Page 13 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

"The authentication procedures need to be filed within forty-eight hours," Jeff's voice drones through the phone, professional and precise. "I'll need your signature on the affidavits."

"Mm-hmm." I make agreeable noises while my eyes trace the subtle patterns on the ceiling. They look like birds. Or maybe hands reaching for something they can't grasp.

I guess I have a soft spot for broken whores.

The words slice through Jeff's legal jargon, making my fingers tighten on the phone. It’s been hours, and I can't stop hearing them. Can't stop feeling the casual cruelty of them, the way they rolled off Dante's tongue like he was discussing his preference for wine.

"Isabella? Are you listening?"

"Yes." I force myself to focus. "Forty-eight hours. Authentication. I understand."

"Good. Now, regarding the witness statements?—"

Broken whores.

My free hand presses against my ribs, feeling for bruises that have already faded. Sal's marks are gone, but Dante's words have left their own kind of damage. Invisible. Deeper.

"—need to ensure consistency across all accounts. Isabella?"

"I'm here." I sit up, papers rustling around me on the bed. My beautiful cage of a room feels smaller today. "The witnesses. Yes."

Jeff continues talking, but his words blur into background noise. All I can think about is last night. The way Dante looked at me when he said it. Not cruel, exactly. Just... honest. Like he was telling me the weather.

At least I know where I stand.

"The video evidence is particularly compelling," Jeff is saying. "Your framework for establishing the chain of custody is brilliant."

Brilliant. I almost laugh. Yes, I'm brilliant. A brilliant broken whore who drafts legal documents between whatever else my owner might require. Though he hasn't required anything else. Seven days of careful distance. Seven days of locked doors and silence where touch should be.

Maybe I'm not even good enough to be his whore. Just broken.

"I'll need those signatures by tomorrow," Jeff says. "Can you manage that?"

"Of course."

"Excellent. Mr. Caruso is fortunate to have someone of your caliber working on this."

My caliber.

"Thank you," I manage.

"I have to say," Jeff continues, and his tone makes me pay attention. "I'm glad I'm not the only one dealing with... this kind of clientele."

The words hover awkwardly between us. I grip the phone tighter.

"Huh?"

"Criminal elements. You know." He clears his throat. "It's refreshing to have someone else who understands the complexities. Someone on the inside, so to speak."

"I should go," I say, voice carefully neutral.

"Of course. But Isabella? I'm grateful you're here. Dealing with men like Mr. Caruso—well, it helps to have someone who gets it."

Men like Mr. Caruso . As if Dante is only another client.

"Right," I manage. "I'll have those signatures tomorrow."

"Excellent. Have a good evening."

I end the call and stare at the phone. What the hell was that?

"Miss?" The guard shifts in my doorway. Lorenzo, he'd said his name was.

Lorenzo.

The irony isn't lost on me. Another Lorenzo in Dante's world. I wonder if this one knows what happened to the last man who bore that name. Who said the wrong thing about the wrong woman and ended up bleeding out for it.

"Are you finished with the phone?" This Lorenzo asks, young and nervous, where the other was crude and dead.

I should give it back. Should let this door close on my connection to the outside world.

"Actually," I hear myself say, "Jeff might call back. About clarifications. You know how lawyers are."

Lorenzo nods, buying the lie easily. Too easily. Maybe that's why he's guarding doors instead of breaking legs—too trusting for this world.

I wait until he's looking away, then dial. The numbers are muscle memory, carved into my bones by guilt and genetics. I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now, but this is my first real chance.

"Bella?" My father's voice cracks like old leather.

"Hi, Papa." I pitch my voice like I'm talking to Jeff, professional and distant. "Yes, I have those documents right here."

"What's happening? Are you?—"

"The timeline is critical," I interrupt, then drop to a whisper. "Papa, listen. Don't ask questions. Just listen."

"I don't understand?—"

"Sal's people might come looking." I shuffle papers loudly for Lorenzo's benefit. "You need to disappear. Leave the city."

"Baby, tell me what's going on."

"I can't." I glance at Lorenzo, who's determinedly not watching me. “Trust me. Stay away from anyone connected to Sal. Anyone connected to this life."

"Are you safe?"

Safe. Such a simple word for such a complicated concept. Am I safe in Dante's house? Safe from Sal's fists but not from Dante's words? Safe from physical harm but not from the way my heart races when I think about seeing him?

Safe from the storm brewing inside of me?

"The documentation is extensive," I say louder. "But I have it under control."

"Bella—"

"I have to go. Thank you for clarifying."

I hang up before his guilt can bleed through the phone. Before I have to explain that I've traded one cage for another, and somehow that's better. That I'm drafting legal documents for a man who sees me as his broken whore, and I can't stop thinking about him… or what I have to do next.

The phone weighs heavily in my hands. Three numbers. 9-1-1. So simple.

I type them in. Watch them sit on the screen like a promise or a threat. One tap and I could end this. Tell them I'm being held against my will. That I need rescue.

But rescue to what? To where?

Into Sal's waiting arms? Into witness protection, where I'd spend my life looking over my shoulder? Into a world where everyone knows I was Sal's wife, then Dante's whore?

There's no clean escape from this life. No fresh start for women like me.

I delete the numbers and hand the phone back to Lorenzo with a smile that's all teeth and no warmth.

"All done. Thank you."

"Of course, miss." He takes it carefully, like I might contaminate him. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually..." The question forms before I can stop it. "Where might Mr. Caruso be?"

"The kitchen, I believe."

Hot discomfort blooms in my stomach. Not the cold rage I've been nursing all day. Something else. Something that makes my skin too tight and my breath come too quickly.

"Thank you, Lorenzo."

He nods and retreats to his post, visible but trying not to be. Another soul caught in Dante's gravity, though his orbit is wider than mine.

I should go back to my papers. Perfect what's already perfect. Find new ways to prove I'm more than what he named me.

Instead, I find myself at the mirror.

My reflection looks... tired. Pale. Like I haven’t seen the sun in far too long. My hair hangs limp, uncombed since this morning. The silk robe—one of many luxury pieces that appeared in my closet—does nothing to hide how thin I've gotten.

Before I can think twice about it, I'm already reaching for a brush and running it through my hair until it shines. Already pinching my cheeks to bring color back. Already trading the robe for a dress that fits properly, showing I have curves despite the weight loss.

Dante is in the kitchen. And I know I can’t avoid him forever. But why am I trying to look beautiful for a man who sees me as a broken whore?

It’s all part of the plan , I tell myself. The one I’ve been formulating since those cruel words left his mouth. The one that gives my body what it wants, even if my heart would rather die. At least my brain understands what’s going on. The conflict. The desire. The defeat. The middle ground.

My hands shake as I apply lip gloss. Only a little. Nothing obvious. Nothing that suggests I'm trying to be anything other than what he's already named me.

But I am trying. The realization hits like cold water. I'm preparing myself like an offering. And it’s more than just calculated.

I hate myself for it. Hate him more for making me want to be something worth looking at. But the heat in my stomach won't go away. This flush that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with?—

No.

I grip the edge of the dresser until my knuckles go white. I won't name it. Won't acknowledge what's building under my skin every time I think about him—especially now, in the kitchen. Existing in domestic spaces like he's human.

I guess I have a soft spot for broken whores.

The words should make me sick. Should fuel the rage that's kept me functioning for seven days.

Instead, they make me wonder what that soft spot feels like. Whether it's gentle. Whether it would hurt less than Sal's hard edges or more because I might want it.

I'm losing my mind. Stockholm syndrome is setting in right on schedule, like his romance novels promised. Chapter ten when the captive starts wanting her captor.

At least I'm predictable.

The walk to the kitchen takes longer than usual. Each step measured, conscious of Lorenzo's eyes on my back until I turn the corner. The house spreads around me, all marble and money, as beautiful as a mausoleum.

My plan feels dumber with each step. But what other choice do I have? Wait for Sal's people to find me? Hope Dante's protection extends beyond his amusement?

No. If I'm going to survive, I need to take control.

The kitchen glows warm, and I stop in the doorway.

Dante stands at the stove, back to me. The air smells like garlic and herbs and a home I've never had. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing forearms that shouldn't fascinate me. He moves with the same precision he brings to everything—measured, controlled, purposeful.

The domesticity of it hits like a physical blow. The Devil of New York, making dinner like any old homebody. Like we're normal people instead of what we really are—captor and captive, owner and owned.

"Planning to stand there all night?"

I startle. He hasn't turned around, but of course, he knows I'm here. Men like him always know.

"Didn't know devils could cook."