Page 51 of Made for Saints

There’s a certain kind of madness in wanting something you know you shouldn’t have. A dangerous, intoxicating thrill that wraps itself around your better judgment and whispers in your ear,just one more step closer. That’s what Dante Conti feels like—an addiction I can’t afford to feed.

And yet, I can’t seem to help myself.

It started subtly, at first. A lingering glance across a crowded room. A sharp retort to one of his infuriatingly smug remarks. The way his dark eyes would flicker with amusementwhenever I tried to put him in his place. But now? Now it’s something else entirely.

Something I can’t control.

I catch myself doing things I shouldn’t—choosing dresses that are just a little too tight, standing just a little too close, knowing full well that his gaze will inevitably find me. It’s reckless, stupid even, but there’s a twisted satisfaction in knowing I can get under his skin, even if only for a moment.

I bite my lip, trying to keep my posture neutral, like I’m totally used to traveling at a million miles an hour with a man who radiates danger and control. But the truth is, my pulse is racing, and it has nothing to do with the speed.

“Relax, princess,” Dante says, his voice low and smooth, like he’s amused by my discomfort. “I’ve never crashed. Well...not by accident.”

“Fuck.. I forgot my water bottle. Probably because I was rushed.” I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t even glance at me. His eyes are fixed on the road, dark and focused, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he’s enjoying this. Dante thrives on control—on knowing he’s the one pulling the strings, the one making people squirm. And right now, I’m the one squirming.

“Do you always drive like this?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend. “Or is this just for my benefit?”

He finally spares me a glance, his smirk widening. “I like to keep things interesting. You don’t strike me as the type who enjoys boring rides.”

“Maybe I enjoy not fearing for my life,” I snap back, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You’re in a mood,” he observes, his tone light but with that ever-present edge of mockery.

“Gee, I wonder why,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and I hate the way it makes my stomach flip. “Relax, princess. It’s just a car ride.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Why not?” he asks, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “It suits you.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I turn my attention to the window, watching the trees blur past as we leave the estate grounds. The city looms in the distance, its skyline a jagged silhouette against the pale morning sky. The tension in the car is thick, but it’s not the kind that makes you want to escape. It’s the kind that pulls you in, like gravity, even when you know you should resist.

“So,” Dante says after a moment, his tone casual but laced with that ever-present edge of amusement. “What’s the first stop on our little adventure?”

I hesitate, debating whether to tell him. But then again, it’s not like I have a choice. He’s my ride, whether I like it or not.

“A salon,” I say finally, pulling up the address on my phone. “Here.”

I lean over just enough to show him the screen, and his eyes flick to the address before returning to the road. He doesn’t say anything at first, but then I catch the faintest quirk of his eyebrow as he processes the name of the salon.

“‘Barely There Waxing Lounge,’” he says aloud, his voice dripping with amusement. “Subtle.”

I feel my cheeks heat, but I refuse to let him see me flustered. “It’s just a name.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” he says, his smirk growing. “So, what exactly are we waxing today, princess? Legs? Arms? Or…” He lets the question hang in the air, savoring my discomfort. “…something a little more personal?”

I glare at him, but that only seems to encourage him.

“Come on,” he presses, his voice light but deliberate. “Is it a bikini wax? Or…” He trails off again, his smirk sharpening. “…a Brazilian? That would make sense.”

My stomach flips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He glances at me briefly, his dark eyes gleaming with something I can’t quite place. “You don’t strike me as the good, pure mafia daughter everyone thinks you are.” His gaze flicksback to the road. “No, you’re more...rebellious than that. You like to keep things neat, sure, but a little daring too. Maybe even bold.”

I gape at him, completely at a loss for words. My cheeks are burning now, and I’m furious with myself for letting him get under my skin.

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter finally, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

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