Page 93 of Made for Sinners

A black Armani suit tailored within an inch of its life hugged his frame, the crisp white shirt beneath it open just enough at the collar to hint at danger. His dark hair was slicked back, sharp and clean, and his jaw was freshly shaven, the kind of detail that said he cared—but only when it suited him.

But it wasn’t the suit or the hair or the way he stood like he owned the world that made my breath catch.

It wasthewatch.

The one I’d stolen from him, once upon a time. The one I’d slipped into my bag like a secret. The one he’d taken back without a word, without accusation.

It was on his wrist now, gleaming beneath the cuff of his jacket like a dare.

I smirked, stepping closer. “Nice watch.”

His eyes flicked to mine, dark and unreadable. “Yes,” he said flatly. “I’ll have to keep an eye on it tonight.”

I laughed, low and amused. “Afraid I’ll steal it again?”

He stepped toward me, closing the distance between us in two slow strides. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Afraid you’ll make me want to give it to you.”

My breath hitched.

He didn’t touch me—but he didn’t have to. His presence alone was enough to make my pulse spike, to make my skin burn beneath the silk of my dress.

“You look…” He trailed off, his gaze sweeping over me like a caress. “Like trouble—the kind that no one sees coming until it’s too late.”

I tilted my head, letting my lips curl into a slow smile. “Good.”

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to say something else—something darker—but he didn’t. He just held out his hand.

“Ready?”

I hesitated, just for a second.

Because I wasn’t. Not really.

I wasn’t ready to play the part of the perfect wife. I wasn’t ready to smile and nod and pretend I didn’t have a thousand questions clawing at the inside of my skull. I wasn’t ready to pretend that everything was fine when I knew—deep in my bones—that it wasn’t.

But I took his hand anyway.

Because I was Emilia Conti now.

And pretending was part of the job.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and firm, and he led me out of the penthouse without another word.

The elevator ride was silent, but charged. His thumb brushed against the back of my hand once, twice, and I hated how easily that small touch unraveled me.

We stepped into the waiting car, the driver already holding the door open. Dante helped me in like a gentleman—like he hadn’t just threatened to ruin me against the nearest wall last night—and slid in beside me.

The door shut with a soft thud, sealing us in.

The city blurred past the windows as we drove, the lights streaking like stars falling sideways. Dante sat beside me, his thigh brushing mine, his hand resting casually on his knee.

I could feel him watching me.

I turned to face him, arching a brow. “What?”

His lips curved, slow and dangerous. “You’re quiet.”

I shrugged, looking out the window again. “Just thinking.”

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