Page 53 of Made for Saints

“I wasn’t joking,” he calls after me, his voice laced with amusement.

I slam the door shut, cutting off whatever smartass remark he was about to make, and march toward the salon with as much dignity as I can muster. The cool morning airdoes little to cool the heat in my cheeks, and I silently curse Dante Conti for being the infuriating, arrogant, devastatingly handsome bastard that he is.

The receptionist greets me with a polite smile as I step inside, the scent of lavender and vanilla filling the air. The salon is sleek and modern, all soft lighting and plush chairs, but I can’t relax. Not with the memory of Dante’s smirk still fresh in my mind.

“Emilia Ricci?” the receptionist asks, her voice cheerful.

“That’s me,” I say, forcing a smile as I hand her my information.

She nods, typing something into her computer before gesturing toward the waiting area. “Your esthetician will be with you shortly.”

I take a seat, pulling out my phone in an attempt to distract myself. But my thoughts keep drifting back to Dante, to the way he looked at me, the way his voice dropped when he asked if I liked being bad. I hate the way he gets under my skin, the way he makes me feel like I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t control.

But more than that, I hate the part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.

Chapter 19

Dante

The car’s engine purred beneath me, a steady, muted growl that matched the restless energy coiled tight in my chest. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a slow, deliberate rhythm meant to distract me from the view in front of me. It wasn’t working.

She was standing in the boutique’s window, her reflection caught in the full-length mirror as she turned slightly, inspecting the dress she’d chosen. The pale blue fabric clung to her like sin, shimmering under the soft lights and emphasizing every curve, every dip, every line of her body. It was a modest dress, by most standards—elegant, even. But on her? It was a goddamn weapon.

I shifted in my seat, the leather creaking faintly beneath me as I tried to redirect my thoughts. It didn’t help. Not when she kept smoothing her hands down the sides of the dress, her palms brushing over her hips in a way that made my mouth go dry. The dress was fine—perfect, even—for whatever the hell a bridal shower was. But all I could think about was how much better she’d look in something else. Something slinkier. Silk, maybe. Something that would drape over her body like water and leave nothing to the imagination.

What were those dresses called? The ones that looked like they were made for sin?? I’d have to ask one of my brothers’ flings. They’d know. Whatever it was called, it was designed to make men lose their goddamn minds. And on her? It would be lethal.

Hell, I’d probably have to kill everyone who so much as glanced at her in it.

She turned slightly, her profile catching the light, and her gaze flicked toward the window. Toward me. Our eyes met, just for a moment, and I saw the faintest flicker of something in her expression—something that made my grip on the wheel tighten. She turned away just as quickly, but it was too late. The damage was done. My pulse was already pounding in my ears, and the image of her in that dress was seared into my brain.

I leaned back in my seat, dragging a hand through my hair as I exhaled slowly. This was getting out of hand. She was getting out of hand. And the worst part? She didn’t even realize it. She had no idea what she was doing to me, standing there in that dress, her lips curving into the faintest smile as the boutique attendant fussed over her. No idea how many times I’d had to remind myself that she was off-limits. Untouchable. Forbidden.

And yet, here I was. Watching her like a goddamn predator, my thoughts far from innocent and my self-control hanging by a thread.

Sometimes I like being bad.

My phone buzzed in the cupholder, breaking the dangerous spiral of my thoughts. I grabbed it without looking at the screen, swiping to answer as I brought it to my ear.

“What?” I barked, my tone sharper than I intended.

“Nice to talk to you too, brother,” Luca’s voice drawled on the other end, his tone laced with amusement. “Let me guess—she’s driving you insane already?”

I glanced back toward the boutique, my jaw tightening as I watched her laugh at something the attendant said. “You have no idea.”

Luca chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “Oh, I think I do. You’ve got that tone in your voice. The one that says you’re two seconds away from doing something stupid.”

“Like what?” I shot back, my voice low. “Killing someone?Or worse?”

“Worse,” Luca said, his amusement growing. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The silence was enough.

“Jesus, Dante,” Luca said, his tone softening just slightly. “You know this is a bad idea, right?”

“Don’t start,” I warned, my grip tightening on the phone. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender—or at least, I assumed he was. “But out of curiosity...what’s she wearing?”

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