Page 16 of Made for Saints

Tony gave a low whistle from the other room. "A message, huh? What kind of message are we talking about here?"

"The kind you don’t recover from," Marco replied. His tone was grim now, all traces of levity gone. "Two of their ships were found burned out, drifting in the bay. No cargo, no crew.Just fire and ash."

Giuseppe's voice cut through, light and full of amusement, like he wasn’t talking about charred bodies and scorched deals. "And the crew?"

"Rafe left one alive," Marco said. "Barely. Made him crawl back to their boss with the warning."

Tony snorted. “The Contis don’t play around when it comes to the ports.”

"Yeah, well, they’re still pushing," Marco said. "They’re trying to tighten their grip on every port from here to Boston. Dante knew they wouldn’t listen, but Rafe’s the one who really wanted to make it hurt."

“That’s Rafe for you,” Tony muttered. “Man enjoys his work a little too much.”

Giuseppe laughed. "You think the Irish got the message now?"

Marco let out a low, humorless chuckle. "They got the message, but that doesn't mean they're backing off. If anything, they'll come at us harder. You know how they work—prideful bastards. They’ll take this as an insult, and they’ll make it personal."

The air in the house felt heavier as Marco’s words settled. Pride. Revenge. Blood. It was a vicious cycle, one I’d seen too many times before.

"Speaking of personal," Tony said, his voice dropping slightly. "Did you see how fast Dante took that shot yesterday? Didn’t even blink. Ruthless, like everyone says."

I gripped my coffee cup tighter, the ceramic warm beneath my fingers as if grounding me to the moment. But my thoughts were anything but steady. Marco’s words echoed in my ears, dragging me back to the yacht, to the deafening crack of Dante’s gunshot, to the way the world had gone still in its aftermath.

Blood had bloomed across my dress, spreading like a grotesque flower, and yet, I hadn’t moved. I hadn’t screamed. I’d simply stood there, rooted to the ground, watching the lifedrain from Mario’s eyes.

I’d watched Dante step forward, calm and deliberate, like he’d done this a hundred times before. And maybe he had. But then he’d turned to me—the ruthless, detached man who had just ended someone’s life—and gently wiped the blood from my cheek. His touch had lingered, just for a moment, his thumb brushing my skin with a softness that didn’t make sense.

The memory made my stomach twist, a strange warmth blooming in my chest that I tried to smother.

“Emilia.” Marco’s voice pulled me back, sharp and probing. I blinked, realizing his eyes were on me, his espresso cup poised halfway to his lips. “You’re awful quiet this morning. Yesterday didn’t shake you up too much, did it?”

I forced a scoff, leaning back in my chair with as much indifference as I could muster. “Please. You forget who you’re talking to. I’ve seen worse.”

“Worse?” Tony’s snort was almost derisive. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Dante executed his business partner in the middle of a party, sorella. What exactly have you seen that’s worse than that?”

“Associate,” I corrected automatically, the word slipping out before I could stop it. “Not partner.”

The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. The room went quiet, the kind of silence that felt louder than any accusation. Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly, his espresso forgotten.

“You seem very well-informed about Dante’s business arrangements,” he said slowly, his tone laced with suspicion.

I shrugged, trying to look bored, though my pulse quickened beneath his scrutiny. “I pay attention.”

“To Dante?” Giuseppe piped up, his grin wicked and teasing. “I mean, I don’t blame you. Half the women in New York would kill to get his attention.”

“The smart ones run the other way,” Tony said, his voicedry. “You heard what happened to the last girl who caught his eye.” He paused for effect, his gaze flicking to me with a pointed sharpness. “Ended up in a body bag.”

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit, the weight of them settling in my chest like a stone. I shouldn’t have cared, shouldn’t have even flinched, but the image of Dante’s almost-smile flashed through my mind. The way he’d moved on the yacht—calm, lethal, and yet somehow protective.

He’d stepped between me and Mario’s body like it was second nature, like keeping me safe was as instinctive as pulling the trigger.

“Maybe she should have run faster,” I said, forcing a casual disdain into my voice.

Marco’s laugh came unexpectedly, breaking the tension. “Careful, sorella. You almost sound impressed.”

“By what?” I stood, carrying my empty cup to the sink, my movements sharp and deliberate. “His ability to ruin designer dresses with blood spatter? Please. I think I’ll stick to men who don’t treat murder like a party trick.”

The words came easily enough, but the image of Dante wiping blood from my skin lingered in my mind, refusing to be dismissed. There had been something in his eyes—something I couldn’t name, something that made me feel…

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