Page 33 of Made for Saints

What the fuck.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to look away as one of my cousins leaned in to whisper something in her ear, earning a rare smile from her. It wasn’t my business. She wasn’t mybusiness. And yet, the thought of anyone else making her smile like that made my blood boil.

“Relax, brother,” Luca said from beside me, his voice low enough that only I could hear. He was nursing a glass of red wine, his posture as casual as ever, but his dark eyes gleamed with mischief. His expression was amused as he followed my gaze to Emilia, who was across the room, laughing at something one of her friends had said. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”

“Mind your own business,” I muttered, taking another sip of my whiskey.

Luca chuckled, leaning back in his chair with the kind of ease only he could pull off. He had always been like this—unbothered, irreverent, always toeing the line between charm and recklessness. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” he teased, tilting his glass toward me. “I can’t blame you, though. She’s a knockout—always has been. But you don’t need me to tell you that, do you?”

“Watch it,” I warned, my tone sharper than I intended.

He smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, Dante. You know I’m just messing with you.” He took another sip of his wine, his gaze flicking back to Emilia. “But seriously, you should probably work on that poker face of yours. It’s a little too obvious.”

I shot him a glare, but Luca only shrugged, unbothered by my irritation. That was Luca for you—untouchable, or so he liked to believe.

“You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass,” I muttered under my breath.

“Please.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. “You’d miss me too much. Besides, you know I’m right.”

Luca was the youngest of us, just a few years older than Emilia, and our father’s favorite son. He had a way of getting away with things the rest of us couldn’t—a sharp tongue, a quick wit, and a devil-may-care attitude that made himinfuriatingly likable.

But there was more to Luca than most people realized. He was the charmer, the one who could talk his way out of any situation, but beneath the surface, he was sharp, calculating. He had a knack for reading people, for figuring out what made them tick—and for using that knowledge to his advantage.

As much as he annoyed me, I couldn’t deny that he had a point. I’d been staring at Emilia for too long, and Luca had caught me.

“Don’t worry,” he said, raising his glass in mock surrender, his tone dripping with fake innocence. “Your secret’s safe with me. But you’re playing a dangerous game, fratello. A Ricci? Really?”

“There’s no secret,” I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. “Drop it.”

Luca raised an eyebrow, his grin fading slightly, but he didn’t push further—yet. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” He swirled his wine lazily, his gaze flickering back to Emilia. “But for someone who doesn’t care, you’re doing a terrible job of hiding it.”

“You’re awfully chatty tonight,” I said, keeping my tone casual as I swirled the whiskey in my glass.

“Just calling it like I see it,” he replied with a shrug. “And what I see is you staring at Emilia like she’s the last drink at the bar.”

I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening on the glass. “She’s none of your business, Luca.”

Before I could respond, Rafe appeared at my other side, his expression as sharp as ever. “Subtle,” he commented dryly, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Think he caught the threat?”

“If he didn’t, he’s more stupid than I thought.” I watched as Emilia moved through the crowd, drawing attention like a flame draws moths. “And Vincent Ricci isn’t stupid.”

“No.” Rafe’s tone turned serious. “But someone in his organization is either very stupid or very brave.”

Or very desperate, I thought but didn’t say. Twenty million didn’t just disappear without reason, and the patterns we’d uncovered suggested someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Rocco, already several drinks into the evening, sauntered over and leaned close, cutting into the conversation. “Why so serious, cugino? This is supposed to be a party.”

“Some of us have actual work to do,” I said, but without heat. Rocco’s carefree attitude was both irritating and oddly refreshing.

“Work, work, work,” Rocco drawled, rolling his eyes dramatically. “When was the last time you actually had fun? And killing people doesn’t count,” he added quickly, grinning when I shot him a glare.

“I have fun.” The defense sounded weak even to my ears.

“Right.” His grin turned wicked. “Is that why you keep staring at the Ricci princess like you want to eat her alive?”

“Careful,” I warned, the edge in my tone unmistakable.

“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He gestured with his drink, nearly spilling it. “The great Dante Conti, brought low by a pretty face and a sharp tongue.”

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