Page 81 of Made for Saints

A knock at the door startled me, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. My heart raced as I scrambled to cover myself, my hands fumbling for the sweater I’d discarded on the bench.

“Emilia,” Dante’s voice came through the door, low and commanding. “Are you done in there?”

I froze, my pulse pounding in my ears. “What are you doing back here?” I managed to say, my voice higher than I intended.

“Checking on you,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “You’ve been in there a while.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, clutching the sweater to my chest like a lifeline. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There was a pause, and for a moment, I thought he might actually leave. But then his voice came again, quieter this time, almost teasing. “Are you trying it on?”

My cheeks burned, and I turned away from the door, as if that could somehow shield me from the weight of his words. “That’s none of your business,” I shot back, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me.

“Are you going to show me, or do I have to come in there myself?” he said, the words sending a shiver down my spine. I could hear his grin.

My breath caught, and I spun back toward the door, my heart racing. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he countered, his voice a low rumble that made my knees weak.

I stared at the door, my mind racing as I tried to come up with a response. But the truth was, I didn’t know what to say. The idea of him seeing me like this—vulnerable, exposed—was both terrifying and exhilarating, and I hated how much I wanted it.

“Dante,” I said finally, my voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Please.”

There was a long pause, and I could hear the faint sound of his breathing on the other side of the door. When he finallyspoke, his tone was softer, but no less intense. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll wait. But don’t keep me waiting too long.”

I exhaled shakily, my hands trembling as I reached for my clothes. I couldn’t do this. Not here, not like this. The tension between us was already unbearable, and the last thing I needed was to give him more ammunition to use against me.

I changed back into my sweater and jeans, carefully folding the lingerie and placing it back on the hanger. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Dante was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his dark eyes fixed on me. His gaze flicked to the hanger in my hand, and his lips curved into a knowing smirk.

“Well?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes anything but.

I held the lingerie out to him, my cheeks flaming. “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’ll take it.”

Dante’s smirk widened, and he reached for the hanger, his fingers brushing against mine for just a moment. The brief contact sent a jolt of electricity through me, and I hated how easily he could affect me.

“Good choice,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “I’ll take care of it.”

Before I could protest, he turned and headed for the register, his long strides carrying him away before I could find the words to argue. I watched him go, my heart still racing, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d just gotten myself into.

The ride home was quiet, the tension between us simmering just below the surface. Dante’s phone buzzed occasionally, but he ignored it, his attention focused on the road. I stared out the window, my thoughts a chaotic mess as I replayed the events of the day in my mind.

When we finally pulled up to the house, Dante killed the engine and turned to look at me, his dark eyes unreadable. “I’ll see you at the party,” he said, his voice softer than I expected.

I nodded, my throat too tight to respond. As I stepped out of the car and headed for the front door, I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. And as much as I hated to admit it, a part of me didn’t want him to look away.

Chapter 27

Dante

The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, smooth and familiar, yet utterly useless in quieting the restlessness clawing at my insides. I sat in my study, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the room, every corner a reflection of the order I demanded in my life. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sprawling city skyline, glittering like a sea of gold and white against the black canvas of night. From here, I could see everything—the empire I had built, brick by bloody brick. It was all mine. Controlled, predictable, untouchable.

Except for her.

I exhaled slowly, setting my glass down with a quiet clink against the mahogany desk. My fingers flexed, the tension in my knuckles a tangible echo of the chaos she had stirred in me. Emilia Ricci. The name alone was enough to make my jaw tighten.

She was a problem.

Not a problem like the others—something to be silenced, bought, or buried. No, Emilia wasn’t a ticking clock I could dismantle with a deal or a bullet. She was something else entirely: chaos wrapped in fire, testing the boundaries of a control I had spent years perfecting. And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop her.

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