”

I bit my lip, refusing to answer.

Dante’s grip tightened. “Say it.”

I turned my head slightly, my breath hitching as his lips brushed against my jaw. “And if I did?”

His smirk was pure sin. “Then you got exactly what you wanted.”

He kissed me then—hard, demanding, his hands gripping my waist as he pressed me harder against the door. I gasped againsthis mouth, my fingers tangling in his shirt, holding on as he stole the air from my lungs.

His hands moved, sliding up my sides, his touch burning through the thin fabric of my dress. “You’re not going anywhere, princess,” he murmured against my lips.

I smirked, nipping at his bottom lip. “Make me stay.”

Dante growled, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, my heels digging into his back as he carried me inside, kicking the door shut behind us.

20

DANTE

The numbers didn’t add up.

I leaned back in my chair, my fingers drumming against the polished surface of my desk as I stared at the screen in front of me. The glow of the monitor illuminated the otherwise dark room, the faint hum of the computer the only sound.

The bank records were a mess—deliberately tangled, like someone had gone out of their way to bury the trail. But they hadn’t buried it well enough.

The money had moved through a dozen different accounts, each one bouncing between shell corporations and offshore holdings designed to make it disappear. It was a labyrinth of deceit, the kind of laundering job that required time, precision, and a deep understanding of how to manipulate financial systems.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure this trail was impossible to follow.

But nothing was impossible.

And yet, buried beneath all the layers of deception—beneath the false names and fake corporations—there was something. A single thread that didn’t belong.

A name.

Emilia.

It wasn’t blatant. It wasn’t obvious. But it was there—tied to a dormant account that had been opened years ago, long before she ever stepped into my world. The connection was so faint, so well-hidden, that I almost missed it.

Almost.

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