Page 88 of Made for Saints

“Fine,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “But don’t think this means you get to boss me around.”

Dante’s lips curved into a faint smirk, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. “You’re adorable when you think you have the upper hand, princess.”

My breath hitched.Princess.

There was something in his tone, something quiet but firm, that made the word feel heavier than it ever had before. He’d called me that countless times, sometimes with a teasing lilt, sometimes with a sharp edge meant to remind me exactly who was in charge. But this? This felt different. It wasn’t a jab; it wasn’t a joke. It was almost...intimate.

The realization sent a jolt straight through me, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how to respond. My chest tightened, my carefully constructed walls wobbling under the weight of something I couldn’t name.

But the lightness in his voice didn’t quite reach his eyes,which were still dark and stormy, like a sea just before it swallowed a ship whole.

Before I could say anything, he turned and strode back toward the car, his long strides purposeful and unyielding. I hesitated for a moment, my gaze flicking to the crumpled figure of Mikhail still slumped against the wall. He was watching us, his eyes glinting with a mix of pain and malice, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

“Let’s go, Emilia,” Dante called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I hurried after him, my heels clicking against the pavement as I climbed into the passenger seat. The car was silent as he started the engine, the hum of the motor filling the space between us like a barrier neither of us was willing to cross.

We drove in silence for a while, the city lights blurring past the windows in streaks of gold and white. I stole glances at Dante out of the corner of my eye, his profile sharp and unreadable in the dim light. His hands gripped the wheel tightly, his knuckles white, and I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“What did he mean?” I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

Dante didn’t respond right away. His jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “What did who mean?”

“Mikhail,” I said, my chest tightening as I thought back to the Russian’s sneer. “When he said I was ‘fair game.’ What did he mean by that?”

Dante’s grip on the wheel tightened even further, and I saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” I shot back, my frustration bubbling over. “I deserve to know.”

He exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. “It means they see you as a weakness. A way to get to your father. To me.”

“To you?” I repeated, my brow furrowing. “Why wouldthey care about you?”

Dante glanced at me then, his dark eyes locking onto mine for a brief, intense moment before returning to the road. “Because now I’m the one standing between them and what they want.”

The weight of his words settled over me like a heavy blanket, suffocating and inescapable. I’d always known my family’s world was dangerous, but I’d never fully understood the extent of it. Not until now.

“And what about your...arrangement?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.

Dante’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “What arrangement?”

“You know,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “The one with Isabella Romano. The one where you supposedly left her to die.”

He laughed then, a low, sharp sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Is that what they’re saying?”

I frowned, my embarrassment giving way to confusion. “So it’s not true?”

“Of course not,” he said, his tone laced with disdain. “Isabella was never mine to protect. The only woman I've been engaged to is alive and well, living somewhere on the East Coast. Probably making some poor bastard’s life miserable.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the casualness of his response. Alive? Miserable? The conflicting emotions swirling in my chest—relief, confusion, and something I didn’t want to name—made it hard to think clearly.

“You’re serious?” I asked, my voice quieter now. “She’s not...dead?”

Dante glanced at me again, his smirk softening into something more like amusement. “No, Emilia. She’s not dead. She’s very much alive and probably drinking her way through a bottle of overpriced Chardonnay as we speak.”

“But…” I hesitated, my mind racing to untangle the mess of rumors and half-truths I’d heard over the years. “Why would people say that? Why would they think you—”

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