Page 4 of Made for Saints

"I hear congratulations are in order," Giuseppe said suddenly, making me jump. "The engagement to Valentina Moretti?"

My head snapped toward him before I could stop myself. "Engagement?" The word tasted strange on my tongue, heavy and sour.

Tony snorted, leaning back in his chair with a shit-eating grin. "Guess it didn’t take him long to move on from Isabella, huh?" He shot a pointed look at Marco, who frowned deeply but stayed silent.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice a little sharper than I intended.

Tony shrugged, swirling the wine in his glass. "You know how these things go. Isabella dies, what, a few months ago? And now everyone’s saying Valentina Moretti’s the new future Mrs. Conti. Makes sense. She’s got the pedigree, the looks, the connections. Perfect fit for the devil himself."

My stomach twisted, but I forced my expression to stay neutral. These kinds of arranged pairings weren’t uncommon, especially in families like ours. But something about the thought of Dante with Valentina Moretti—a perfectly polished mafia princess—made an uncomfortable heat rise in my chest.

"That’s just gossip," Marco said sharply, cutting through the conversation like a knife. His focus snapped to Giuseppe, his voice bordering on a warning. "Don’t repeat everything you hear. The Morettis have been trying to get their hooks into the Contis for years. It doesn’t mean anything."

Giuseppe shrugged, unbothered by Marco’s tone. "Relax. I was just making conversation." He grinned, the lazy kind of grin that always seemed to hide mischief. "Besides, I figured Dante could clear it up himself."

The room didn’t fall silent, but it might as well have. The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, like a knife waiting to drop.

Something dark and unreadable flickered across Dante’s expression before it smoothed back into careful neutrality. He set his glass down with deliberate precision, the clink of crystal against the table louder than it should have been.

"News travels fast," he said finally, his tone cool but edged with something I couldn’t quite place.

"Better her than me," I muttered into my wine glass, not intending for anyone to hear. The words were meant for me alone, a quiet jab at myself for even caring.

Another engagement? Jesus.Mafia families married their women off like cattle at an auction—strategic, cold, calculated. The thought made my skin crawl. I wasn’t even sure if I pitied Valentina or envied her for at least knowing her place in this world.

The words had barely left my lips when I realized my mistake. Dante’s gaze snapped to mine, sharp and unrelenting, pinning me in place like a hawk spotting its prey.

"Careful, princess," he said softly, the endearment rolling off his tongue with the same mocking lilt he’d used at the bar. His voice was low, meant only for me, but it carried enough weight to send a shiver down my spine. "You might hurt my feelings."

I scoffed, even as my cheeks burned. "I didn’t think you had any."

His lips quirked into the faintest of smirks, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though he were deciding whether to let the comment slide or press further. The tension between us stretched taut, a live wire crackling just beneath the surface.

"No engagement," Dante said suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation around the table. Everyone else kept talking, oblivious, but his words were meant for me, his gaze locked on mine.

I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Valentina," he clarified, his tone cool, detached. "There’sno engagement."

The knot in my stomach loosened slightly, though I hated myself for the relief that rushed in to replace it. I didn’t care—at least, I told myself I didn’t. But his eyes flicked over my face, sharp and knowing, like he could see right through me.

"Didn’t want you losing sleep over it," he added, his smirk returning, this time with a fraction more warmth.

I rolled my eyes, forcing my expression into something resembling indifference. "Hardly."

But the weight of his stare told me he didn’t believe me.

The conversation around us continued, oblivious to the silent sparring match happening between Dante and me. It felt like we were in our own private bubble, the rest of the room fading into the background. Every time he called me "princess," I remembered his warning about playing with fire. The way his gaze lingered on me, heavy and unrelenting, made my pulse quicken in a way I refused to acknowledge.

"I should check on dessert," I said abruptly, pushing back from the table.

My father, seated at the head of the table, shot me a disapproving look—Ricci daughters didn’t fetch dessert. We had staff for that. But I couldn’t sit there a moment longer, not with Dante’s eyes tracking my every move, his presence suffocating and magnetic all at once.

I barely made it to the kitchen before I exhaled sharply, pressing my palms flat against the counter to steady myself. The cool marble beneath my hands did little to calm the heat simmering low in my chest, a fire that felt entirely too dangerous to let burn.

Chapter 2

Emilia

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