Page 16 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

Knocking pulls me from dreams of storm-gray eyes and deals sealed in flesh.

I surface slowly, consciousness returning in pieces. Silk sheets against my bare skin. Morning light filters through heavy curtains, painting gold stripes across the floor. The scent of sex and expensive perfume still hangs in the air. And beside me?—

Bella.

She's curled on her side, facing away, dark hair spilled across my pillow like an ink stain. The sheet has slipped down to reveal the elegant curve of her spine and the faint marks I left on her shoulder. In sleep, she’s softer.

Nothing like the woman who propositioned me twelve hours ago with calculated precision.

A deal. That's what she called it. Protection for submission. My guarantee of safety for her willing surrender.

I study the steady rise and fall of her breathing. A week ago, she stood in this same room with a letter opener clutched in her hand, ready to gut me if I came too close. Now she sleeps beside me, naked and trusting. Or at least trusting enough to close her eyes in my presence.

Good call, waiting. Letting her come to me instead of taking what was technically already mine.

The knocking starts again, more insistent.

I slide from bed, careful not to wake her. She shifts slightly, murmuring something that might be my name, then settles deeper into sleep. The trust in that small movement settles into my chest.

I pull on yesterday's pants, not bothering with a shirt. Whoever's knocking at—I check the bedside clock; nine in the morning—better have a good reason.

The marble floor is cold under my feet as I pad to the door. Through the peephole, I see Marco, shifting his weight with barely contained energy.

I open the door just enough to block his view of the bed. Of Bella.

"This better be important."

Marco's eyes travel from my bare chest to the marks on my neck, and his grin spreads like oil on water. "Holy shit. You actually did it. You sealed the deal with?—"

"Careful."

"I'm just saying, it’s about time. The tension was getting uncomfortable for everyone." He tries to peer past me. "She still breathing in there?"

"Five seconds before I close this door."

"Right, right. Business." His expression shifts, though the amusement doesn't completely fade. "We have a problem. A big one. Well, medium-big. Okay, it's pretty fucking catastrophic."

I step into the hallway, closing the door behind me. The air is cooler here, raising goosebumps on my bare skin. "Talk."

"The Commission knows about the Inferno incident."

The words hit like ice water. "How?"

"Does it matter? Someone talked. Someone always talks.

Could've been the janitor, could've been one of those Wall Street pricks pissing themselves in the corner.

" He pauses. "Point is, they're furious.

A shootout in a public club? Sal Calabrese crawling out bleeding?

They're calling it sloppy. Like something out of a bad mob movie. "

"Sal violated the code first when he came into my place armed."

"You think they give a shit about technicalities? These are the same guys who still think email is witchcraft." Marco runs a hand through his hair. "They want a sit-down. Tomorrow night."

"Fine. Set it up."

"Already done. But here's the thing—it's at the Ashford Foundation gala."

"A charity gala." I lean against the wall. "They want to discuss territory wars at a fucking charity gala."

"Neutral ground. Too many civilians and cameras for anything to go sideways. Plus, open bar. You know how the Commission loves free booze." Marco's attempt at levity falls flat. "Sal will be there."

The words dangle between us like a blade.

"You're joking."

"The Calabrese family has supported the Ashford Foundation for twenty years. His invitation predates this mess." Marco watches me carefully. "The Commission wants to see you both. Together. They want to see her."

"Her?"

"Isabella. They want to see what kind of woman is worth starting a war over. Probably want to make sure she's real and you didn't make her up."

"This isn't funny, Marco."

"It's a little funny. But mostly it's fucked." He pulls out his cigarettes before seeming to remember we're in the hallway and putting them back. "Look, can we talk about Lorenzo for a second?"

"What about him?"

"You killed him. Over her. The man worked for us eight years, and you beat him to death because he made a joke."

"It wasn't just a joke."

"Fine, it was a crude comment about sharing. But Jesus, Dante, the guy was a good soldier. Yeah, he was a murderer and a cheating son of a bitch who still owed me fifty grand from that poker game last month, but he didn't deserve to die for running his mouth about your... whatever this is."

"It's a business arrangement. She’s under my protection."

Marco laughs, short and sharp. "Right. A business arrangement that has you killing loyal men and forgetting to lock your bedroom door."

I stiffen. "What?"

"Yeah, I noticed. I could've walked right in and seen things that would've scarred me for life." He grins. "I knocked because I'm a gentleman. And because I value my retinas."

"You're treading on thin ice."

"I'm standing on the ice, doing a little dance on it." Marco's expression turns serious. "But here's the thing, brother. This is it. The moment."

"What moment?"

"The moment every good mob boss reaches.

You're one of the best in the game—careful, meticulous, smart. I like having you as my boss. You know why? Because you haven’t gotten me shot yet.

You keep us in the comfort zone. We make money, we stay alive, and we don't have to check our cars for bombs every morning. "

"You think I give a shit about comfort?"

"I think you used to care about strategy.

But now?" He gestures vaguely at the bedroom door.

"Now you're acting like every other boss who lets a woman get under his skin.

They all fall the same way, Dante, not from bullets or betrayal, but from love.

It makes them stupid. Impulsive. They start killing loyal soldiers, starting wars over disrespect, forgetting basic security protocols like locking fucking doors. "

"You think our father cared about the comfort zone?" The question comes out harder than intended. "He would've killed anyone who disrespected our mother."

"And he'd be wrong too." Marco's voice gets passionate.

"You know what I like about our current situation?

We're murderers, thieves, complete sons of bitches—but comfortable ones.

I've got a wine cellar worth more than most people's houses.

Every night, I can have a different beautiful woman in my bed who laughs at my terrible jokes because I pay her enough to find me hilarious.

No checking for car bombs. No bulletproof vests under our shirts.

Just the good life with occasional violence on the side, like a garnish. "

"You're getting soft."

"I'm getting smart. Hard to stay hard when you might have a gun to your head by morning.

Hard to enjoy that thirty-year-old scotch when you're wondering if it's poisoned.

" Marco laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"Dad's operating system was from a different era.

And look where it got him—face down in his own driveway with seventeen bullets in his back. "

"That was business."

"That was him being impulsive over a woman. Not Mom—that mistress in Queens. Remember? He got sloppy, got emotional, got dead." Marco steps closer. "Is that what you want? To end up like him because you can't think straight around your poker prize?"

"She's not—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.

"Not what? Not just a poker prize? Not just a business arrangement?" Marco's voice drops. "Then what is she, Dante? Your wife? You planning to say vows next? Register at Tiffany's?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm being realistic. She's scared, you're obsessed, and this whole thing is a powder keg waiting for a match." He pauses. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you want to corrupt her completely. Make her like us. Turn that law school brain into something darker. Then maybe, maybe , this doesn't end with both of you in the ground."

The suggestion lingers between us.

Turn Isabella into what? A female version of us? Someone who can navigate this world without flinching, who can stand next to me at Commission meetings and smile while discussing murder over champagne?

"Look," Marco continues, "I get it. She's different from your usual type. Not some obedient thing who says 'yes, Daddy' to everything. She's got fire. Brains. That whole damaged-but-not-broken thing that makes you want to be her hero."

"I'm nobody's hero."

"No, you're just the guy who's about to risk everything—our business, our lives, our extremely comfortable situation where we can get reservations at any restaurant in the city—for a woman you barely know.

" He shakes his head. "Think about it, Dante.

We've got a good thing going. Money flowing, minimal violence, cops looking the other way.

You want to throw that away for what? For her? "

"For respect. For tradition."

"For bullshit. You want to throw it away because she makes your dick hard and your brain soft."

My hand is around his throat before I consciously decide to move. Marco doesn't resist. He simply meets my eyes with that steady gaze he's had since we were boys.

"See?" he wheezes. "Impulsive. Emotional. This is what I'm talking about."

I release him and step back. He's right, and we both know it.

"The Commission wants to talk," he continues, rubbing his throat. "Just talk. Go to the gala, make nice, and let them see that you're reasonable. That this can be resolved without turning Manhattan into Mogadishu."

"And if Sal tries something?"

"At a charity gala surrounded by New York's elite?

He'd have to be stupider than we think. Though given recent evidence.

.." Marco straightens his collar. "Besides, you'll have security.

I'll have security. Half the made men in the city will be there pretending they give a shit about cancer research. "

I envision Bella sleeping in my bed. Imagine taking her into a room with Sal, letting him see her on my arm, letting him think about what I've done to her, with her, since winning her.

"Fine. We'll go."

"Good. Now put a damn shirt on. You look like a cologne ad."

"Get out."

"Going. But Dante?" He pauses at the end of the hallway.

"Whatever this is with her—business arrangement or actual feelings—figure it out before tomorrow night.

The Commission will smell uncertainty like blood in the water.

And trust me, that comfort zone I mentioned? It's a lot nicer than a war zone."

He disappears around the corner, leaving me alone in the hallway with the echo of hard truths.

I lean against the wall for a moment, letting the cool marble ground me. Tomorrow night, I have to walk Isabella into a room with her ex-husband. Have to let the Commission judge whether she's worth a war. Have to pretend that what we have is something explainable, quantifiable, and defensible.

I head back to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Bella hasn't moved, still lost in whatever dreams chase through her mind. The morning light has shifted, painting her skin gold. She looks peaceful. Trusting. Nothing like the woman who negotiated her own salvation with calculated precision.

I pull on a shirt, the cotton soft against my skin. The marks she left are hidden now, but I still feel them. Still feel her.

In the hallway, I encounter Sofia carrying an armload of fresh linens. She stops when she sees me, offering that practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes.

"Mr. Caruso. Good morning."

"Sofia."

"I apologize for not having breakfast ready at the usual time. I didn't want to disturb..."

"It's fine."

She starts to move past, then hesitates. "Should I get something special for tonight? I mean, if you're celebrating?"

"Just dinner for two. Nothing elaborate."

"Of course. I'll make sure everything is perfect."

She continues down the hall, and I watch her go.

Marco keeps hiring new people—security, staff, soldiers.

Says we need fresh blood, people without connections to the old feuds.

Sofia came recommended from someone, though I can't remember who.

Her background checked out—clean record, no family ties to any of the families.

But something about her bothers me. Maybe it's the way she watches Isabella, like she's studying her. Or maybe it's paranoia, the price of living this life too long.

I head to my office, the one room in this house that's entirely mine. No ghosts of Isabella here, no scent of her perfume, no memory of her skin. Just leather and wood and the tools of my trade—encrypted phones, hidden safes, weapons that have ended more lives than I can count.

I pour myself whiskey despite the early hour. The burn reminds me who I am. Not the hero from a romance novel. Not a man capable of love or redemption or happily ever after.

Just Dante Caruso. The Devil of New York. A man who makes deals and keeps them, no matter the cost.

But as I sit here, I think about why I can't tell her the truth. Why I can't admit that this stopped being just a deal the moment she fell asleep in my arms.

The women I usually take to bed are simple. Obedient. Isabella is different. She's complicated, challenging, and dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with weapons. She makes me want to be the hero from those books I hoard—the one who finds redemption through love.

But I can't tell her that. Can't admit that she's become more than a deal, more than a possession, more than anything I have words for. Because in our world, that admission is a weakness. And weakness gets you killed.

Marco's right about one thing—I'm walking the same path that got our father killed. Getting emotional, getting sloppy, getting attached to someone who could destroy me worse than any bullet.

The difference is, I know it. I see the trap closing around me, feel the noose tightening with every moment I spend thinking about her instead of business.

And I'm walking into it anyway.

Tomorrow night, I'll parade her in front of the Commission and Sal and pretend she's just a possession worth protecting. I'll play the part of the coldly logical crime boss making a stand on principle, not passion.

But the truth sits in my chest like a stone: I'm falling for my own prisoner. And in our world, that's the kind of sin that doesn't get forgiven.

It gets you killed.

The whiskey burns going down, but not as much as the truth.

She's not another whore, another woman, another deal.

She's whatever this is. And that terrifies me more than any war ever could.