Page 91 of Made for Saints

I slammed the door shut and marched toward the house, my heart pounding in my chest. As I reached the front door, I couldn’t resist glancing back. Dante was still there, his car idling at the curb, his dark silhouette framed by the faint glow of the streetlights.

For a moment, I thought he might drive off. But then he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, before pulling away and disappearing into the night.

I stood there for a long time, the cool breeze brushing against my skin, before finally stepping inside. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and watchful, like the walls themselves were waiting for me to explain where I’d been. I locked the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I let out a shaky breath. The house was silent, but my thoughts were anything but.

His words haunted me, circling in my mind like a dark, unrelenting storm. “If another man sees you in that lingerie, I’ll rip his eyes out.”

Heat crept up my neck, and I pressed my palms against the cool surface of the door, trying to will away the flush rising in my cheeks. Who the hell did he think he was? The audacity of him—claiming me, threatening violence like it was justanother casual promise.

But the worst part wasn’t the anger simmering in my chest. It was the way his words made me feel.

I hated that they lingered, low and possessive, in the back of my mind. I hated the way my pulse quickened, how my skin prickled at the memory of his voice, dark and unyielding.

Because for all of Dante’s arrogance, for all his infuriating dominance...a part of me wondered what it would be like to truly belong to someone like him.

And that terrified me.

Chapter 30

Dante

The morning sunlight streaked through the penthouse windows, too bright, too intrusive, cutting across the polished floors like a blade. I stood by the bar, the bottle of whiskey in my hand, pouring a generous glass. Ten in the morning wasn’t exactly the time for this, but after the week I’d had, it didn’t matter.

Emilia and her reckless stunts. The Russians circling like vultures. I was one misstep away from losing the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose—control.

And control? Control was everything.

The elevator chimed, and I turned just as Luca and Rafe strolled in. Luca, ever the pragmatist, was already scrolling through his phone, his tailored suit impeccable as always. Rafe, on the other hand, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—hair tousled, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a smirk that practically screamed trouble.

“Morning, sunshine,” Rafe drawled, plucking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. Let me guess—Ricci drama?”

I didn’t bother responding. Instead, I downed the whiskey in one smooth motion and set the glass down with a sharp clink. “We have an errand to run before lunch.”

Luca raised an eyebrow, slipping his phone into his pocket. “An errand? What kind of errand?”

“You’ll see,” I said, grabbing my jacket from the back of a chair. “Let’s go.”

Rafe exchanged a look with Luca, his smirk widening. “Oh, this should be good.”

The car ride was mercifully quiet, save for the occasional hum of conversation between my brothers. I kept my focus on the road ahead, my thoughts a tangled mess of strategy and temptation. Emilia had been on my mind far more than I cared to admit. The way she’d looked at me last night—defiant, vulnerable, and utterly intoxicating—had been seared into my memory. And the lingerie...Christ. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to lock her away somewhere safe or burn the world down just so no one else could see her like that.

“We’re here,” I said, pulling into the private lot of a nondescript building. The exterior was unassuming—brick walls, no signage—but the security was anything but. Cameras tracked our movements as we approached, and the heavy steel door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek, modern interior.

“Okay, now I’m intrigued,” Rafe said, glancing around as we stepped inside. “What is this place?”

“A luxury weapon manufacturer,” I replied, my tone clipped. “I need something custom.”

Luca frowned, his gaze sharpening. “For who?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked up to the counter, where a man in a crisp black suit greeted us with a polite nod. “Mr. Conti. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Show me the daggers,” I said, ignoring the curious looks from my brothers.

The man led us to a glass display case, where an array of intricately designed blades gleamed under the soft lighting. Each one was a work of art—sleek, deadly, and impossibly beautiful. But none of them were quite right.

“Something custom,” I said, my fingers brushing over theglass. “Elegant but practical. And I want this engraved on the blade.” I pulled a slip of paper from my pocket and handed it to him.

He read the words aloud, his brow furrowing slightly. “Stulta, sed viva. Foolish, but alive.”

---