Made for Sinners (Dark Dynasties: The Conti Collection #2)

Chapter 1

1

DANTE

T he city glows beneath me, bright enough to blind, but all I see is rot underneath the shine.

A thousand lights blink across the skyline, sharp and cold, like the edge of a knife. From up here, it looks untouchable—invincible—but it’s a lie. Everything can be touched. Everything can be taken.

Even kingdoms.

Especially mine.

I lift the glass to my lips, the whiskey burning its way down my throat like a challenge, daring me to feel something. Anything. But it doesn’t work. It never does. The fire fades too quickly, leaving behind nothing but the same gnawing ache in my chest.

The same storm in my head.

Her name claws at the edges of my thoughts, refusing to be silenced.

Emilia.

It tastes like acid on my tongue, bitter and corrosive, a poison I can’t spit out. I trusted her. I fucking trusted her. And now twenty million dollars is gone, and so is she.

I lift the empty glass again, forgetting it’s already dry. My hand tightens around it, frustration bubbling over, hot and sharp. The sound of shattering glass barely registers. Shards scatter across the counter, glinting under the dim light, and the sharp sting of a cut blooms in my palm.

I glance down, watching the blood bead along the edges of broken skin. The amber whiskey has bled into the marble countertop, spreading like an open wound.

Fitting.

I stare at the mess for a beat too long, the room spinning faintly around me. My pulse pounds in my ears, a dull roar that matches the tightness in my jaw. My head feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, every thought cutting, looping back to the same goddamn place.

I should’ve seen it coming.

Hell, I did see it coming.

Emilia was reckless—too bold for her own good. The first time I met her, she had the audacity to lift my watch right off my wrist. A thief. A liar. That’s who she was. That’s who she’s always been.

And yet, I let her in.

I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers catching in the mess of it. The silence presses in, thick and suffocating, amplifying the chaos in my head. She’s everywhere. In the air I breathe. Under my skin.

I press the heel of my hand against my temple, trying to push down the memory of her—the way she used to look at me, like she saw something worth saving. Like she saw me.

What a fucking joke.

She played me. Every touch, every stolen glance, every whispered word—it was all a goddamn lie.

I push away from the counter, the sharp crunch of glass under my shoes grounding me in the present. My reflection stares back at me from the window, fractured by the city lights. The man in the glass looks haunted. Hollow. His eyes are shadowed, his mouth set in a grim line, and for a moment, I don’t recognize him.

I lean closer, my breath fogging against the glass.

I look like a man who’s lost control.

And that?

That’s unacceptable.

I straighten, rolling my shoulders back, forcing the tension out of them like I’ve done a hundred times before. It doesn’t help. The tightness in my chest remains, coiled and vicious, like it’s waiting for something to snap.

The air feels heavy, pressing against my skin like a weight I can’t shake. I grab the whiskey bottle again, tipping it back even though I know it’s empty. Nothing. Just another hollow, useless thing in a room full of them.

Fucking perfect.

I exhale sharply, the sound harsh in the stillness, and set the bottle down harder than I mean to. My hands curl against the edge of the counter, gripping it so tightly my knuckles ache.

The city sprawls beneath me, glittering and untouchable, but my mind is stuck in the past, replaying every moment with Emilia like a goddamn highlight reel of my own stupidity.

The way she smiled at me, sharp and knowing, like she already had me figured out. The way she laughed, low and soft, like she was letting me in on some private joke. The way she kissed me, touched me, whispered my name like it fucking meant something.

I should’ve known better.

I did know better.

But I let her in anyway.

I drag a hand through my hair again, the tension in my jaw radiating down my neck, my pulse thundering in my ears. I feel like I’m trapped, the walls of the penthouse pressing in, the scent of whiskey and regret thick enough to choke on.

I need air.

I move to the window, leaning forward until my forehead nearly touches the glass. The city glitters below me, sprawling and endless, but all I can see is her.

Her smile. Her lies.

Her betrayal.

I push away from the window, pacing the room like a caged animal. My shoes grind against the broken glass, the sound sharp, grating, but I don’t care. I can feel the anger rising, the heat of it curling in my chest, but it doesn’t burn the way I need it to.

Rage isn’t enough.

Not this time.

Because beneath the anger, there’s something else. Something darker. Deeper.

Hollow.

I hate her.

I hate her for what she’s done. For what she’s taken. For what she’s made me feel.

But I hate myself more.

For letting her in.

For not seeing it coming.

For wanting her even now.

I stop, staring out at the city again, my reflection faint and distorted in the glass. Fine. She played me. I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with her.

Because if Emilia thinks she can steal from me and disappear, she’s dead fucking wrong.

She’s mine.

And I’m going to remind her exactly what that means.