Page 86 of Made for Saints

"Stay. In. The. Car," he repeated, his voice low and commanding, each word dripping with finality. "This isn’t up for debate, Emilia."

I glared at him, my frustration bubbling over. "You can’t just drag me into this and then leave me here like some—some—"

"Like someone who doesn’t belong in this world?" he interrupted, his tone sharp. "Because you don’t, Emilia. And you should be grateful for that."

Grateful? Grateful for what? For being sidelined? For being treated like some fragile porcelain doll who couldn’t handle the weight of the world I was born into?

I gritted my teeth, my hands balling into fists in my lap. He might not see it, but I belonged in this world just as much as he did. I’d grown up surrounded by it, steeped in it, the same blood running through my veins as the men who made the rules. But no matter how many times I proved myself, no matter how many times I showed I could handle more than just pretty dresses and polite smiles, men like Dante always saw women the same way.

Arm candy. Wife material. Good for appearances and loyalty—but never for the dirty work. Never for the real decisions.

Fuck that.

I wasn’t about to sit here and play the role he thought I was born to play.

Before I could tell him exactly what I thought, Dante was already out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. I watched as he strode toward a dimly lit building, his movements purposeful and unhurried, like a predator stalking its prey.

My heart pounded, frustration and adrenaline mixing in my veins. Did he really think I’d just sit here? That I’d wait like some obedient little girl while he went off to face God knows what?

Hell no.

I cracked the door open, slipping out as quietly as I could. The night air was cool against my skin, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me as I crept toward the building. The faint sound of voices reached my ears as I approached, low and tense, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Peering around the corner, I spotted Dante standing in the middle of a small, dimly lit room. Across from him was a man I recognized instantly—Mikhail Romanov. My stomach dropped. I’d seen him before, at one of my father’s parties. He was older, with a graying beard and a thick Russian accent, but he’d been charming enough, laughing and toasting with my father like they were old friends.

Now, he looked anything but friendly. His expression was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he spoke to Dante in rapid, clipped Russian. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tension in the air was palpable, like a rubber band stretched too tight, ready to snap.

Dante, on the other hand, was calm. Unnervingly so. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but there was an edge to him, a quiet menace that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

The conversation escalated, the Russian’s voice growing louder, more agitated. And then, without warning, Dante moved. It was so fast I almost missed it—a blur of motion as he grabbed Mikhail by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and jarring, and I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.

"You don’t touch what’s mine," Dante growled, his voice low and deadly. "Do you understand me?"

Mikhail sputtered something in Russian, his hands clawing at Dante’s grip, but Dante didn’t let up. His face was inches from Mikhail’s, his dark eyes burning with a fury that sent a shiver down my spine. I’d never seen him like this—so raw, so unrestrained. It was terrifying and mesmerizing all at once.

“Do you understand me?” Dante repeated, his voice dropping even lower, every syllable dripping with menace. “You don’t touch her. You don’t evenlookat her.”

I pressed myself against the wall, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure they’d hear it.Her.He was talking about me.

Mikhail’s lips curled into a sneer despite the precarious position he was in. “Yourlittle princesswalks into our den, and you expect us to pretend she’s invisible?” His accent was thick, his words laced with mockery. “She’s a Ricci. She’s fair game.”

Dante’s fist collided with Mikhail’s jaw before the words had even fully left his mouth. The sound was sickening, a dull crack that echoed in the small room. Mikhail staggered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but Dante didn’t release him. If anything, his grip tightened.

“She’s not fair game,” Dante growled, his voice like thunder. “She’s mine. And if you or anyone else so much as breathes near her again, I’ll make sure your family gets what’s left of you in pieces. Do you understand me now?”

Mikhail didn’t respond immediately, his head lolling slightly as he tried to regain his bearings. Dante slammed him against the wall again, eliciting a pained grunt. “Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes,” Mikhail rasped, his voice barely audible. “Yes, I understand.”

Dante held him there for a moment longer, as if debating whether to make good on his threat right then and there. Finally, he released him, letting him slump to the floor like a discarded rag doll. Mikhail groaned, one hand clutching his jaw as he glared up at Dante with a mix of fear and hatred.

“Good,” Dante said, straightening his jacket with a casualness that was almost chilling. “Now crawl back to whoever sent you and tell them the same thing. She’s untouchable.”

I stepped back instinctively as Dante turned toward the door, my heart hammering in my chest. I wanted to run, to disappear before he realized I’d disobeyed him and followedhim inside. But I was frozen, rooted to the spot by the sheer force of what I’d just witnessed.

And then his eyes met mine.

For a moment, neither of us moved. His expression shifted, the hard edges softening ever so slightly as he registered my presence. But the anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, and I knew I was in trouble.

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