Page 23 of Made for Saints

Her brows lifted faintly, but she didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached out, brushing an invisible speck of lint from my sleeve. “Tiredness is a luxury we can’t afford,” she said, her tone steady but distant. Then, softer, almost too soft to hear: “You’ll understand one day.”

I didn’t want to understand. Not the way she did.

Her gaze lingered on mine for a moment longer before she turned back to the dining room, stepping forward to adjust the placement of a wine glass that was already perfectly aligned. I stood there, watching her, and for a moment, my chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid.

I admired her composure. I envied her strength. But I would never envy her life.

The dining room buzzed with conversation as I stepped inside, the scent of roasted lamb and garlic filling the air. My father sat at the head of the table, as always, his presence commanding and immovable. My brothers flanked him, their voices loud and animated as they debated some meaningless sports statistic.

And then there was me, seated at the far end of the table, as far from the center of attention as I could manage. Not that it mattered. I knew the moment Dante arrived, the room’s focus would shift entirely to him.

I stabbed at my salad with my fork, my appetite nonexistent. My brothers were still laughing about something—probably at my expense—when my father’s voice cut through the din.

“Dante’s here.”

The room fell silent, the shift in energy palpable. Even the staff moved more carefully, their footsteps quieter as they hurried to clear the appetizers. I didn’t need to look up to know he’d entered. I felt it, the same way you feel the first drop of rain before a storm.

“Buongiorno,” Dante said, his voice smooth and unhurried as he greeted my father. The deep timbre of it sent a shiver down my spine, though I kept my gaze firmly on my plate.

“Dante,” my father replied, standing to clasp his hand. “Always a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” There was a pause, and I could feel his eyes scanning the room, taking in every detail. “I see the family is all here.”

“Of course,” my father said, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. “Come, sit. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Dante’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the room, each one echoing in my chest. When he finally took his seat, I risked a glance in his direction. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection. But it wasn’t the suit that held my attention—it was the way he carried himself, the quiet authority that made everyone else seem smaller in comparison.

His gaze flickered to me, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. My breath caught, and I quickly looked away, my cheeks burning.

“Emilia,” he said, his tone casual but laced with something I couldn’t quite name. “You look lovely today.”

The compliment caught me off guard, and I hated the way my heart skipped a beat. “Thank you,” I muttered, focusing on my plate.

My brothers exchanged knowing glances, their smirks infuriating. Tony, ever the instigator, leaned forward, his grin wide. “So, Dante, what brings you to our humble family lunch?Business or pleasure?”

Dante’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold. “A bit of both, I suppose.”

“Is that so?” Marco asked, his tone deliberately casual. “And which part involves our sister?”

The tension at the table spiked, the air growing heavier. My father shot Marco a warning look, but Dante remained unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused.

“Your sister,” he said slowly, his gaze sliding back to me, “is...intriguing.”

My fork clattered against my plate, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence that followed. I could feel every pair of eyes at the table on me, but it was Dante’s stare that burned the most.

“Can we not talk about me as if I’m not here?” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze, a sarcastic smile spreading across my face as I batted my lashes at him. “I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a warning.”

His smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

My father cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “Enough,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Dante is a guest in our home. Let’s not make this uncomfortable.”

Too late for that, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and simmering tension. Dante spoke sparingly, his attention divided between my father and the occasional glance in my direction. I tried to focus on anything else—the clinking of silverware, the sound of the fountain outside, the way the sunlight streamed through the windows—but it was impossible to ignore him.

When the meal finally ended, my father and brothers excused themselves to wash up and get ready to discuss business, leaving me alone with Dante. I considered slipping away, but the weight of his gaze pinned me to my chair.

“You’re quiet today,” he said, his voice low, his eyes fixedforward as if to avoid drawing attention to our conversation. “Not like you.”

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