Page 21 of Made for Saints

"Salvatore's youngest?" My father was already turning away, clearly expecting Dante to follow. "Good match. Come, Dante, we have business to discuss."

But Dante didn't move. Instead, his hand came up to play with a strand of my hair, twirling it around his finger with deliberate slowness. "And who gave you permission to go there?"

The question caught me off guard. I turned to face him fully, anger flaring at his presumption. "I wasn't aware I needed permission."

His smile was dangerous as he wrapped my hair around his fist, using it to tilt my head back. The position forced me to look up at him, exposed and vulnerable. "Your father clearly never taught you proper manners."

"You don't deserve manners," I shot back, thinking of Mario's blood on my dress. "Not after the show you put on the boat."

"That's not how things work in my house." His grip tightened slightly, sending shivers down my spine.

"Good thing I don't live in your house then."

Something flashed in his eyes – triumph? Amusement? –before he released me suddenly. Without another word, he turned and followed my father toward the study, leaving me trembling against the counter.

The tea sat forgotten, probably bitter now from steeping too long. Again. I touched my neck where I could still feel the phantom pressure of his grip, the ghost of his breath against my skin.

"Fuck," I whispered to the empty kitchen. Because that's what this was – I was completely, utterly fucked.

The sun had fully set now, casting the kitchen in shadows that seemed to hold echoes of Dante's presence. I dumped the ruined tea down the sink, my hands still shaking slightly as I reached for my phone to text Adrianna.

Need a drink, I typed. Several drinks.

Her response was immediate: Everything ok?

No, I thought, remembering the way Dante's body had felt pressed against mine, the dangerous promise in his eyes when he'd pulled my hair. Everything was very much not okay.

Fine, I texted back. Just family stuff.

It wasn't exactly a lie. Dante wasn't family – thank God – but he was quickly becoming as inescapable as one. His presence seemed to fill every room he entered, lingering long after he'd gone like expensive cologne or gunpowder.

The sound of raised voices drifted from my father's study – not quite shouting, but heated enough to carry. I couldn't make out the words, but Dante's tone held that dangerous edge I'd come to recognize. The same edge that had preceded Mario's execution.

I should leave, go meet Adrianna and pretend this evening never happened. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though. My driver, a soldier trying to prove himself to my father, lingered just outside. He was supposed to guard me, but I couldn’t help but feel that he was more concerned about my father’s wrath than my safety.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Pretend I couldn't still feel the heat of Dante's body against mine, or the way hisfingers had felt in my hair. Pretend I wasn't attracted to a man who killed as easily as he breathed.

Instead, I found myself making another cup of tea, this time following his instructions exactly. Thirty seconds after boiling, precise measurements, three minutes to steep. The result was...perfect, damn him. Smooth and fragrant without a hint of bitterness.

"Practicing your new skills?"

I nearly dropped the cup at the sound of his voice. Dante stood in the doorway again, his tie slightly loosened but otherwise looking as impeccable as ever. How did he move so quietly in those expensive shoes?

"Just testing a theory." I lifted the cup in mock salute. "Turns out you might actually know what you're talking about. Sometimes."

His laugh was low and dark. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head." I set the cup down, trying to ignore how he filled the doorway like a beautiful threat. "Don't you have business to discuss with my father?"

"Finished." He stepped into the kitchen, moving with that predatory grace that made my pulse jump. "For now."

The way he said 'for now' carried weights of meaning I wasn't sure I wanted to understand. I forced myself to hold his gaze as he approached, refusing to back away this time.

"Well then," I said, proud that my voice remained steady, "don't let me keep you."

He stopped inches away, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "What if I want you to keep me?"

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with possibilities. I could smell his cologne again, mixed with something darker – whiskey maybe, from whatever he'd been drinking with my father.

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