Page 57 of Made for Saints

Chapter 20

Emilia

The night air was heavy, thick with the promise of rain that never seemed to come. It clung to my skin, wrapping around me like a second layer as I slipped out the back gate of the estate. My heels clicked softly against the pavement, a deliberate rhythm that matched the racing of my heart. I shouldn’t be doing this—not when Adrianna’s wedding was only a few days away and I had a million things to handle as her maid of honor. But the weight of it all—the expectations, the suffocating rules, him—was too much. I needed a release.

Something sinful. Something reckless. Something a bad girl would do.

My mind wandered back to Dante’s words as I walked, his voice low and teasing, laced with that dangerous edge that made my skin prickle.

You might not like what happens when you play bad.

The conversation had caught me off guard, but the way he’d looked at me—like he already knew the answer—had haunted me all day. I could still feel the heat of his gaze, the way it burned through me, leaving a trail of chaos in its wake.

I shook my head, trying to banish the memory, but it clung to me like smoke. Dante Conti was a problem I couldn’t solve, a storm I couldn’t predict. He was everywhere and nowhere all at once, a constant presence in my life that I couldn’t escape. And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

As I rounded the corner, the neon sign of the bar came into view, its garish glow casting jagged shadows across the cracked sidewalk. It was the same seedy dive I’d snuck into a few weeks ago, the one that reeked of spilled beer and bad decisions. The kind of place where no one asked questions, where you could lose yourself in the haze of cheap liquor and even cheaper thrills.

I pushed open the door, the heavy bass of the music vibrating through my chest as I stepped inside. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, the dim lighting casting everything in shades of red and gold. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly what I needed.

Sliding onto a stool, I waved down the bartender, eager for the sharp burn of the alcohol settle my nerves. My fingers drummed against the counter as I scanned the room, my eyes lingering on the crowd. Men and women pressed together on the dance floor, their bodies moving in a rhythm that was more primal than musical. At the far end of the bar, a group of men laughed loudly, their voices cutting through the din.

Before I could look away, a man slid into the stool beside me. He was older, maybe in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored suit that seemed out of place in a dive like this. His cologne was sharp and expensive, clashing with the stale beer and sweat that clung to the air.

“You look like you could use another drink,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with something I couldn’t quite place. His eyes flicked to my empty glass, then back to me. “What’s your poison?”

I hesitated for a moment, then forced a small smile. “Whiskey, neat.”

His grin widened, and he signaled to the bartender. “A woman with taste. I like that.”

As the drink arrived, I accepted it with a nod of thanks, taking a small sip. The burn steadied me, and I allowed myself to relax just enough to mirror his easy confidence. He leaned in closer, his words flowing, but I wasn’t really listening. Instead,I studied him—the way he carried himself, the way his watch gleamed under the dim light, the way his charm felt almost rehearsed.

It was easier than I thought it would be. A little laugh here, a well-placed compliment there, and he was eating out of the palm of my hand. The initial nerves I’d felt began to dissolve, replaced by a growing sense of control.

After a few minutes, I drained the last of my drink and gave him a warm, practiced smile. “Thanks for the drink,” I said, my voice light and breezy. “I should mingle—I’ll see you around.”

His smile faltered, and for a moment, I thought he might press the issue. But then his phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket, muttering something under his breath before walking away.

I exhaled, relieved, and turned back to the bar, my gaze landing on the group of men at the far end. One of them caught my eye—a dark-haired man with sharp features and a cocky grin that reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite place. He was leaning back in his chair, a glass of scotch in one hand and a sleek black card holder in the other.

I watched him for a moment, the way he gestured animatedly as he spoke, the card holder flipping between his fingers like a toy. My mind buzzed with the possibilities. The trick I’d learned years ago itched at the edges of my thoughts, daring me to act.

Don’t be stupid, Emilia.

But the whiskey was warm in my veins, and the memory of Dante’s smirk—the way he’d called me a bad girl—fueled my recklessness. Before I could second-guess myself, I slid off the stool and made my way toward the group, my steps light and deliberate.

The first attempt was easy. I brushed past a man at the edge of the group, my hand grazing the back pocket of his jeans. He didn’t even flinch, too engrossed in his conversation to notice the money clip now tucked into my palm. It wassmall, insignificant, but it gave me the confidence to keep going.

I pretended to stumble as I reached the dark-haired man’s chair, catching myself against it as I murmured an apology. His attention barely flicked to me before returning to his friends, and by the time I straightened, the card holder was already in my hand.

I walked away quickly, my heart pounding as I slipped back to the bar. The adrenaline buzzed through me, sharp and exhilarating, but it was short-lived.

Because when I opened the card holder, my stomach dropped.

The name on the credit cards inside was unmistakable:Rocco Conti.

My breath caught, and my fingers tightened around the sleek leather as a cold wave of dread washed over me. My mind raced, piecing it together far too quickly, and the realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Rocco Conti—Dante’s cousin.

Of all of the fucking gin joints...

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