Page 12 of Made for Sinners

6

EMILIA

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone. With a shaky breath, I turned and walked toward the door, my footsteps echoing through the suffocating silence. My brothers watched me go, their expressions a mix of anger and confusion, but none of them said a word. Even Tony, who had always been my fiercest protector, stayed silent, his jaw clenched as he gripped his gun.

The family room was only a few steps away, but it felt like miles. When I finally reached it, I slumped against the doorway, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. The muffled voices from the study carried through the walls, sharp and angry, but I couldn’t make out the words. Not that I wanted to. Whatever they were saying, it wouldn’t change the fact that I was trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

I sank onto the edge of the couch, my hands trembling as I pressed them to my face. My mind raced, replaying every moment of the past few weeks, searching for something—anything—that could explain how this had happened. How my specific code had been used. How the money had disappeared.How Dante could stand there, so calm and detached, while my entire world crumbled around me.

And then there was the memory of the wedding, of the last time I’d seen him before tonight. His words echoed in my mind, low and rough, filled with a pain he’d tried so hard to hide.

You matter more than anything else in my life. And that’s the fucking problem.

I had believed him. Even after everything, even after he’d walked away, I had believed him. Because how could someone say something like that and not mean it? How could someone look at me the way he had and not care? But now, sitting here with the weight of his accusations pressing down on me, I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and I shot to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. For a brief, foolish moment, I thought it might be Dante, coming to tell me that it was all a mistake, that he’d figured out who was really behind the theft, that he was sorry for putting me through this.

But it wasn’t Dante.

It was Tony.

He stepped into the open area, and took a look around the room. His gun was still in his hand, but he didn’t raise it. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.

“Tony,” I said, my voice shaking. “You believe me, don’t you? You know I would never?—”

“Shh,” he said, holding up a hand to stop me. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tight as he crossed the room and sat down beside me. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze fixed on the floor as he turned the gun over in his hands.

“They’re not going to kill you,” he said finally, a small grin on his face, his voice low and steady. “Not tonight, at least.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I stared at him, my chest tightening with a mix of relief and terror. “What do you mean, ‘not tonight’?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Tony looked up at me then, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Come with me."

The air in my father’s study was thick with tension, suffocating and electric, as if the room itself was holding its breath. The muffled sounds of the men speaking in rapid-fire Italian blurred together, a cacophony of anger and negotiation that I couldn’t untangle. I sat frozen in the chair Dante had pulled out for me earlier, my hands gripping the edge of the seat so tightly that my knuckles had turned white.

My father stood behind his desk, his broad shoulders tense and his expression thunderous as he gestured wildly, his words sharp and cutting. My brothers flanked him, their hands resting on the grips of their guns, their postures stiff with barely restrained fury.

And then there was Dante.

He stood apart from the chaos, a looming figure of calm amidst the storm. His jacket was still draped over the back of a chair, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, corded forearms. He leaned casually against the edge of the desk, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach twist. He hadn’t spoken since the shouting began, hadn’t so much as flinched at the accusations and threats being hurled around the room.

He didn’t need to.

Dante Conti didn’t shout. He didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention, to assert his dominance. His silence was louder than any of the arguments being thrown around, a reminder that he held all the power here.

And I hated him for it.

I hated the way he watched me, his gaze unrelenting and predatory, as if he were waiting for me to break. I hated the wayhe had turned my life upside down, the way he had walked into this house and taken control of everything without so much as a second thought.

But most of all, I hated the way a part of me—small and buried deep—still wanted him.

That thought alone made my chest tighten, my breath hitching as I forced myself to look away from him. My eyes landed on the polished surface of my father’s desk, the scattered papers and ledgers a stark reminder of the accusations that had been leveled against me.

My code. My shifts. My access.

The evidence was damning, and no matter how many times I repeated the truth—that I hadn’t stolen anything—it didn’t seem to matter. Not to Dante. Not to my father. Not to anyone.

“Emilia.”

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