Page 1 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

I watch from behind the bedroom curtains as Enzo checks his watch below. Six minutes until his smoke break. Six minutes until twelve minutes of freedom. My fingers grip the phone so tightly the plastic creaks.

For two years, I've studied this house like a prisoner memorizing guard rotations. Because that's what I am—Salvatore Calabrese's perfectly dressed, perfectly obedient prisoner. Except tonight, I'm done being perfect.

The phone rings twice before Papa answers.

"Isabella? It's late, Piccola."

His voice is tired. Older than his fifty-two years. That's what making deals with devils does to you.

"Papa, listen carefully. I'm leaving tonight."

Silence. Then a sharp breath that turns into a cough. "No. Isabella, you can't?—"

"I have money. I have a plan." I press my free hand against my ribs where last week's bruise throbs—purple fading to yellow, Sal's signature when I dared suggest we skip his cousin's wedding. "Meet me in Chicago."

"Bella, please. Calabrese will kill us both. You know what he's capable of."

I watch Enzo light his cigarette. "He's killing me already, Papa. Just slower."

"Your debt—my debt to him?—"

"Was never mine to pay." The words taste bitter. True things always do. "You sold me to cover your gambling losses. Packaged me up like a birthday present for a monster."

"I'm sorry. God, Piccola, I'm so sorry." His voice breaks, and I hate that I still care. "But running... there's nowhere he won't find you. His reach?—"

"Be at Union Station tomorrow. Please."

"He has men in Chicago. They watch me here."

"Not at your hotel. You checked." I know because I made him check, a few days ago, during our last supervised call. "Papa, I can't do this anymore. The things he does—" My voice catches. I won't cry. Not now. "Please."

Long pause. Enzo's on his third drag.

"I'll be there," Papa whispers. "God help us both."

"I love you."

"If he catches you?—"

"He won't." Enzo is moving away. "I have to go."

I hang up and grab the bag I've hidden behind winter coats that Sal bought me—all designer labels to package his property properly.

Inside: eight thousand in cash, stolen twenty dollars at a time from his wallet when he's drunk.

Jeans that actually fit. Sneakers for running. A knife from the kitchen.

The bruise on my ribs pulses as I move. There's a matching one on my thigh, fingerprints where he grabbed too hard the last time he remembered I existed in bed. Two years of bruises, layered like sediment.

Eleven fifty-seven.

Time to go.

Twenty-three marble steps to the first floor. I've counted them every day for seven hundred and thirty-two days. Barefoot, bag clutched to my chest, I descend into the tomb Sal calls home.

His study door hangs open, empty. The brandy glass on his desk still holds amber liquid—Macallan, older than our marriage. I could poison it. I've thought about it. But poison's too quick for Sal Calabrese.

The kitchen smells like Lucia's sofrito, lingering from dinner. She leaves at eleven sharp to catch the bus home to her grandchildren. Good woman. She pretends not to see the bruises.

My hands shake as I punch in the garage code. Our anniversary date—08-12-23. The irony burns worse than bourbon.

The garage lights flicker on. Sal's collection gleams: the Bentley he drives to intimidate, the Ferrari he won't let me touch, the Mercedes with keys always in the visor because he's too important to fish for them.

Fifteen miles to the train station. Then Chicago. Then anywhere that isn't here.

I slide into the Mercedes and adjust the seat. The leather smells like his cologne. My hands tremble as I turn the key.

Click.

Nothing.

"Come on." I try again. The engine floods. "No, no, no?—"

Headlights sweep across the garage door.

My blood turns to ice water. He's supposed to be at the club until three. He's always at the club until three, drinking whiskey and grabbing girls who pretend to like it.

Sal's Escalade pulls in beside me, music thumping so loudly I feel it in my chest. Through the windshield, I see him—tie loose, shirt untucked, that particular sway that only surfaces when he's bourbon-deep and mean with it.

There's a blonde in the passenger seat. Her dress rides up her thighs and her lipstick’s smeared as she laughs at something that probably isn't funny.

Sal's eyes find mine through the glass.

The world stops.

His face shifts—confusion, recognition, suspicion, rage. All in the space of a heartbeat. He's out of the Escalade before I can think to lock the doors.

He stumbles out and catches himself on the car door. "The fuck you doing in my car, Isabella?"

Alcohol and cheap perfume assault my senses. I force my voice to be steady, submissive. Twenty-four months of practice. "Couldn't sleep, baby. Thought I heard something."

"In the garage?" His words slur together, but his eyes sharpen. Even wasted, Sal's paranoia works overtime. "In my fucking Mercedes?"

"I was frightened, Salvatore." I use his full name. He likes that when he's drunk. Makes him feel important. "I thought someone broke in."

He leans closer, one hand braced on the doorframe, caging me in. His breath is hot, sour, threatening. "Frightened women don't get dressed and come to the garage, Bella."

The blonde stumbles over, giggling. "Baby, come on. You promised champagne. And other things." She winks at me, as if we're conspirators. Like I chose this.

"Shut up, Candice."

"It's Crystal."

"I said shut up."

I touch his hand on the doorframe. Light. Tentative. The way abuse has taught me. "I was waiting up for you. When you didn't come home, I worried."

"You checking up on me?"

"Never, Salvatore. I just couldn't sleep without you."

The lie tastes like bile, but I sell it with downcast eyes and trembling lips.

"Were you trying to go somewhere, Bella?" His free hand traces my cheek. Gentle. The kind of gentleness that comes before violence. "Middle of the night, dressed up pretty, in my car?"

"Where would I go? This is my home."

"Is it?"

"Sal! It's fucking freezing! Come get me warm, Daddy!" Crystal all but coos.

He glances back at her, then at me. He weighs his options—interrogate his wife or fuck his whore. The bourbon and the blonde's cleavage tip the scales.

"Get upstairs." He steps back and gestures between us. "Both of you."

The blonde giggles. "Ooh, the more the merrier!"

Another night. Another performance. Another piece of myself carved away.

"Yes, Salvatore." I grab my purse from the passenger seat—not the packed bag, that would raise questions—and slide out of the car. "Right away."

His hand clamps down on my shoulder as I pass. Heavy. Possessive. A reminder that I'm just another thing he owns, like the cars, the house, and the women he brings home.

The blonde stumbles out of the Escalade, still giggling. "He pays extra for two girls, honey," she whispers. Her breath smells like vodka. "Just go with it and he'll give you a nice tip."

She doesn't understand that I don't get tips. If anything, I am the tip.

Sal follows us inside, his hand moving from my shoulder to the small of my back. Pushing. Guiding. Owning. The marble steps count themselves under my bare feet. I grip the loose railing like it might save me.

It won't. Nothing will.

In the bedroom, Sal's already forgotten the garage, the Mercedes, my pathetic attempt at escape. The blonde has his attention now, working her professional magic with practiced giggles and strategic touches. I escape to the bathroom while they're distracted.

My reflection stares back from the gilt mirror. Hollow eyes. Hollow cheeks. Hollow woman. I think about the packed bag in the closet. The train ticket. Papa waiting at Union Station. By tomorrow morning, Enzo will check the cars. He'll find my bag. He'll tell Sal.

Tomorrow I'll have new bruises to match the old ones.

I grip the marble counter. Two choices, that's all women like me get in Sal's world. Stay and die slowly, or run and die quickly.

Unless...

The thought creeps in like smoke under the door. Unless someone worse comes along. Someone stronger. Someone who could take what Sal thinks is his.

I push the thought away. That's not an escape. That's trading one monster for another, and Sal's already proven that the devil you know is bad enough. What kind of creature would be powerful enough to take from Salvatore Calabrese? What kind of man would want his leftovers?

No. Better to die trying to reach Chicago than wait for a bigger predator to notice me.

"Isabella!" Sal calls, his voice thick with bourbon and lust. "Get out here!"

I straighten my spine. Fix my hair. Practice my empty smile in the mirror until it’s convincing.

"Coming, baby."

Tonight, I survive. Like always. Tomorrow, Sal will hurt me for trying to run. But tonight, I'll play the role he bought and paid for.

I open the bathroom door. The blonde's already half naked, draped across Sal like a cheap suit. He grins at me, all teeth and ownership.

"There's my good girl."

Good girl. Property. Thing.

In Sal's world, those are the only roles for women.

But those are tomorrow's bruises. Tonight, I survive.

Like always.

Even if surviving feels like dying.