Made for Saints (Dark Dynasties: The Conti Collection #1)

Chapter 1

Emilia

T he first time I saw someone die, I was wearing Gucci.

That's the thing about being a mob princess—everyone thinks your life is glamorous. They picture designer clothes, luxury cars, and endless parties. What they don't see is the suffocating weight of expectations or the constant shadow of armed guards pretending to be invisible while they follow your every move.

Maybe that's why I'm always chasing the next rush, looking for those precious moments when the cage cracks open just enough for me to slip through.

Tonight, I'd managed to slip away from my watchdogs—a feat that was becoming harder with each passing month. The bar I chose was deliberately seedy, the kind of place that would give my father an aneurysm if he knew his only daughter was here. The neon signs cast a sickly glow across worn leather booths and scarred wooden tables, while cigarette smoke created a hazy film over everything.

My Louboutins clicked against the sticky floor as I made my way to the bar, ignoring the way conversations hushed at my approach. I knew what they saw – a woman clearly out of place in her Chanel dress and perfectly styled hair. That was exactly what I wanted them to see.

"Whiskey, neat," I told the bartender, sliding onto a barstool and crossing my legs. I hated the drink, but it was a part I was playing tonight. The movement drew several appreciative glances. Good. An audience always made this more fun.

The bartender—Mike, according to his name tag— set the drink in front of me with a knowing smile. He'd seen my act before, though he never commented on it. That's why I liked this place. No questions asked, no judgment passed.

I sipped my drink slowly, scanning the room through lowered lashes. The Friday night crowd was perfect—just drunk enough to be entertaining but not so far gone that they'd be useless for my purposes. My gaze landed on a group of suits by the pool table, probably mid-level executives unwinding after a long week.

One of them took notice of me. Perfect. I was feeling bored in this shithole.

"Want to see a trick?" I asked the closest one, a bland-looking man in his thirties wearing an ill-fitting Brooks Brothers suit. His friends gathered around as he nodded eagerly, already half in love with the attention from a beautiful woman.

His face was forgettable—soft, pale, framed by a crooked tie and a bad haircut. Even his clothes looked ready to escape him. The faint sheen of sweat on his forehead glinted under the neon lights, betraying nerves he probably thought he was hiding.

Up close, I could see the faint shadow of a five o’clock scruff that didn’t quite commit to being a beard, and his watery blue eyes darted between me and his friends, searching for approval like a lost puppy. He smelled faintly of cheap cologne—something sharp and chemical, the kind that clung to your nose and refused to let go. His smile, when it came, was eager and a little too wide, the kind of smile that said he’d never been the center of attention before but was desperate to keep it now that he was.

He was perfectly ordinary. Perfectly predictable.

And exactly what I was looking for.

I pulled a deck of cards from my clutch – not the cheap plastic ones the bar provided, but a quality set that felt like silk against my fingers. Dior, stolen from my brother Marco's poker set. The familiar weight of them calmed my nerves, centered me in a way few things could.

"Pick a card," I said, fanning them out with practiced grace. "Any card."

It was always the same routine. They'd pick a card, try to outsmart me by memorizing it carefully, then watch in amazement as I found it through increasingly complex shuffles and flourishes. What they never noticed was how I'd brush against them during the performance, my hands moving with deliberate purpose. By the time I was done, I usually had a wallet, a watch, or both.

Idiots.

I didn't need the money – God knows the Ricci fortune could fund my great-grandchildren's lifestyles. But there was something intoxicating about the thrill, about proving I could be more than just Vincent Ricci's perfectly behaved daughter.

The Ricci name sparkled in the headlines—casinos, nightclubs, charity galas. But beneath the glamour lay a shadowy underbelly, the kind of empire where expectations weren’t just unspoken—they were carved into stone. My father wasn’t just a businessman; he was a king, ruling with luxury and vice.

If you wanted the best table at the most exclusive club in the city, you went to the Riccis. If you wanted to gamble away millions in a private room with no questions asked, we arranged it. And if you wanted something darker, something illegal, something that could ruin your life if you were caught? My father’s men always knew how to make it happen.

Drugs weren’t our business. Neither were guns. My father prided himself on keeping those things out of the Ricci name. He thought it made us "cleaner." But money laundering, blackmail, and backroom deals? Those were the lifeblood of our empire.

To the outside world, we were legitimate. Prestigious, even. The Ricci family name graced the headlines of glossy magazines and charity galas. Our casinos were landmarks, our nightclubs filled with the kind of people who had more money than sense. But the truth was much darker.

The house always wins, after all.

Three marks and forty minutes later, I had a collection of mediocre watches and mid-range wallets in my purse. I always returned them through the bartender before leaving – it wasn't about the theft, just the challenge. The rush of getting away with something I shouldn't.

That's when I saw him.

He sat alone at the far end of the bar, a glass of scotch balanced between his fingers. The perfectly tailored black suit marked him as someone who didn’t belong here, but it wasn’t just his clothes that stood out. Other patrons instinctively gave him a wide berth, as if his presence demanded space.

His face was turned slightly away, but something about him felt...off. Familiar, in a way I couldn’t place. My gaze lingered, trying to piece together why the sight of him made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. A memory tugged at the edges of my mind, just out of reach, and the feeling unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

I should have looked away, should have let the feeling drift into the background. But the longer I stared, the more it burrowed under my skin. Familiar or not, there was something about him that defied explanation, something I couldn’t let go of.

Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was just my own restless curiosity, but I found myself sliding off my stool and moving toward him before I could stop myself.

"Want to see a trick?" I asked, using the same line that had worked so well all night. When he turned to look at me, I nearly stumbled. His eyes were dark enough to drown in, and they held none of the easy appreciation I was used to seeing. Instead, they studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He didn't answer immediately, just took another sip of his drink while considering me. The silence stretched until I nearly turned away, but then his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Show me what you've got, princess."

The way he said 'princess' should have been my first warning. It wasn't the usual leering tone I got from men in bars – it was knowing, almost mocking. But I was already committed, and backing down wasn't in my nature.

I pulled out my cards, aware of how his eyes tracked every movement of my hands. The deck felt different somehow, like the cards had gained weight under his scrutiny. I forced myself to maintain my usual patter as I began the routine.

"The thing about tricks," I said, executing a perfect waterfall shuffle, "is that it's all about misdirection." The cards cascaded between my hands, and I caught the slight narrowing of his eyes. He wasn't watching the cards – he was watching me.

"Is that so?" His voice was deep, touched with an accent I couldn't quite place. Italian, probably, knowing this town, but refined in a way that spoke of expensive education.

I nodded, stepping closer to deal the cards between us. "People see what they expect to see. They miss what's right in front of them."

His mouth quirked. "And what do you expect me to see?"

The question threw me off rhythm for a moment. Most marks just played along, eager to see where the trick would lead. This man seemed more interested in dissecting my performance than participating in it.

"Pick a card," I said instead of answering, fanning the deck out before him. His fingers – long, elegant, dangerous – brushed mine as he selected one. The brief contact sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.

I moved through the routine on autopilot, my mind more focused on finding an opening to lift his watch. The challenge of it made my pulse quicken.

"Your card will be..." I leaned in close, using the movement to brush against his arm. "The king of hearts."

He turned over the card with deliberate slowness. The king of hearts stared up at us, and I allowed myself a triumphant smile. "How did I do?"

"Impressive," he said, his dark eyes fixed on my hands as I finished the card trick. His gaze traveled slowly up to my face, lingering in a way that made heat crawl up my neck. "Though I have to wonder what other talents those quick fingers possess."

As I gathered the cards back into their deck, I made my move. Years of practice had taught me the art of distraction – a slight lean forward, letting my hair fall just so, drawing his attention up while my fingers worked below. The watch clasp was expensive but simple, and I'd learned long ago that the more valuable the timepiece, the easier the release mechanism.

"Just a hobby. Keeps me entertained."

He leaned forward, closing the distance between us until his lips nearly brushed my ear. The scent of expensive cologne and something darker, more dangerous, wrapped around me. "I bet you find all sorts of ways to stay entertained, princess."

"A lady never tells," I said, using the movement of shuffling cards to mask the subtle click of the clasp. The weight of his Patek Philippe settled against my wrist, hidden by the drape of my sleeve. Most men never noticed the loss until long after I'd disappeared.

His eyes hadn't left my face, and something in them made me wonder if I'd finally met my match. But the watch was already secured, and I'd never been caught before. I gave him my best innocent smile, the one that always made my father cave to my demands.

"Thanks for being such a willing participant," I said, already planning my exit strategy. The cards went back into my clutch with practiced efficiency.

"Anytime, princess." That knowing smirk was still there, making me question whether I'd actually gotten away with anything at all. But the heavy weight against my wrist told me I had, even if something about his confidence left me unsettled.

I turned on my heel, keeping my steps measured and deliberate. The trick was to leave like you owned the room, even when you were running away. My heels clicked against the sticky floor, the sound echoing faintly in the smoky haze of the bar.

The cool night air greeted me as I stepped outside, crisp and biting against my skin. My Uber was already waiting at the curb, headlights cutting through the darkness. I slid into the backseat, letting the door close with a satisfying thud.

As the car pulled away, I glanced back through the bar’s grimy window. He was still there, leaning casually against the counter, his eyes fixed on me. That smirk hadn’t faded, dangerous and amused, like he was letting me go—for now.

I turned away, clutching my bag tighter, the weight inside a quiet reminder of the game I’d just played.

Sunday dinners at the Ricci estate were always an exercise in carefully orchestrated chaos. The sprawling dining room buzzed with conversation in rapid-fire Italian, punctuated by the clink of crystal and the occasional burst of laughter. I'd spent the last hour strategically positioning myself as far from the main table as possible, using my cousins as human shields.

"He's here," Marco, my oldest brother, announced as he passed behind my chair. His hand squeezed my shoulder in what might have been meant as comfort but felt more like a warning.

I didn't need to ask who "he" was. Dante "Diavlo" Conti had been the topic of whispered conversations all week. The latest story involved three bodies found in the harbor, each wearing concrete shoes—a signature move that had earned him his nickname. Quick, precise, deadly .

We’d orbited the same world for years, though I’d never had the pleasure of meeting "the Devil" himself. His younger brother had been a fixture at the frat parties I frequented during college—loud, arrogant, and always surrounded by a gaggle of girls who thought the Conti name was their ticket to glory. But Dante? He was a ghost back then, always spoken about but never seen, like a shadow lurking at the edges of the room.

Now, that shadow had a face.

"Did you hear about his fiancée?" Tony, my second brother, leaned in close, his voice low enough that only I could hear. Tony was the gossipmonger of the family, always ready to spill the latest dirt like a bored housewife at a salon. His smirk was equal parts smug and conspiratorial as he added, "Remember Isabella Romano? Pretty thing, totally devoted to him. During that shootout with the Calabrese family, she took a hit. Instead of helping her, Conti just kept firing. Left her there bleeding out while he finished the job."

I shot him a look, my grip tightening around the stem of my wine glass. "That's just a rumor."

Tony chuckled, leaning back in his chair with the kind of ease that only came from never having to worry about consequences. "Not according to Joey Calabrese’s cousin. Said he didn’t even flinch when they carried her body out. Cold as ice, that one."

I rolled my eyes, refusing to believe a single word Joey Calabrese had fed my brothers. Joey was an idiot—always had been. The kind of guy who couldn’t tell the difference between a business deal and a bar brawl, yet somehow still managed to worm his way into conversations he had no business being a part of. If Joey said the sky was blue, I’d double-check.

The main doors opened, and the room's energy shifted instantly. Conversations dimmed, backs straightened, and even the serving staff seemed to move more carefully. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, but I could feel his presence like a physical weight in the air .

"Vincent." His voice carried across the room, deep and familliar. My fingers tightened around my wine glass. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Dante! Come, sit." My father's chair scraped back as he stood to greet our guest. "You remember my children?"

I forced myself to look up as Dante approached and the world tilted for a moment.

I knew that face.

The sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled slightly at the ends, and those eyes—piercing, calculating, and impossible to forget.

His watch sat discarded on my bedside table.

His eyes landed on me, and for a moment, I thought I saw hesitation flicker across his face—like he recognized me too. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the kind of polite indifference that only someone who played this game well could master.

He wore an impeccable suit, expensive, a deep charcoal that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.

"Of course," Dante said smoothly. "Marco, Antonio, Giuseppe." He nodded to each of my brothers before his gaze settled back on me. "And Emilia is it? Still practicing your magic tricks?"

The wine glass nearly slipped from my fingers. Across the table, my father's brow furrowed in confusion. "Magic tricks?"

"Just a little sleight of hand," Dante explained, his lips curving into that same dangerous almost-smile from the bar. "Your daughter is quite talented. Though sometimes her...execution could use work."

Heat crawled up my neck as I caught the subtle flex of his wrist, where an expensive watch would normally sit. The bastard was toying with me.

"I wasn't aware you two had met," my father said, his tone carrying a sharp edge that made me want to sink into my chair.

Great, I'm sure my father was questioning his daughter's virtue now .

"Briefly," I cut in before Dante could elaborate. "At a charity event, wasn't it?"

"Something like that." Dante's eyes glittered with amusement as he took the seat directly across from me. "Though the venue was considerably less...refined."

I’d been to enough Ricci family dinners to know how to play my part: smile when expected, laugh politely at the appropriate moments, and keep quiet unless spoken to. But tonight felt different, like there was a storm gathering just beneath the surface, and I was the only one who could feel it.

Dante Conti was the reason for that storm. His presence didn’t just command the room—it dominated it, pulling every conversation, glance, and stray thought into his orbit. Even when he wasn’t speaking, I could feel him, like the hum of electricity in the air before a lightning strike.

My brothers were oblivious, of course. Marco, ever the dutiful heir, was locked in a discussion with my father about territory disputes in Queens, while Tony entertained a cousin with one of his ridiculous stories about a botched heist in Atlantic City. Giuseppe, as usual, was flirting shamelessly with one of the servers, his grin wide enough to catch the light of the chandelier.

But me? I couldn’t focus on anything except the man seated directly across the table. Dante’s gaze wasn’t constant—it came in flashes, fleeting but sharp, like the strike of a blade. And when it landed on me, it felt like the entire room tilted on its axis.

I hated that he had that effect on me. Hated the way my pulse quickened every time our eyes met, or the way my thoughts kept circling back to the bar and the smirk he’d worn when I’d walked away. He was playing some kind of game, and I couldn’t figure out the rules.

The dinner proceeded almost exactly how you’d expect. Like I was balancing on razor wire. Every time I glanced up, Dante was watching me with that predatory intensity that made my skin prickle. He engaged effortlessly in conversation about business and territory disputes, but I could feel the undercurrent of his attention like a physical touch.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Giuseppe said suddenly, making me jump. "The engagement to Valentina Moretti?"

My head snapped toward him before I could stop myself. "Engagement?" The word tasted strange on my tongue, heavy and sour.

Tony snorted, leaning back in his chair with a shit-eating grin. "Guess it didn’t take him long to move on from Isabella, huh?" He shot a pointed look at Marco, who frowned deeply but stayed silent.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice a little sharper than I intended.

Tony shrugged, swirling the wine in his glass. "You know how these things go. Isabella dies, what, a few months ago? And now everyone’s saying Valentina Moretti’s the new future Mrs. Conti. Makes sense. She’s got the pedigree, the looks, the connections. Perfect fit for the devil himself."

My stomach twisted, but I forced my expression to stay neutral. These kinds of arranged pairings weren’t uncommon, especially in families like ours. But something about the thought of Dante with Valentina Moretti—a perfectly polished mafia princess—made an uncomfortable heat rise in my chest.

"That’s just gossip," Marco said sharply, cutting through the conversation like a knife. His focus snapped to Giuseppe, his voice bordering on a warning. "Don’t repeat everything you hear. The Morettis have been trying to get their hooks into the Contis for years. It doesn’t mean anything."

Giuseppe shrugged, unbothered by Marco’s tone. "Relax. I was just making conversation." He grinned, the lazy kind of grin that always seemed to hide mischief. "Besides, I figured Dante could clear it up himself."

The room didn’t fall silent, but it might as well have. The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, like a knife waiting to drop .

Something dark and unreadable flickered across Dante’s expression before it smoothed back into careful neutrality. He set his glass down with deliberate precision, the clink of crystal against the table louder than it should have been.

"News travels fast," he said finally, his tone cool but edged with something I couldn’t quite place.

"Better her than me," I muttered into my wine glass, not intending for anyone to hear. The words were meant for me alone, a quiet jab at myself for even caring.

Another engagement? Jesus. Mafia families married their women off like cattle at an auction—strategic, cold, calculated. The thought made my skin crawl. I wasn’t even sure if I pitied Valentina or envied her for at least knowing her place in this world.

The words had barely left my lips when I realized my mistake. Dante’s gaze snapped to mine, sharp and unrelenting, pinning me in place like a hawk spotting its prey.

"Careful, princess," he said softly, the endearment rolling off his tongue with the same mocking lilt he’d used at the bar. His voice was low, meant only for me, but it carried enough weight to send a shiver down my spine. "You might hurt my feelings."

I scoffed, even as my cheeks burned. "I didn’t think you had any."

His lips quirked into the faintest of smirks, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though he were deciding whether to let the comment slide or press further. The tension between us stretched taut, a live wire crackling just beneath the surface.

"No engagement," Dante said suddenly, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation around the table. Everyone else kept talking, oblivious, but his words were meant for me, his gaze locked on mine.

I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Valentina," he clarified, his tone cool, detached. "There’s no engagement."

The knot in my stomach loosened slightly, though I hated myself for the relief that rushed in to replace it. I didn’t care—at least, I told myself I didn’t. But his eyes flicked over my face, sharp and knowing, like he could see right through me.

"Didn’t want you losing sleep over it," he added, his smirk returning, this time with a fraction more warmth.

I rolled my eyes, forcing my expression into something resembling indifference. "Hardly."

But the weight of his stare told me he didn’t believe me.

The conversation around us continued, oblivious to the silent sparring match happening between Dante and me. It felt like we were in our own private bubble, the rest of the room fading into the background. Every time he called me "princess," I remembered his warning about playing with fire. The way his gaze lingered on me, heavy and unrelenting, made my pulse quicken in a way I refused to acknowledge.

"I should check on dessert," I said abruptly, pushing back from the table.

My father, seated at the head of the table, shot me a disapproving look—Ricci daughters didn’t fetch dessert. We had staff for that. But I couldn’t sit there a moment longer, not with Dante’s eyes tracking my every move, his presence suffocating and magnetic all at once.

I barely made it to the kitchen before I exhaled sharply, pressing my palms flat against the counter to steady myself. The cool marble beneath my hands did little to calm the heat simmering low in my chest, a fire that felt entirely too dangerous to let burn.