Page 105 of Made for Saints

“He said, ‘Get over it. He deserved it.’” Dante’s lips twisted into a bitter, hollow smile that I could hear in his voiceeven though I couldn’t see it. “That was it. No sympathy. No reassurance. Just a reminder that in our world, there’s no room for regret. No room for weakness.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of quiet that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. His hands had stopped moving again, resting lightly against my scalp, unsure, like he was caught between staying grounded in the moment with me and retreating into the darkness of his memories.

I closed my eyes again, letting the warmth of the water and the quiet intimacy of the moment wrap around me. His confession hung between us, raw and unpolished, and I felt the weight of it settle in my chest. I wanted to reach back, to touch him, to say something—anything—but I didn’t. I stayed still, letting the moment stretch, giving him the space he’d never been given before.

“I don’t know how to move past this,” I admitted after a long pause, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how to...how to be okay after what I did.”

Dante’s fingers resumed their gentle motions, his touch grounding me. “You don’t,” he said bluntly. “Not right away. And maybe not ever.”

The silence stretched between us once again, heavy with the weight of his words. I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror that hung above the sink. His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. There was something raw, unguarded in his expression—a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before.

“But you learn to live with it,” Dante continued, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “You learn to carry it, because you don’t have a choice. And eventually, it becomes a part of you.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. “I stabbed him, Dante,” I said, my voice trembling. “I stabbed him over and over, and I didn’t even know what I was doing. Ijust...I couldn’t stop.”

His hands stilled in my hair, and he leaned forward slightly, his reflection looming behind mine in the mirror. “Good,” he said, his tone steady but edged with something darker. “You shouldn’t have stopped. Men like Romero don’t deserve mercy.”

My breath hitched, and I looked away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “But it was messy. I didn’t even hit an artery until—until the end. He probably suffered.”

Dante’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his fingers brushed against the nape of my neck, a touch so light it sent a shiver down my spine. “He didn’t suffer enough,” he said, his voice low and unrelenting. “Not for what he tried to do to you.”

The conviction in his tone made my stomach twist. I didn’t know whether to be comforted or horrified by how easily he dismissed Romero’s life, by how little remorse he seemed to feel. But then again, this was Dante. He lived in a world where morality was a luxury, where survival came at the expense of others.

And now, I was a part of that world too.

The thought made my chest tighten, and I closed my eyes, leaning back against the edge of the tub. The water lapped gently at my skin, the warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of dread that had settled in my stomach.

Dante stood, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for a towel. He handed it to me without a word, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment before he turned away, giving me the privacy to step out of the tub and wrap myself in the soft fabric.

When I was dry, he handed me a neatly folded set of clothes—a simple pair of black sweats and an oversized gray sweater that smelled faintly of him. I hesitated, my fingers brushing against the fabric as I looked up at him.

“Thank you.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. “You're welcome, they probably look better on you anyways.”

I slipped into the clothes, the soft material a welcome comfort against my still-damp skin. When I was dressed, Dante gestured for me to follow him back into the main living area.

The penthouse was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside. Dante led me to the massive windows that overlooked the skyline, the glittering lights stretching out to meet the dark cliffs in the distance. He stood beside me, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the view.

““I should’ve known,” Dante said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence like a crack of thunder.

I turned to him, frowning. “Known what?”

“About Romero,” he said, jaw tightening. “After the argument, I should’ve known he’d try something. I should’ve seen it coming.”

“This isn’t your fault,” I interrupted, my voice firmer than I expected it to be, even with the tremor I felt deep in my chest. “He’s the one who...who forced me to do this. Not you.”

His dark eyes flicked to mine, sharp and searching, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of his guilt had grown too heavy to carry. “I should’ve been there,” he said quietly, his tone laced with frustration. “You shouldn’t have had to handle this alone.”

I shook my head, the weight of his guilt settling over me like a second skin. “You can’t protect me from everything, Dante. I’m not...I’m not some fragile doll you have to keep in a glass case.”

His gaze settled on me, intense and unrelenting, like he was trying to see straight through me. The storm in his eyes swirled with emotions I couldn’t name—guilt, anger, and something raw and consuming that made it hard to breathe under the weight of it. The faint glow of the city lights caught in his gaze, turning the darkness into something almost otherworldly. For a moment, it felt like I wasn’t just looking at a man but at something far more dangerous.

“You’re not a doll,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “But that doesn’t mean I can stand by and watch you get hurt. You don’t know what it’s like out there, Emilia. What men like Romero are capable of.”

“Don’t I?” I asked softly, my fingers tightening around the edges of the sweater he’d given me earlier. The fabric was soft, comforting, but it did nothing to shield me from the memory of Romero’s hands on me, or the blood on mine. “I think I understand now. I don’t need you blaming yourself for what happened. I’m the one who—”

“You’re the one who did what you had to do,” Dante interrupted sharply, his tone firm but not harsh. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not. Romero made his choice the moment he touched you. You made yours, too, and you survived.”

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