Page 10 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The click of Dante's safety echoes through my bones.

I know that sound. Two years of marriage to Sal taught me the language of weapons—the metallic whisper that comes before blood. My hands shake against the red silk of this dress, the one I chose to spite Dante's suggestion of black. Now it feels like I'm already dressed for what's coming.

Sal sways in the doorway, three of his men fanned out behind him like a diseased hand of cards. Even drunk and destroyed, he makes my stomach clench with remembered fear.

"And there's my Bella." His voice slurs, thick with bourbon and rage. "My beautiful wife, playing dress-up with her new owner."

Every gun in the room is drawn now. Dante's men, subtle as shadows, have positioned themselves with practiced precision. The regular patrons press against walls, some ducking under tables. The air tastes metallic, like blood before it's spilled.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But something else burns underneath—a strange clarity that comes from standing at a crossroads with no good options.

"Come here, baby." Sal takes another stumbling step forward. "Time to come home where you belong."

My legs move without permission. Not toward him—never toward him—but sideways, creating distance between Dante and me. Testing boundaries. Testing reactions.

Dante's free hand catches my wrist. Not hard, not like Sal would have. Just enough to stop me.

"Don't." His voice is controlled, but tension hums through his grip.

I turn to face him fully, and a wordless understanding passes between us. Or shared recognition that this moment will define everything that comes after.

"You can't stop me if I choose to go." The words come out steady despite my racing pulse. "Not here. Not with everyone watching."

His dark eyes flick around the room—to the cowering socialites, the calculating criminals, the witnesses who matter in our world. I'm right, and we both know it. If I walk to Sal willingly, Dante can't stop me without admitting he holds me against my will.

"Is that what you want?" His thumb brushes my wrist, so light I might have imagined it. "To go back to him?"

"You're both devils." I pull my hand free. "One's more familiar."

"And one gives you choices."

A laugh escapes, bitter as burnt coffee. "You think Sal was always a monster? He played the gentleman, too, at first. Flowers and promises and pretty words. You're all the same—just at different stages of revealing it."

"Enough talking!" Sal's order cracks like a whip. "Get over here before I drag you out by your hair."

The room holds its breath. I stand between two monsters, red dress spotlighted by crystal chandeliers, every eye waiting to see which devil I'll choose.

Dante leans closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "You don't want to do this."

"Don't I?"

"If you have a plan, now would be the time to share it."

"Bold of you to assume we're on the same side."

There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or respect. "You're right. I should've treated you worse. Made things clearer."

"Wait for the sign." I breathe the words against his ear, close enough to sell the intimacy to our audience. "When it's self-defense instead of murder."

Understanding dawns in his expression. His grip on the gun adjusts slightly.

I turn and walk toward Sal.

Each step feels like wading through water. My heels click against marble, counting down to something irreversible. The trembling in my hands spreads up my arms, but I don't stop.

"That's my good girl." Sal grins, ugly and triumphant. "See? She knows where she belongs. Always did."

Three feet away, I stop. Close enough to smell the bourbon seeping from his pores. Close enough to see the rage barely contained behind his bloodshot eyes.

"Hello, Sal."

"Get over here." He reaches for me.

I step into his space instead, my palm finding his cheek. The touch is gentle, almost tender. The room watches me stroke the face of the man who broke me daily for two years.

"I have something to tell you," I whisper, lips close to his ear.

His hands find my waist, possessive and rough. "What's that, baby?"

"I fucked him."

He goes rigid.

"The night you lost me," I continue, my voice honey-sweet poison. "He took what was yours. Owned me completely. And Sal?" I pull back enough to see his face purpling. "I didn't even resist."

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my ribs.

"He made me scream," I whisper. "The way I never did for you. Made me beg. Made me want it. Your perfect, frigid wife spreading her legs for the man who destroyed you."

"You lying?—"

"Am I? Ask him. Ask him how I taste. Ask him what sounds I make when I'm not faking it." My nails dig into his cheek. "He took your woman, your money, your manhood. And I loved every second."

The backhand comes as expected.

My head snaps to the side, copper flooding my mouth. I hit the floor hard, marble cold against my palms. But I'm already smiling through the blood because a gun fires.

Not Dante's—one of Sal's idiots, panicking at the sudden movement. The bullet goes wide, shattering crystal above.

Then Dante's gun speaks.

Sal screams, dropping as his knee explodes in red. His men hesitate in a split second between loyalty and self-preservation. It's all Dante's people need.

I scramble backward, red dress tangling around my legs as violence erupts. More gunfire. Men shouting. The wet sound of fists meeting flesh. I press myself against the bar, shrinking as chaos erupts.

Through it all, I watch Dante.

He moves like a predator on the hunt—controlled, efficient, inevitable. No wasted motion, no hesitation. This is who he is under the expensive suits and careful manners. This is the devil I made a deal with.

Sal writhes on the floor, clutching his destroyed knee. Blood pools beneath him, black in the chandeliers' light.

"Enough!" Dante's roar cuts through the noise.

Everything stills.

Sal's two surviving men kneel with guns to their heads. The third one isn't moving anymore.

Dante stands over Sal, gun pointed down. "You came into my place. Threatened what's mine. Consider this mercy."

"Mercy?" Sal spits blood. "You shot me!"

"I shot your knee. I could have shot your head." Dante's voice carries no emotion. "Take your men and crawl back to Brooklyn. Come near her again, and I'll mail pieces of you to every family in the city as a reminder of what happens to men who don't honor their debts."

"This isn't over." Sal tries to stand, but collapses. "The Calabrese family?—"

"Is at war with the Caruso empire. Yes, I'm aware." Dante gestures to one of his men. "Get him out. Let him crawl to his car. Let everyone see what happens to men who break the rules."

They drag Sal toward the exit, leaving a red trail across marble. He's screaming threats, promises, the desperate fury of a man who's lost everything.

But all I can think of is how small he looks. How pathetic. This man, who terrorized me for years, is reduced to a bleeding mess on designer floors.

I should be horrified. Should feel guilty for provoking him, for engineering this violence.

Instead, dark satisfaction unfurls in my chest. He's hurt. Humiliated. Dragged out like the garbage he always was.

It’s justice. Or revenge. Maybe they're one and the same.

"Bella."

Dante pulls me back to reality. He's standing over me, hand extended. There's blood on his shirt—not his own. His eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my chest tight.

I take his hand.

He pulls me up slowly, carefully, like I might shatter. My legs shake. My mouth throbs where Sal hit me. But I'm standing.

"You alright?"

I touch my split lip, my finger coming away red. "I'll live."

"That was..." He pauses, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "Impressive. Manipulative, but impressive."

"I learned from the best."

"Sal?"

"Men like Sal." I straighten my dress, trying for dignity despite the blood and trembling. "You're all so predictable when your pride's involved."

His smile widens. “What you said?—”

“I don’t know what I said.”

He reaches out, thumb ghosting over my split lip. The touch is barely there, but it burns more than Sal's backhand.

"Marco will take you home," he says.

"Where are you going?"

"To make sure Sal understands the new reality. That his family is at war. That you're untouchable." His eyes harden. "That crossing me means losing everything."

"All this over a poker game?"

"No." He steps back. "All this over you."

The words land like bullets. Before I can respond, Marco appears at my elbow.

"Ready when you are, m’lady," Marco says gently.

I let him guide me through the wreckage. Broken glass crunches under our feet. Blood pools where men fell. The remaining patrons press against walls, eyes wide with the kind of fear that'll become legend by morning.

The elevator ride is silent. In the car, Marco keeps glancing at me in the rearview.

"That was… interesting," he finally says. "The way you played Sal? Cold as ice."

I don't answer. What's there to say? That I learned manipulation as survival? That making Sal hit me felt like taking control for the first time in years?

"Dante's probably half in love already," Marco continues. "He's got a thing for dangerous women."

"I'm not dangerous."

"No?" He meets my eyes in the mirror. "Could've fooled me."

The city blurs past. All those lights, all those lives that don't touch ours. Normal people with normal problems, while I sit in a Bentley with blood on my dress, driving away from a war started in my name.

At the house, I go straight to my room. My hands shake as I strip off the ruined dress to shower Sal's blood from my skin. The water stings my split lip, but it's good pain. Clean pain. Nothing like the bruises I’d grown accustomed to.

I put on silk pajamas and stand at the window. The grounds stretch dark below, lit by security lights that sweep like searching eyes. Somewhere out there, Dante is handling Sal. Making sure he understands.

Why do I care? Why does the thought of Dante injured or captured make my chest tight?

He's just another devil. Another man who thinks he owns me. Another cage with prettier bars.

But he put his empire at risk for me tonight. Started a war because Sal dared to come for me. No one's ever done that before. No one's ever made me feel worthy of protection.

Headlights sweep up the drive. The Bentley returns, followed by two other cars. I press closer to the glass, watching shadows emerge. Dante walks toward the house, his movements steady. Unhurt. Alive.

Relief floods through me so sharply it aches.

I shouldn't feel this. Shouldn't care if the Devil comes home safe. I should be planning escape, not watching from windows like a concerned wife.

I force myself away from the glass to crawl into bed that's too soft and too big. My body sinks into Egyptian cotton and down, but my mind races.

War. He started a war over me.

In the morning, the other families will know. The Calabreses will rally. Blood will flow because I provoked Sal into hitting me. Because I chose the devil I don't know over the devil I do.

But tonight, for the first time in years, Sal Calabrese is the one bleeding. The one humiliated. The one crawling.

I close my eyes and see Dante's face when he offered his hand. That almost-smile. The way he said, "All this over you," as if it were obvious. Like I’m worth burning the world for.

My heart beats too fast, too hard.

This is how it starts. This is how women like me fall for men like him. A little protection, a little violence in our name, and suddenly the cage doesn't feel like an enclosure.

I won't be that stupid. Not again. Not for any man, no matter how many wars he starts for me.

Sleep pulls at me, heavy and warm. I let it take me, sinking into dreams where devils wear different faces but always end the same.

My eyes fly open.

The lock.

I almost forgot to lock the door. The distraction of tonight nearly made me careless.

My feet hit the floor, carrying me across the room in seconds. My fingers fumble with the mechanism, sliding it home with a click that echoes in the silence.

How could I forget? Every night since I've been here, locking this door has been my first act. My only control. My single safety.

I lean my forehead against the wood, heart hammering. This is how it starts. Forgetting to be afraid. Forgetting to protect myself. Letting my guard down.

I won’t fall for a monster. I can’t. Can't mistake violence for love, possession for protection. Can't let myself believe that this prison is different because it comes with choices and locking doors.

But as I lower back into bed, I can't forget the way he looked at me. The way he said my name. The way he made Sal Calabrese crawl.

Tomorrow, I'll remember to lock the door first.

Tomorrow, I'll remember that all devils lie.

But tonight, with my split lip throbbing and Sal's blood washed down the drain, I let myself feel it—this dark satisfaction that my monster won. That, for once, I’m not the one left broken on the floor.

It's not love. It's not trust. It's not anything soft or safe.

But maybe, in our world, it's enough.