Page 12 of Made for Saints

His expression darkened. "Don't flatter yourself, Emilia. This was business."

"Everything's business with you, isn't it?" I pushed back from the table, needing space. "Even murder."

"Especially murder." He caught my wrist as I tried to stand, his grip firm but not painful. "Where are you going?"

"To change." I gestured at my ruined dress. "Unless you'd prefer I stay covered in your business?"

His laugh was low and dark. "Careful with that mouth, princess. It might get you in trouble."

I pulled my wrist free, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "More trouble than being splattered with blood at sunset?"

"Much more." His eyes traveled down my body, lingering on the crimson stains. "Though like I said – red suits you."

I turned and walked away, feeling his eyes on me until I disappeared below deck. Only then did I let myself shake, the full impact of what I'd witnessed hitting me like a wave.

Dante had killed a man right next to me without hesitation or warning. And somehow, the most terrifying part wasn't the violence – it was how his touch had still sent shivers down my spine even with another man's blood cooling on my skin.

Chapter 4

Dante

The blood had barely dried, and already the vultures were circling.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking softly beneath me as I surveyed the aftermath of the evening. The yacht’s dining area was quieter now, though not silent. The distant hum of the ocean filled the space, along with the occasional clink of glassware as the staff hurried to clear the remnants of a party that had ended in bloodshed. My family sat scattered around the long table, heads bowed, their gazes fixed on their drinks. No one dared look at me.

Good.

I loosened my tie, the familiar weight of my Beretta settling back against my ribs as I tucked it away. The gun was a comfort – simple, reliable, unlike the complications currently testing my control.

"Another whiskey, sir?" The bartender's hands shook slightly as he held up the bottle.

I nodded, watching the amber liquid splash into cut crystal. The irony wasn't lost on me – how quickly everyone returned to their routines after witnessing an execution. But that was our world, wasn't it? Violence wrapped in luxury, brutality hidden behind designer labels.

Once he passed it to me I swirled the whiskey in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. The burn of the liquid had long since faded, replaced by something colder, sharper. Anger simmered beneath my skin, a steadythrum that refused to dissipate, no matter how many drinks I downed. It wasn’t just the betrayal that had me seething—though that was part of it. No, what truly grated was the fact that I’d let my temper get the better of me. Again.

The body had been dealt with, of course. My men were efficient, their loyalty bought and paid for with blood and fear. By now, the unfortunate bastard who’d dared to skim from my accounts was nothing more than fish food. A fitting end for a man who thought he could outsmart me.

But the stain of his failure lingered, clinging to the edges of my carefully constructed empire like a cancer. And worse, it had spilled onto her.

Emilia.

She'd cleaned most of Mario's blood from her face, but spots of red still stained her white Valentino dress like abstract art. Her father insisted everyone return to their seats, as if nothing had happened and instead of letting her get changed into something less bloody. My blood heated thinking about that. The sight stirred something possessive in my chest that I refused to examine too closely.

I closed my eyes, the image of her standing there—frozen, pale, and splattered with blood—burned into my memory. She hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t run. She’d just stood there, her wide eyes locked on mine, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. For a moment, I’d thought she might faint. But then she’d laughed—soft, brittle, and edged with hysteria—and something inside me had twisted.

Fuck, why did that turn me on so bad?

I hadn’t meant for her to see that. She wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to witness the ugliness that came with my world. And yet, I couldn’t deny the flicker of satisfaction I’d felt when she hadn’t crumbled beneath the weight of it. She’d stood her ground, despite the fear I’d seen in her eyes. Despite the blood on her skin.

She was stronger than I’d given her credit for.

“Dante.” My brother Rafe’s voice pulled me from mythoughts. He sat a few seats down, his elbows resting on the table as he nursed his own drink. His dark hair was disheveled, his tie loosened, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. “You’re brooding.”

I didn’t respond immediately, taking another slow sip of whiskey instead. The liquid burned on the way down, but it wasn’t enough to dull the edge of my frustration.

“I’m thinking,” I said finally, my voice low and measured. “There’s a difference.”

Rafe snorted, leaning back in his chair. “You’re pissed because you lost your temper. Again.”

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