Page 18 of Made for Saints

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Dante," I said carefully, setting my coffee cup down as I straightened in my chair. My pulse quickened, though whether it was from fear or something else, I couldn’t say. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

His gaze swept the room, taking in the sleek modern furniture, the wall of glass overlooking the city, the meticulously organized files on my desk. Then his eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unrelenting.

"Your office is nice," he said, his tone deceptively calm. "Quiet. Private."

I frowned, my hands tightening slightly on the edge of my desk. "Is there something you need?"

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that felt far more ominous than it should have. The noise in the office beyond faded, leaving us in tense, suffocating silence.

"Where's your father?" His voice was deceptively soft, at odds with the tension radiating from his body.

I straightened in my chair, grateful for the desk between us. "Good morning to you too."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm not in the mood for games, princess. Where is he?"

"Out." I forced myself to hold his gaze. "Business meeting downtown."

"Call him."

"Excuse me?"

Dante stalked forward, bracing his hands on my desk and leaning down until we were eye-level. "Call. Him. Now."

I lifted my chin. "No."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "No?"

"No." I was probably pushing my luck, but yesterday's events had left me feeling reckless. "Not until you tell me what this is about."

His laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. “You want to know what this is about? Ask your father about the books. About why twenty million dollars has vanished into thin air.”

The amount made my breath catch. Twenty million. I didn’t know if it was shock or curiosity that made me press further. “Is that why you killed Mario? Over money?”

Dante straightened, adjusting his cuffs with deliberateprecision. “The money was just the spark. The real issue was respect.”

“And killing him was the solution?”

His gaze locked on mine, sharp and unrelenting. “Killing him was the message.”

His words landed like a weight between us, and I pushed back my chair, standing to meet him on more equal ground. “The mafia is supposed to be about loyalty,” I said, crossing my arms to steady myself.

“Loyalty?” His tone was almost mocking as he stepped around the desk with slow, deliberate movements. “The mafia is about power, princess. Everything else—loyalty, family, respect—is just a fairy tale we tell ourselves to feel noble.”

I took a step back, instinctively creating space as he advanced, but my pulse quickened with each step he took. “So what? You kill anyone who messes up?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

“Anyone who betrays me,” he corrected, his tone low and steady, his control unnerving. “Loyalty is earned and maintained. Mario forgot that.”

I swallowed hard, my back hitting the cool glass of the window. “Is that what yesterday was? A reminder?”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I swore I saw something more than anger in them—something unreadable. “It was justice,” he said finally, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel.

“For who?” I countered, refusing to back down despite the way his presence seemed to steal the air from the room.

“For me.” His voice softened, but it lost none of its edge. “And for your father. Whether he likes to admit it or not.”

My chest tightened at the implication, but I didn’t let it show. “And what about the twenty million?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

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