Page 127 of Made for Saints

“I can’t do this,” he said, his voice breaking. “Not here. Not now.”

I watched as Dante took another step back, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The distance he put between us felt like a chasm, one I wasn’t sure I could—or should—cross. His words still hung in the air, raw and jagged,cutting through the night like shards of glass.You matter more than anything else in my life. And that’s the fucking problem.

The weight of his confession was suffocating. It was everything I’d wanted to hear and yet nothing I could make sense of. How could I matter so much to someone who seemed determined to push me away at every turn? How could I mean more to him than anything, and still feel like I was standing on the outside of his world, looking in?

“You can’t do this?” I repeated, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. “What exactly can’t you do, Dante? Be honest? Be vulnerable? Let yourself feel something without running away?”

He flinched at my words, his dark eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze to the ground. For a moment, he looked almost...defeated. Like the weight of whatever he was carrying had finally become too much. But then his jaw tightened, and when he looked back at me, the vulnerability I’d seen was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask he wore so well.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade. “You think this is about me being afraid to feel? You think this is about me running away? It’s not. It’s about keeping you alive, Emilia. It’s about making sure you don’t end up as collateral damage in a war you have no business being part of.”

“I’m already part of it!” I shot back, my voice rising despite the lump forming in my throat. “Whether you like it or not, whether I like it or not, I’m already in this, Dante. My name, my family, my blood—it’s all tied to your world. There’s no escaping it. So stop pretending like you’re doing me a favor by keeping me at arm’s length.”

His eyes flashed with something I couldn’t quite name—anger, frustration, maybe even fear. But he didn’t respond. He just stood there, his hands fisted at his sides, his body coiled so tightly I thought he might snap.

“You can’t have it both ways,” I continued, my voice quieter now but no less firm. “You can’t act like I’m yours one minuteand then push me away the next. You don’t get to decide how much of you I get to have, Dante. That’s not how this works.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. “You think this is a choice?” he asked, his tone dripping with disbelief. “You think I want to push you away? You think I don’t lie awake at night, wondering what the hell I’m doing, wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life by letting you get this close?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat. The rawness in his voice, the way his shoulders sagged as if the weight of his own words was too much to bear—it was almost too much to take.

“Every time I look at you,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper, “every time I touch you, I’m reminded of how easy it would be to lose you. And it terrifies me, Emilia. Because I know what happens to the people I care about. I know what happens to the people who get too close.”

“And what happens?” I asked, my voice trembling as I took a tentative step toward him. “What happens, Dante? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the one tearing us apart, not your world.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine as if he was looking for something—answers, reassurance, maybe even salvation. But whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he turned away, his back to me.

“I can’t do this,” he said again, his voice barely audible. “Not with you. Not like this.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs. My chest ached, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. But I refused to let him see how much his words hurt. I refused to let him have that power over me.

"Fine," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, though every word felt like I was swallowing glass. "If you can't do this, then don't. But stop acting like you're the only one who gets to decide what happens between us. Stop pretending like you'rethe only one carrying the weight of this...whatever this is."

Dante froze, his broad shoulders stiffening, and for a moment, I thought he might turn around. But he didn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his back to me, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The silence between us was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the wedding reception in the distance. Laughter, music, the clinking of glasses—it all felt like it was happening in another world, far removed from the storm brewing between us.

"You think this is easy for me?" he said finally, his voice low and strained, like he was holding something back. "You think I don't want to give in? To let you in? To stop fighting this?"

"Then why don't you?" I demanded, taking another step toward him. My heels clicked softly against the stone path, but the sound felt thunderous in the suffocating quiet. "Why do you keep pushing me away, Dante? What are you so afraid of?"

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the night like a blade. When he finally turned to face me, his dark eyes burned with a mix of anger and something deeper—something raw and unguarded that made my breath catch.

"I'm afraid of losing you," he said, his voice rough and unsteady. "I'm afraid of what happens when someone like me loves someone like you. Because it never ends well, Emilia. It never fucking ends well."

The word hung between us like a live wire: loves. My heart stuttered in my chest, the weight of his confession slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave. He looked at me like he’d just torn himself open, like he’d handed me a piece of himself he’d never given to anyone else. And I didn’t know what to do with it.

"Dante..." I started, my voice barely above a whisper, but he cut me off with a sharp shake of his head.

"No," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You don’t get it, Emilia. You don’t understand what it means to be with someone like me. The things I’ve done. The blood on my hands. The enemies I’ve made. If they knew how much you meant tome—if they even suspected—they’d use you to get to me. And I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because of me."

I stared at him, my chest tightening as his words sank in. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that I could handle it, that I wasn’t afraid. But the truth was, I was afraid. Not of him, or his world, but of the weight of what he was saying. Of what it meant to be loved by someone like Dante Conti.

"You don’t get to make that choice for me," I said finally, my voice trembling but resolute. "You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle. If you care about me—if you really care—then stop shutting me out. Stop trying to protect me by pushing me away."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then something in his expression shifted, the hard lines of his face softening as he took a step closer. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek in a touch so gentle it made my chest ache.

"You don’t know what you’re asking for," he said quietly, his voice laced with a mix of longing and despair. "You don’t know what it’s like to live in my world, to carry the weight of it every day. It’s not just danger, Emilia. It’s darkness. And once you’re in, there’s no way out."

"Maybe I don’t want a way out," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I want to be where you are, no matter how dark it gets."

---