Page 90 of Made for Sinners

I had something real.

And I wasn’t going to let it slip through my fingers.

23

EMILIA

The car was uncomfortably tense, the kind that made my skin crawl.

Not because it was tense—although it always felt like there was some level of tension with Dante—but because it was heavy. It pressed down on me, thick and suffocating, filling the space between us with unspoken thoughts and unasked questions.

I shifted in my seat, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked composed, his calm as sharp and deliberate as a well-honed blade. His hands rested on the steering wheel, steady and controlled, his dark eyes fixed on the road ahead. But I could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his grip on the wheel was just a little too firm, the way his posture screamed restraint.

He was in a mood.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, my voice breaking the silence.

Dante’s gaze didn’t flicker, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.”

I frowned, turning my head to watch him more closely. “You sure about that?”

He exhaled slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I told you—it’s fine.”

I waited, giving him a chance to elaborate. He didn’t.

“Is it business?” I asked, hoping to prod a little more without pushing too far.

“It’s always business,” he said flatly, his tone making it clear the conversation wasn’t open for discussion.

I sighed, turning my attention to the window. The city blurred past in a haze of lights and shadows, but I wasn’t really seeing it. My mind was too busy replaying the events of the day, the image of that photograph burned into my mind like a brand.

The face. The smirk. The way he stood in the background of the group shot like he didn’t matter—but I knew he did.

I shifted again, my fingers toying with the hem of my dress as I tried to think of how to bring it up.

“What are you doing?” Dante’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp but not harsh.

I glanced at him, startled. “What?”

“You’re fidgeting,” he said, his eyes flicking toward me briefly before returning to the road.

I blinked, realizing my fingers were twisting the fabric of my dress in my lap. I dropped my hands quickly, pressing them flat against my thighs. “I’m not fidgeting,” I muttered defensively.

Dante arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What is it?” he asked, his voice softer now but still edged with authority.

I hesitated, my teeth catching my bottom lip. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. But the weight of the photo—the man—was too much to keep to myself. The longer I stayed silent, the heavier it felt.

“I saw something at the estate,” I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

Dante didn’t respond immediately, but I could feel his attention shift. He didn’t need to speak for me to know he was listening.

“A photo,” I continued, my words coming out slowly, carefully. “In one of the back hallways. It was old—black and white. A group shot.”

“And?” he said, his tone as steady and unreadable as ever.

“There was a man in it,” I said, my fingers curling in my lap again. “I think I’ve seen him before.”

Dante’s jaw tightened slightly, the only outward reaction he gave. “Where?”

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