Page 50 of Made for Saints

“No.” His voice is firm, cutting through my protest like a knife. “You know how things are right now. You’ll have a guard, and that’s final.”

I groan, resisting the urge to stomp my foot like a petulant child. “I don’t need a guard. It’s a salon appointment, not a hostage negotiation.”

“It’s not up for debate, Emilia,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Your safety is non-negotiable.”

Before I can respond, the door to the office swings open, and my heart sinks as Dante Conti steps inside. Of course. Because the universe clearly hates me.

He’s dressed in his usual uniform of dark slacks and a tailored button-up, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the corded muscles of his forearms. His tie is slightly loosened,giving him an air of calculated dishevelment that’s entirely too appealing.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks, his voice smooth and velvety, with just the faintest hint of mockery.

“Yes,” I say sharply, crossing my arms over my chest.

“No,” my father says at the same time, motioning for Dante to step inside.

Dante’s lips twitch into a smirk as he closes the door behind him, his gaze flicking to me with a glint of amusement. I narrow my eyes, resisting the urge to throw something at him.

“Father,” I say, my voice tight with irritation, “did you know Dante beat a man bloody yesterday? Over a sandwich.”

Dante raises an eyebrow, his expression unbothered. “Actually, Vincent” he says, his voice calm and measured, “The man made inappropriate comments about your daughter.”

My father’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Dante says simply, his gaze never leaving mine. “And I handled it.”

“Good,” my father says, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied nod. “That’s exactly what I expect from you.”

I gape at him, my mouth falling open in disbelief. “Good? Are you serious? He nearly killed the guy!”

“And he deserved it,” my father says, his tone matter-of-fact. “You know how we handle disrespect, Emilia. Dante did exactly what needed to be done.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Unbelievable. You’re both insane.”

Dante’s smirk deepens, and I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. “I overheard you need a driver,” he says, his tone casual but with that infuriating edge of amusement. “I’m free today. I’ll take her.”

“No,” I say immediately, my voice sharp. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s settled, then,” my father says, ignoring me completely. “Dante, you’ll escort Emilia to her appointments. Make sureshe’s back in time for the bridal shower.”

“I don’t need an escort!” I protest, glaring at both of them. “I can handle myself.”

“Emilia,” my father says, his tone a warning.

Dante chuckles softly, the sound low and infuriatingly smug. “Relax, princess. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

I whip around to face him, my eyes narrowing. “Don’t call me that.”

“Be ready in thirty,” he says, ignoring my glare as he turns to my father. “I need a word before we leave.”

I open my mouth to argue, but my father waves me off, already engrossed in whatever conversation he and Dante are about to have.

Fuming, I storm out of the office, my heels clicking furiously against the floor. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to mentally prepare myself for what is sure to be the most infuriating day of my life.

Exactly thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside the estate, my arms crossed as I wait for Dante to pull the car around. The sleek black car stops in front of me, the passenger-side door swinging open with a quietclick.

“Get in,” Dante says, leaning casually against the steering wheel, his sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

I hesitate for a moment, debating whether to make a run for it, but the look he gives me—half amusement, half warning—makes me think better of it. With a resigned sigh, I climb into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind me.

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