Page 73 of Made for Saints

The sound of the front door opening barely registered at first. figured it was just one of my brothers returning early from their latest escapades, no doubt ready to raid the fridge and steal my remote, despite there being a dozen other TVs scattered throughout the estate. Without looking away from the TV, I called out, “If you’re here to eat all the snacks, at least have the decency to leave the ice cream alone this time.”

The response wasn’t the grumbled complaint I was expecting.

“Good to know your priorities are in order.”

I froze mid-chew, the voice unmistakably deep and smooth, laced with that infuriating edge of amusement. My head snapped toward the entryway, and there he was—Dante Conti, leaning casually against the doorframe like he belonged there. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, the top button of his shirt undone, and his tie slightly loosened. He looked like sin incarnate, and the way his lips curved into a faint smirk told me he knew it.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted, nearly choking on my cereal. I scrambled to sit up straighter, brushing crumbs off my sweatshirt as if that would somehow make me look less like a total slob.

Dante raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that made my skin prickle. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

“The guards let me in,” Dante said with infuriating calm, brushing imaginary lint off the sleeve of his perfectly tailored jacket. “I have clearance.”

Clearance. Of course, he did. My father trusted Dante Conti more than most people in this world, which was both unsurprising and entirely maddening.

“Well, he’s not here,” I said, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. “And neither is anyone else. So if you could just—”

I didn’t even get the chance to finish. Dante stepped further into the room, his movements deliberate, his presence shifting the air as if he belonged here, as if he had every right to ignore me completely.

Before I could protest, he lowered himself onto the couch beside me, so close I could feel the faint heat radiating from him. He leaned back like this was his house, like this was his couch, draping one arm casually over the backrest. His long legs stretched out in front of him, utterly at ease and entirely unbothered by the glare I was giving him.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice rising an octave. “You can’t just make yourself at home!”

“Why not?” he asked, his tone maddeningly calm. “It’s aworkday. Why aren’t you at work?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Why aren’t you?”

“I am,” he said, gesturing around the room. “This is me working.”

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing as I tried to come up with a response. “You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, finally settling on the only thing that felt appropriate.

Dante’s smirk widened, and he nodded toward the TV. “What are we watching?”

I hesitated, torn between kicking him out and indulging his sudden interest. Finally, I sighed, deciding it was easier to just go along with it. “The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing slightly. “What is it, like a cooking show?”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. The sound bubbled out of me before I could stop it, and I immediately regretted it when his smirk turned smug. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s not a cooking show. It’s...well, it’s hard to explain. You just have to watch.”

Dante raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he settled back into the couch, his attention shifting to the screen. I tried to focus on the show, but his proximity was impossible to ignore. The heat of him wrapped around me, making it hard to breathe.

As the episode played on, Dante started asking questions. At first, they were dismissive, almost mocking. “Why are they fighting over a birthday party?” “Do they always drink this much?” “Is that her real face?” But as the minutes passed, his tone shifted, the questions becoming more genuine. “Wait, why is she mad at her? Didn’t they just make up?” “Who’s the one with the blonde hair?” “Is that her husband?”

I found myself answering, explaining the tangled web of alliances and betrayals that made up the show’s plot. To my surprise, Dante seemed genuinely interested, his sharp eyes flicking between the screen and me as he absorbed every detail.

By the time the episode ended, he was leaning closer, his arm brushing against mine in a way that felt deliberate. I glanced at him, my pulse quickening as I realized just how close he’d gotten. His dark eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything.

“Do you want to watch another?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

Dante’s gaze lingered on me, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “Sure,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Why not?”

I reached for the remote, but before I could press play, I felt his hand on my thigh. The touch was light, almost casual, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me. My breath hitched, and I turned to look at him, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Dante—”

“Relax,” he murmured, his fingers tracing small, deliberate circles against my skin. His voice was soft, almost soothing, but there was an edge to it, a promise of something more. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

My mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding all at once. I should have pushed him away, should have told him to leave, but instead, I found myself leaning into his touch, my body betraying me in the worst possible way.

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