Page 38 of Made for Saints

My lips curved into a cold, humorless smile. “They’ll wish they’d never been born.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of my words settling over us like a shroud. Luca nodded, his expression grim, while Rafe raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Here’s to justice,” Rafe said, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “Conti style.”

Later that night, I stood on the balcony of my penthouse, the city sprawling out before me in a sea of lights. The whiskey in my hand was untouched, the glass sweating in the humid air. I’d come here to clear my head, to think. But all I could see was her.

Emilia Ricci.

She was a wildfire, unpredictable and consuming. And like a fool, I was drawn to her, despite the danger, despite theconsequences. I didn’t want to care about her, didn’t want to feel this...pull. But it was there, undeniable and unrelenting.

I took a slow sip of my whiskey, the burn doing little to dull the ache in my chest. I’d built my life on control, on discipline. But with Emilia, control felt like a distant memory, slipping through my fingers like sand.

The sound of my phone buzzing on the table behind me pulled me from my thoughts. I turned, setting the glass down as I picked up the device. The name on the screen made my jaw tighten.

Valentina Moretti.

I hesitated for a moment before answering, my voice cold and detached. “What is it?”

Her voice was smooth, practiced, but there was an edge of tension beneath the surface. “We need to talk.”

My grip on the phone tightened, my mind already racing. Valentina was a ghost from my past, a reminder of choices made and bridges burned. Her reappearance now, in the midst of everything else, was unwelcome at best.

“Make it quick,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.

There was a pause on the other end, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “It’s about the Russians.”

My blood ran cold, the weight of her words settling over me like a storm cloud. The Russians. Of course. Because if there was one thing my life needed right now, it was another complication.

“What about them?” My voice was sharp, the edge of irritation cutting through the tension in the air. I didn’t have time for cryptic warnings, least of all from Valentina Moretti.

She hesitated, and for a brief moment, I thought she might hang up. But Valentina wasn’t the type to back down, not when she thought she had something worth saying.

“There’s a rumor,” she began, her tone carefully measured. “That the Russians have been...boasting about a recent score.Twenty million, to be exact. And they’re saying it came from the Italians.”

I stilled, my grip on the phone tightening as the pieces began to fall into place. Twenty million. The missing money. I’d suspected an inside job, someone within our ranks skimming off the top. But if the Russians were involved, this was more than just theft. This was a declaration.

“Who’s their source?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

“That’s the thing,” Valentina replied. “No one knows. They’re keeping it quiet, but word’s been spreading in certain circles. I thought you’d want to know.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, the weight of her words sinking in. If the Russians had their hands on that money, it wasn’t just about the loss—it was about the message it sent. That they could take from us and get away with it. That they could undermine our power, our control.

“Why tell me this?” I asked, my tone skeptical. Valentina wasn’t exactly known for her altruism. If she was reaching out, it was because she wanted something in return.

“Because I can help you,” she said simply, her voice smooth and confident. “My family has connections in banking, as you well know. If the money’s been moved through legitimate channels, I can trace it. But I need something from you in return.”

Of course she did. “What do you want, Valentina?”

She hesitated for a moment, and I could almost picture her on the other end of the line, weighing her words carefully, calculating the exact tone and phrasing to manipulate me. It was the Moretti way—every sentence a strategy, every pause a feint. “Maybe you should reconsider the offer my father gave you.”

I clenched my jaw, the familiar frustration bubbling up. “An engagement to a woman in love with a bratva bastardo?”

“Dante,” she said sharply, but there was a flicker of something else in her voice—guilt, maybe, or shame. It was hard to tell.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said curtly, ending the call before she could respond.

I set the phone down on the desk, my mind already calculating the next move. The Russians were now a problem I couldn’t ignore, a threat that loomed larger with each passing day. And now, with Valentina back in the picture, the stakes were even higher.

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