Page 78 of Made for Saints

“What?” he interrupted, his smirk practically daring me. “I’m just stating the obvious. No need to get so defensive.”

“I’m not defensive!” I snapped, my frustration bubbling over. “And for your information, this dress isvintage Alexander McQueen.”

His gaze flicked over me lazily, his head tilting in mock consideration. “Vintage? Is that what they’re calling ‘faded andfalling apart’ these days?”

My hands clenched into fists, and I fought the overwhelming urge to throw one of those supposedly “cheap” dresses at his head. “It’s chic, you idiot. Not that someone like you would understand. You probably think style is just throwing on the most expensive suit in your closet and hoping for the best.”

He chuckled, low and deep, the sound grating on my nerves and sending an infuriating shiver down my spine. “And yet, somehow, I still look better than ninety-nine percent of the people in this city. Including you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, throwing my hands in the air.

“And you’re adorable when you’re mad,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Don’t patronize me,” I shot back, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to waltz in here, insult my clothes, and then act like you’re doing me a favor.”

Dante raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his face. “Relax, bambina. It’s just an observation. If it makes you feel better, you can insult me back. Though I’d advise against it. I don’t think you’ll win.”

“Oh, trust me, I could win,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re not as untouchable as you think, Dante.”

He stepped back slightly, his smirk softening into something more amused, more thoughtful. “Careful, Emilia. I might start thinking you like this little game of ours.”

“I don’t,” I said flatly, though the heat rising to my cheeks betrayed me.

“Of course you don’t,” he said smoothly, turning toward the door and adjusting his jacket like he hadn’t just insulted me into a near meltdown. “But the offer still stands. Shopping, my treat. Think about it.”

I stared at him, seething, as he strolled out of the room like he hadn’t just turned my entire morning into chaos.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, snatching my bag from thecounter and following after him. “But don’t think for a second I’m going to thank you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dante said over his shoulder, his smirk firmly in place as he opened the door.

The mall was bustling with people, the hum of conversation and the faint strains of upbeat, generic music filling the air. The bright overhead lights glinted off polished floors as shoppers moved from store to store, their arms heavy with bags. Beside me, Dante walked with his usual composed stride, his phone in one hand as he scrolled through what I assumed were emails or messages. He hadn’t said much since we arrived, which, honestly, was fine by me. His presence was distracting enough without him trying to make conversation—or worse, comments.

I wandered through the racks of dresses, pulling a few options and holding them up for inspection. Dante trailed a step or two behind, his focus firmly on his phone, expression unreadable.

“Are you even paying attention?” I finally asked, my frustration bubbling to the surface as I held up a sleek black dress for his opinion.

“I’m multitasking,” he said, not bothering to glance up.

“Right,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Because God forbid you put your phone down for five seconds.”

That got his attention. Dante finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip. “If you want my opinion, all you have to do is ask.”

I huffed, shoving the black dress into his hands. “Fine. What about this one?”

He held it up, his gaze sweeping over the fabric before shaking his head. “Too boring.”

“Boring?” I repeated, snatching the dress back. “It’s classic.”

“It’s safe,” he corrected, his tone firm. “You can do better.”

I glared at him, feeling my cheeks heat with annoyance. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were the expert on women’s fashion.”

“Do you want my help or not?” he replied smoothly, his mouth curving into that infuriatingly smug smirk.

Before I could argue, he turned toward the racks himself, his long fingers deftly parting hangers as he scanned through the options. I watched in disbelief, half expecting him to pull out something ridiculous just to mess with me. But then he stopped, his hand closing around a dress—a sleek, emerald-green number with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit.

“This,” he said, holding it up for me to see. “This is the one.”

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