Page 8 of Made for Sinners

As the door clicked shut behind him, I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the day pressed down on me. Gio was wrong. I wasn’t tough or strong. Most days, I felt like I was holding on by a thread.

But maybe he was right about one thing.

I would get through this. Ihadto.

5

EMILIA

The knock at the front door was sharp and deliberate, echoing through the quiet house like a warning. I froze, my hands gripping the hem of my cardigan as unease curled in my stomach. It was late—too late for visitors, especially the kind who knocked like they owned the place.

My father’s voice called out from his study, gruff and impatient. “Emilia, get the door.”

I hesitated, my stomach twisting with unease. There was something about the knock that set my nerves on edge, something that felt like a harbinger of bad news. But I pushed the feeling aside, forcing myself to move toward the door.

When I opened it, the last person I expected to see standing there was Dante Conti.

But here he was.

Dante Conti stood on my doorstep, his presence consuming the space like a storm cloud that didn’t belong here. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. Tall, sharp-edged, and dressed in a dark suit that fit him too perfectly, he looked like he belonged in some high-stakes boardroom—not standing at my door in thedead of night. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

But he wasn’t alone.

His brother Luca leaned casually against the doorframe to Dante’s left, his grin lazy but his sharp gaze anything but. Rafe, Dante’s other brother stood to the right, arms crossed over his chest, silent but no less imposing. Behind them, two men loomed, their postures stiff, their hands resting a little too close to the weapons strapped to their sides. Soldiers.

The heavy weight of all their eyes sent a chill down my spine.

I gripped the edge of the door, my knuckles turning white as a flood of emotions crashed into me—anger, grief, and something sharper, something I didn’t want to name. It had been a month since I’d seen him. A month since the wedding. A month since he’d left me standing alone in the garden, my heart splintered apart while he turned his back and walked away.

I swallowed against the lump rising in my throat, my chest tightening.

He looked untouched by it all. Untouched by me, by the wreckage he’d left behind. No dark circles under his eyes, no hesitation in his posture. He stood there like a man who hadn’t lost a single night of sleep over what he’d done.

And god, did that really piss me off.

“Sorry, we don’t want whatever cheap shit you’re selling.” I said, my voice flat as I gripped the edge of the door.

His dark eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw something—something raw and unguarded—flash across his face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold, calculated mask he always wore.

“Good evening, Emilia,” he said smirked, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “I’m here to speak with your father.”

My head rolled with annoyance, and I tightened my grip on the door. “He’s busy.”

Dante raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smirk that made my blood boil. “I’m sure he’ll make time for me.”

I moved to shut the door, but with one hand and an infuriating air of indifference, Dante kept it open. The strength in his grip was effortless, a silent reminder of just how outmatched I was.

“Emilia,” came my father’s voice again, this time closer. I turned to see him striding down the hall, his expression lighting up when he caught sight of Dante. “Ah, Dante. Good to see you, my boy. Come in, come in.”

I stared at my father, my mouth falling open in disbelief. “You’re inviting him in?”

“Of course,” my father said, waving Dante and his entourage inside. “This is business, Emilia. Let them through.”

Dante stepped past me without so much as a glance, his brothers and guards following close behind. The air shifted as they entered, the weight of their presence settling over the house like a storm cloud.

I turned to my father, my voice low and sharp. “What’s this about?”

“Not your concern,” he said dismissively, already leading Dante and his men toward his study.

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