Page 91 of Made for Sinners

“In the album,” I said, my pulse quickening. “The one I found in my father’s study. I’m sure he was in there, too.”

Dante’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening just slightly. “The servant said his name was Matteo,” I added, glancing at him to gauge his reaction.

He didn’t look at me, but his expression darkened. “Matteo?”

I nodded. “That’s what he said. He said Matteo handled logistics for the family but retired a few years ago.”

“That’s not right,” Dante said, his voice low and firm. “Matteo is still with the family. He handles the financial side of things. He’s been with us for years.”

“Then who was the man in the photo?” I asked, my voice rising slightly. “Was there another Matteo?”

Dante shook his head, his brows furrowing. “Not that I can remember.”

I frowned, my mind racing as I tried to piece it together. “But if it’s not him, why would the servant say it was? Why would he lie?”

“I don’t know,” Dante said, his voice edged with frustration. “But I’ll find out.”

I studied him for a moment, my chest tightening at the sharpness in his tone. He wasn’t brushing me off—not this time. He was taking me seriously.

“Do you still have the album?” he asked suddenly, his gaze flicking to me briefly before returning to the road.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “It’s in my room.”

“Good,” Dante said, his voice softening just slightly. “When we get back, I want to see it.”

I nodded, my pulse quickening. For the first time all day, I felt like I wasn’t completely alone in this. Dante might not have all the answers, but at least he wasn’t dismissing me.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, but it wasn’t as suffocating as before. There was something else in the air now—something heavier, charged with unspoken questions and half-formed suspicions.

When we finally pulled into the underground garage beneath the penthouse, Dante killed the engine and turned to look at me. His dark eyes locked onto mine, steady and unyielding.

“Whatever this is,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we’ll figure it out.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Because I believed him.

But that didn’t make the knot in my chest any easier to untangle.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the truth.

But I couldn’t stop now.

Back at the penthouse, the silence wasn’t comforting.

It was heavy. Suffocating. The kind that wrapped around your throat and squeezed—slow and deliberate—until you either screamed or snapped.

I hadn’t done either. Not yet.

But I was close.

The moment we’d returned from the Conti estate, I’d gone straight to my room, the image of that photograph burned into my brain like a brand. The face. The smirk. The way he stood in the background like he didn’t matter—like he wasn’t watching everything.

But he had been. I knew it.

And now I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About what it meant. About how close I was to something that felt like an answer—but not quite.

I’d tried to distract myself. I’d tried to focus on the gala. The dress. The hair. The makeup. The performance.

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