Page 11 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

Morning light streams through the breakfast room windows, turning my coffee into liquid amber. I stare at it, seeing Sal's blood pooling on the marble instead.

I chose Dante.

The thought circles my mind like a vulture. Not only in that moment of violence, but in all the moments that led up to it. When I put on the red dress. When I took his arm. When I whispered "wait for the sign" like we were conspirators instead of captor and captive.

"You're not eating."

Sofia serves a fresh plate of eggs, studying me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. Today she's wearing gray slacks and a white blouse, professional but approachable.

"Not hungry."

"You need to eat. Especially after last night." She pours herself coffee, settling across from me like we're friends. "Trauma burns calories."

"How would you know about last night?"

"The entire staff knows. Marco came in late, blood on his shirt, talking about a shootout at the Inferno." She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim. "Said you were there."

My fingers tighten on my cup. The ceramic is warm, grounding, and real, unlike the surreal memory of provoking Sal into hitting me.

"Can I trust you, Sofia?"

The question hangs between us.

She sets down her coffee with deliberate care. "That depends on what you need to trust me with."

"The truth about last night. About what I did." My voice cracks slightly. "About what I'm becoming."

"Tell me."

So I do. The words spill out like water through a broken dam. Sal's entrance. The standoff. My calculated manipulation to provoke him. The violence that followed. How I felt watching him bleed—that dark satisfaction that scares me more than any bruise he ever inflicted.

Sofia listens without interrupting, her expression neutral.

"I chose Dante," I finish. "In front of everyone. And I don't understand why."

Silence stretches. Sofia traces the rim of her cup with one finger, gathering thoughts.

"What you said to Sal," she says finally. "About you and Dante. Is that true? Has he...?"

The implication hangs heavy.

"No." The word comes out firm. "He's never touched me. Never tried. That's what terrifies me."

Sofia's eyebrows rise.

"Don't you see? Sal was a monster, but at least I understood him. His cruelty made sense. But Dante..." I push eggs around my plate. "He gives me a lock. Kills men who insult me. Starts a war because Sal dared to come for me. And asks nothing in return."

"Nothing?"

"Breakfast. Dinner. Accompany him to social events." I shake my head. "The bare minimum of human interaction. It's driving me insane."

"Because you're waiting for the catch."

"Because I'm starting to think there isn't one." The admission tastes like betrayal. "He saved me last night. Protected me. And I'm worried I'm starting to see him as something other than what he is."

Sofia leans forward. "What he is is a criminal. A killer. A man who trades in violence and calls it business."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're romanticizing a dangerous man."

"Like you're not?" The words snap out before I can stop them. "You work for him. Live in his house. Take his money."

Emotion flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or calculation. She recovers quickly.

"That's different. I'm an employee. You're..." She pauses, choosing words. "You're in a much more precarious position."

"Am I? Because last night felt pretty precarious for everyone involved."

"About that." Sofia's tone shifts, professional concern eroding. "You could face serious legal consequences for what happened. Inciting violence. Accessory to assault with a deadly weapon. Conspiracy if they can prove you planned it."

I blink at the sudden shift. "Those are some pretty specific charges."

“Think about it. You provoked Sal into attacking you, knowing Dante would retaliate. That could be seen as incitement, even if it's not entrapment—though some might try to argue it."

"You remember your legal training."

"Hard to forget two years of law school, even after five years away." She studies her coffee. "Shouldn't I be concerned? You could go to prison, Bella. Ruin any chance of ever practicing law. Is protecting Dante worth that?"

The question lands like a slap. Is that what I'm doing? Protecting him?

"Where is he?" I ask instead of answering.

"Out. Business." She stands, gathering plates with efficiency. "Probably the kind of business that leaves bodies in rivers."

"You're trying to scare me."

"I'm trying to save you." She pauses at the door. "You're a good person, Bella. Don't let him corrupt that. Don't go down this road."

"What road?"

"The one where you start seeing violence as justice. Where you justify terrible actions because they're done for you." Her eyes hold mine. "The one where you fall for the devil because he's better than the demon you knew."

Then she's gone, leaving me with cold eggs and hard truths.

I abandon breakfast for the library. The law books call to me like old friends, promising order amidst chaos. If Sofia's right about potential charges, I need to know exactly what I'm facing, what we're facing.

The thought stops me. When did Dante's legal problems become 'we'?

I pull down casebook after casebook. Criminal law. Evidence. Procedure. My fingers remember the weight, the way pages turn, the specific smell of legal texts that once meant everything to me.

Inciting violence. The charge echoes in my mind as I research. Sofia's not wrong—my actions last night could be construed as incitement. But there are defenses. Duress. Self-defense by proxy. The battered woman syndrome that any decent lawyer could argue, given my history with Sal.

I make notes on legal pads I find in the desk. Case citations flow from memory, muscle memory of a different life. Building a defense for actions I took to protect a man who won me in a poker game.

The irony isn't lost on me.

But as I work, something shifts. This isn't only about protecting myself anymore. It's about protecting Dante, too. About making sure the war he started for me doesn't destroy him.

Why do I care?

The question haunts me as I draft memorandums I'll never file. As I build arguments for courts I'll never see. As I use the law I once loved to protect criminals I should hate.

Maybe because he's the first person to ever make me feel worth protecting. Maybe because when everyone else saw a whore, he saw a person who deserved choices. Maybe because I'm an idiot falling for another dangerous man.

All of the above, probably.

I work through lunch, surrounded by books and potential. The legal framework takes shape—how to bury last night's incident in technicalities and jurisdictional disputes. How to make it all go away, at least on paper.

The smart thing would be to keep this to myself. Use it as leverage. Protection.

Instead, I gather my notes and go looking for the man I'm apparently willing to commit light treason for.

The meeting room door is closed, male voices filtering through the wood. I recognize Dante's measured tones and Marco's lighter ones. Others I don't know. Deep rumbles discussing things that probably end in death.

I should knock. Should wait. Should remember my place in this house.

Instead, I turn the handle and walk in.

The conversation dies instantly.

Smoke hangs thick in the air—cigars, expensive ones. Five men sit around a polished mahogany table, and they all turn to stare at me like I'm a gazelle who wandered into a lion's den.

My legs tremble.

They're all in suits. Perfect, tailored, expensive suits that can't hide what they are. Killers. Criminals. Maps spread across the table, photos I don't want to look at too closely, weapons placed as casually as coffee cups.

Dante stands at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with subtle strength. His expression shifts from cold focus to unreadable.

What the hell am I doing?

The thought screams through my mind as five pairs of eyes dissect me. I'm standing in a room full of made men, holding legal arguments to protect their boss, pretending I belong here.

Marco leans back in his chair, a grin spreading across his face. One of the other men—older, scarred, with eyes like a shark—actually laughs. Low and disbelieving.

My hand shakes around the legal pad. Every instinct screams run. Get out. This was stupid, walking into their meeting like I have any right to be here. Like I'm anything to them beyond Dante's latest acquisition.

But I don't run.

My feet carry me forward instead, each step feeling like walking through quicksand. The trembling spreads from my legs up through my chest, but I keep moving. Past the staring men. Past the smoke and weapons and casual violence.

I stop at the table's edge and set down the papers.

The legal pad lands with a soft plop that might as well be a gunshot for how loud it seems in the silence. My carefully drafted arguments to protect him. To protect us. Laid out between the photos and maps like an offering I'm not sure I should be making.

"About last night," I manage, voice steadier than my hands. "Potential criminal exposure. Thought you should know."

The shark-eyed man starts to say something, but Dante raises a hand. The gesture is small, casual, but it silences the room more effectively than shouting would.

He picks up the legal pad, his dark eyes scanning my work. The trembling in my legs gets worse as I wait, surrounded by men who kill for less than interrupting their meetings.

Then Dante looks up at me.

And smiles.

Not the cold thing he uses as a weapon. Not the polite mask he wears at breakfast. A real smile, small and private and meant for me and me alone.

My heart flutters, and it has nothing to do with fear.

It’s the dangerous truth that I'm starting to care what his smiles mean.