Page 39 of Made for Saints

The Morettis were a family that thrived in the shadows, their wealth and power built on a foundation of secrecy and control. They didn’t deal with blood and violence directly—that was beneath them. Instead, they manipulated the flow of money, laundering billions through some of the most prestigious banks in the world. With their spotless reputation in the public eye, they were untouchable, a dynasty of untarnished elegance. But behind closed doors, they were as ruthless as any street-level thug.

Valentina’s father, Alessandro Moretti, was the architect of their empire, a man who had turned illicit transactions into an art form. He didn’t just clean dirty money—he polished it until it gleamed, feeding it back into the global economy through investments, real estate, and carefully crafted financial networks. He was the man the Cosa Nostra turned to when they wanted their sins erased from the books, and the man who made the impossible look effortless.

I’d worked with him before—hell, our families had been in bed together for decades—but I didn’t trust him. And I trusted Valentina even less. She had inherited her father’s talent for manipulation, her every word a careful balance of charm and threat. She’d spent her youth in boarding schools and luxury penthouses, her life paved with privilege and ambition. But she wasn’t just a spoiled princess. She was smart. Dangerous. And she wanted something from me.

Her mention of the engagement offer wasn’t casual. It was a reminder that Alessandro Moretti wanted me tied to his family, wanted to cement our alliance in blood and vows. But even if I hadn’t known about her affair with the Russian, Iwouldn’t have agreed. Marriage wasn’t in the cards for me—not to Valentina, and not to anyone else.

Yet, as much as I hated her games, I couldn’t deny she was useful. If anyone could trace the missing money through legitimate channels, it was the Morettis. Their global network of banks and financial institutions was second to none, a web so vast and untouchable that even governments struggled to keep up. If the funds had passed through any of their systems, Valentina could find them.

But at what cost?

As my thoughts turned to strategy, to alliances and betrayals, one name lingered in the back of my mind, a whisper I couldn’t silence.

Emilia.

She was a complication I didn’t need and couldn’t afford. But she was also mine.

And God help anyone who tried to take her from me.

Chapter 15

Emilia

The office had never felt so suffocating.

The rhythmic hum of the air conditioning, the faint tapping of keyboards, and the occasional murmur of conversation usually faded into the background, a white noise that allowed me to focus on the endless stream of numbers and reports in front of me. But today, it was different.

Today, Dante was here.

He wasn’t saying anything. He hadn’t said a word since he’d arrived that morning, striding into the office like he owned the place, his dark suit tailored to perfection and his expression as unreadable as ever. But his presence was impossible to ignore.

He was seated at the corner of the room, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his phone in hand, scrolling through whatever it was that occupied men like him.

I pondered that and wondered what he did on his phone. Scroll social media? Swipe right on tinder? I didn’t want to admit what that thought did to me.

Occasionally, he’d glance up, his dark eyes flicking toward me with a weight that made my skin prickle.

It infuriated me—the way he could shift the focus of an entire room without lifting a finger. The way my pulse betrayed me, quickening every time I felt his gaze. And the way he made me feel exposed, like every movement, every breath, was being studied under a microscope.

The forensic accountant Dante had hired was seated at thedesk across from mine, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he worked through the financial records. He was a wiry man in his late forties, with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses that constantly slid down the bridge of his nose. He barely looked up from his screen, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

I envied him.

Because while he was buried in spreadsheets and data, I was acutely aware of every shift, every breath, every glance from the man sitting just a few feet away.

“Miss Ricci,” the accountant said, his voice breaking the silence. “Do you have the records from last quarter? I need to cross-check something.”

“Of course,” I said, grateful for the distraction. I stood and walked over to the filing cabinet, pulling open the drawer and rifling through the folders. I found the right one and handed it to the accountant, offering him a tight smile before returning to my desk. But as I sat down, the sound of footsteps made me freeze.

Dante was moving.

I didn’t look up, but I could feel him approaching, his presence growing heavier with each step. He stopped just behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, laced with that infuriating edge of amusement.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to turn around. “I’m working, Dante.”

“Good to see you’re not wasting company time,” he said, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe me.

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