Page 66 of Made for Saints

“Not yet,” I said, my smirk widening as I met her gaze. “But give it time.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she slammed the door shut without another word, stalking toward the house with her head held high.

I watched her go, a satisfied smile tugging at my lips. She might be a challenge, but she was a challenge I was more than willing to take on.

And God help anyone who tries to get in my way.

Chapter 23

Dante

My cousin's estate sprawled out before me like a bad cliché of wealth and excess—gilded gates, manicured lawns, and enough marble statues to make the Vatican blush. Rocco had always been a fan of overcompensation, and tonight was no different. The driveway was lined with sleek, expensive cars, each one more obnoxious than the last, their polished exteriors gleaming under the estate’s floodlights.

I parked my car at the far end, away from the peacocking, and stepped out into the cool night air. The faint hum of music and laughter drifted from the house, mingling with the scent of cigars and whiskey. It was a scene I knew all too well—a room full of men drunk on power and liquor, each one trying to outdo the other while pretending they weren’t keeping score.

I adjusted the cuffs of my shirt, the smooth fabric sliding over my wrists as I made my way up the stone steps. The heavy oak doors swung open before I could knock, revealing one of Rocco’s men—a burly guy with a neck thicker than his IQ. He gave me a curt nod, stepping aside to let me in without a word.

Inside, the estate was as gaudy as ever. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, their crystal prisms casting fractured rainbows across the room. The walls were lined with artwork that probably cost more than most people’s homes, though I doubted Rocco could name half theartists. He didn’t buy art for its meaning—he bought it because it made him look important.

The sound of laughter and clinking glasses drew me deeper into the house, past a grand staircase and into the main lounge. The room was packed with familiar faces—lieutenants, associates, and a handful of hangers-on looking to score favor with the Conti family. At the center of it all was Rocco, lounging in a leather armchair like a king holding court. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his tailored suit clung to him like a second skin, the top two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a gaudy gold chain.

As I approached, Rocco’s grin widened, his arms spreading in mock welcome. “Two out of three Conti brothers in one night? What do we owe this pleasure?”

I smirked, shoving my hands into my pockets as I stopped in front of him. “You feeling lucky tonight, Roc?”

“Always,” he said, his grin turning sly. “Why? You looking to lose some money?”

“Oh, Rafe must be here then,” I said, glancing around the room. “Because we all know Luca’s the card shark. You? You’re just the guy who buys the chips.”

The men around us chuckled, and Rocco’s grin faltered just slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he fixed me with a look that was equal parts amusement and warning. “Careful, Dante. I might take offense.”

I tilted my head, my smirk widening. “I like you, Roc, but you know I have no problem dislocating your jaw.”

“See, Dante,” he said, leaning back again with a laugh. “It’s shit like that which keeps you off the Christmas card list.”

“The Contis don’t give a fuck about your pathetic Christmas cards,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “We’re here to win fucking money.”

I turned to see Rafe strolling into the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a bottle of whiskey in one hand. His suit was rumpled, his tie hanging loose around his neck, but he wore the disheveled look with the kind of confidence thatonly Rafe could pull off. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he joined us.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Rafe, you’re late.”

“Traffic,” he said with a shrug, though we both knew he was lying. Rafe was never late because of traffic—he was late because he didn’t give a shit about anyone else’s schedule.

Rocco rolled his eyes, standing and gesturing toward the poker table in the corner of the room. “Well, now that the gang’s all here, shall we?”

We followed him to the table, a custom-made monstrosity of dark wood and green felt, complete with gold-plated cup holders and built-in ashtrays. The other players were already seated, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension as we took our places.

Rocco sat at the head of the table, his grin returning as he shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease. The other players—some familiar faces, others forgettable—shifted in their seats, the air thick with anticipation. This wasn’t just a game of poker; it was a battlefield, and every man at the table knew it. Here, fortunes were made and egos were shattered, all under the guise of camaraderie and good-natured fun.

Rafe dropped into the seat beside me, his cigar dangling precariously from his lips as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. “So, what’s the buy-in tonight, Roc? Or are you just going to hand me your wallet now and save us all some time?”

Rocco chuckled, dealing the cards with a flourish. “Big talk for someone who still owes me from last month.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Rafe shot back, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the edge of the table. “You cheated. Everyone knows it.”

“I don’t cheat,” Rocco said, feigning offense. “I’m just better than you.”

“Better at running your mouth, maybe,” I interjected, smirking as I picked up my cards. “Let’s see if your luck holdsup tonight.”

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