Page 120 of Made for Saints

“Dante,” I whispered, his name slipping from my lips like a prayer, a confession. My fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, mimicking the rhythm he’d set earlier, and I bit down on my lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape.

The memory of his voice echoed in my mind, low and commanding.You’re mine. Don’t forget it.

Chapter 38

Emilia

The ballroom was a kaleidoscope of color and light, the chandeliers casting golden halos over the polished marble floors. Laughter and conversation floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of a string quartet tucked into the corner. The night before Adrianna’s wedding was meant to be a celebration, a gathering of family and friends to toast her future. But as I moved through the crowd, my champagne flute dangling loosely in my hand, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

I hadn’t seen Dante in days. Not since the night at the club, when his hands had claimed me against the glass, his voice a dark promise in my ear. The memory of his touch still lingered, a phantom heat that refused to fade, but his absence since then had been deafening. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t even shown up at the Ricci estate, where his presence had become a constant fixture. And now, as I scanned the room, my heart leapt and sank in equal measure when I finally spotted him.

He was standing near the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his broad shoulders tense beneath the tailored cut of his suit. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, but there was something different about him tonight. Something sharp and unyielding. His usual air of effortless control had been replaced by a tension that radiated off him in waves, like a storm barely contained.

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass as I watched him. He didn’t look at me. In fact, he seemed determined not to look at me, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. But then, as if sensing my eyes on him, his head turned slightly, and our gazes collided.

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the ballroom faded, the crowd around us blurring into nothing as his dark eyes locked onto mine. There was something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that made my chest tighten. But just as quickly as the connection was made, he broke it, turning away as if I were nothing more than a passing thought.

The dismissal hit me like a slap.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight as I tried to process the sting of his indifference. Dante had never been warm, not in the traditional sense, but this was different. This wasn’t just distance—it was cold, calculated avoidance. And it cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

What had I done? Had I said something wrong? Done something to push him away? My mind raced, replaying our last interaction, searching for clues, but all I could find were fragments of heat and whispered promises. Nothing that explained this sudden shift.

“Emilia, are you alright?” Adrianna’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, her hand brushing lightly against my arm. She was radiant tonight, her navy dress shimmering under the lights, her smile bright and untroubled. The perfect bride-to-be.

I forced a smile, hoping it looked more convincing than it felt. “I’m fine,” I said quickly, taking a sip of champagne to mask the tremor in my voice. “Just...tired, I guess.”

Adrianna’s brow furrowed slightly, but before she could press further, one of her cousins swept her away, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more. I glanced back toward the bar, my chest tightening when I saw Dante still standing there,his posture rigid, his jaw tight as he stared into his glass.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers.

Setting my champagne flute down on a passing waiter’s tray, I smoothed my dress and squared my shoulders, my heels clicking softly against the marble as I made my way toward him. Each step felt heavier than the last, my heart pounding in my chest as I rehearsed what I might say. But as I drew closer, the words dissolved, replaced by a knot of confusion and hurt that I couldn’t untangle.

“Dante,” I said softly, my voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd.

He didn’t look at me. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me entirely, but then he turned his head slightly, his dark eyes flicking to mine. There was no warmth in his gaze, no trace of the man who had held me so fiercely just days ago. Instead, his expression was guarded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Was he...drunk? I've never seen him like this.

“Emilia,” he said, his tone flat and clipped, as if my name were an inconvenience.

I faltered, the sharpness in his voice cutting through me like a blade. “I haven’t seen you in days,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, casual, though the knot in my chest made it difficult to breathe. “I was starting to think you’d disappeared.”

His gaze flicked to me, a quick, assessing glance that felt more like a dismissal than acknowledgment. “I’ve been busy,” he said curtly, his fingers tightening around the glass in his hand. The ice clinked faintly against the crystal, a sound that seemed to echo in the space between us.

“Busy,” I repeated, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “Too busy to even send a text?”

Dante’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath the shadow of stubble along his cheek. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his attention shifting back to his drink as if it held the answers to some unspoken question. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, until I couldn’t take itanymore.

“Did I do something wrong?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my voice quieter now, tinged with a vulnerability I hated. I crossed my arms over my chest, more to shield myself than anything else, my nails digging into the fabric of my dress. “If I did, just tell me. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is.”

Dante’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes narrowing. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold, detached mask that made my stomach twist.

“This isn’t about you,” he said finally, his voice low and edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “Not everything revolves around you, Emilia.”

The words stung more than they should have, and I took a step back, my breath hitching. “I didn’t say it did,” I replied, my tone sharper now, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. “But you’ve been avoiding me, Dante. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the movement rough and frustrated. “I’m not avoiding you,” he said, though the tightness in his voice suggested otherwise. “I’ve got things to deal with. Things you wouldn’t understand.”

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