Page 17 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The morning light makes everything look different. Softer. Like last night was a dream instead of… whatever that was.

Insanity.

It's ridiculous, this warmth spreading through my chest as I watch Dante across the breakfast table.

He's reading on his phone, brow furrowed in concentration, and I study the way sunlight catches the angles of his face.

The same face that looked down at me last night with such intensity that I thought I might combust.

My body still aches in the best way. Little reminders with every movement—yes, that happened. Yes, you made a deal with the Devil. Yes, you enjoyed every second of it.

The breakfast room feels different now, too. Not a prison cafeteria where captor and captive perform civility, but something else. Something I don't have words for yet.

"This is weird," I say, breaking the silence.

He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Breakfast, I mean. After... you know." I gesture vaguely between us as heat creeps up my neck. "It’s different."

Still nothing. Just the soft clink of his coffee cup against the saucer.

"I used to dread these meals," I continue, needing to fill the quiet void.

"Counting the minutes until I could escape back to the library.

Now I actually..." I trail off, realizing I'm about to admit something dangerous.

That I'm almost comfortable here. With him.

That this morning almost approaches normal.

"The eggs are good today," I try again, stabbing at the perfectly poached evidence of Maria's skill. "She added something different. Truffle, maybe?"

He sets down his phone with deliberate precision, and when his eyes meet mine, intensity in them that makes my smile falter.

"Will you marry me?"

The words crackle in the air like a slap.

My fork clatters against the plate. "What?"

"Marry me." Not a question this time. A statement. Cold and practical, like he's discussing a business merger.

"I don't—" My brain scrambles to catch up. "Is this about last night? Because we had a deal, protection for?—"

"The Commission is involved."

The warmth in my chest turns to ice. "The what?"

He leans back in his chair, suddenly looking tired despite the early hour. "The Commission. Five old men who think they still run New York's underworld from their social clubs. They know about the Inferno. About Sal. About you."

My stomach drops. "And they care because...?"

"Because I'm starting a war over a woman. In their world, that requires explanation. Justification." His jaw tightens. "Tomorrow night, there's a charity gala. The Ashford Foundation. Black tie, very public, very civilized."

"A charity gala?" The words come out smaller than intended.

"Hundreds of people. Politicians, socialites, legitimate businesspeople who have no idea who they're rubbing shoulders with. Too public for anything to go wrong. No violence, no scenes, just smiles and tax-deductible donations."

"Why there?"

"Neutral ground. The Commission wants to see us together. As husband and wife. Or at least engaged. More than owner and property."

Owner and property. Even after last night, after our deal, I'm still property with a different label?

"The Commission doesn't tolerate half-measures," he continues. "They need to see that you're worth the blood about to spill. That you're not a whore I'm fighting over, but my wife. My future. Someone permanent enough to justify war."

My mind races through the implications. Another performance. Another role to play. The mob boss's wife instead of the mob boss's prisoner. Same cage, different decorations.

"There's more." His voice drops, careful now. "Sal will be there."

My heart skitters.

I want to scream no. Want to tell him how the thought of being near Sal again makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. How I can still feel his hands on me. How his voice in my nightmares makes me wake gasping.

But instead, I arrange my face into a calm facade. Force my lips into a smile that feels like broken glass.

"Of course he will."

"It's required. The Calabrese family has been supporting the Ashford Foundation for twenty years."

"I understand."

He studies me, those dark eyes seeing too much. "You don't have to pretend with me."

But I do. Because I don't know what he is to me anymore. My captor? My protector? The man I made a deal with? The man who makes me feel ways that I shouldn’t? It's easier to be obedient. To smile and nod and not think about tomorrow night.

"I'll need a dress," I say, my voice as steady as I can make it.

"Sofia will help you."

"And you'll..." I swallow, the words sticking. "You'll keep him away from me?"

"He won't touch you. Won't come near you. You'll be on my arm the entire night." His hand reaches across the table, stopping just short of mine. "That's my promise. My end of the deal."

I look at his hand, so close to mine but not touching. The distance is miles and inches all at once.

"Anything you want, Dante." The statement comes out soft, submissive. The perfect response from the perfect possession.

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment maybe, or recognition. He pulls his hand back.

"Be ready by nine tomorrow."

I nod, already standing, needing to be anywhere but here.

He doesn't stop me as I leave, and I wonder if he knows. If he can see how hard I'm working to hold myself together. How the thought of tomorrow night makes me want to run until my feet bleed.

But I won't run. Can't run. We have a deal.

My closet might as well be a boutique, overloaded with racks of designer dresses I never asked for, never wanted, never chose. Sofia moves through them with efficiency, pulling options and holding them up to the light.

"Mr. Caruso said you need something for tonight," she says, all professional housekeeper. "The Ashford Foundation gala, right?"

"Right."

"I'll be there too, actually. Part of the security detail." She pulls out a burgundy dress, considers it, and puts it back. "Never been to a charity gala before. Do you buy it? That a man like Dante Caruso cares about donating to charity?"

The question catches me off guard. "I don't know. Maybe it's for show."

"Everything's for show with men like him, isn't it?" She holds up a silver dress that catches the light. "The cars, the houses, the women..."

I think about Dante this morning and the cold practicality of his proposal. Then I remember last night, the heat in his eyes, the reverence in his touch. Which one is real? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

"He saved me," I say quietly, surprising myself. "At the Inferno. When Sal came for me, Dante shot him in the knee and made him crawl out bleeding."

Sofia's hands go still on the dress. "That must have been terrifying."

"It was. But also..." I remember the dark satisfaction of watching Sal bleed. Of seeing him reduced to nothing. "It wasn't."

She sets the silver aside and pulls out a black gown. "How are things between you two now? You and Dante?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications.

"I fucked him."

The words come out blunt, harsh. Testing her reaction.

Sofia doesn't look surprised. She nods, the pleasant housekeeper facade dropping away. There's something sharper underneath, something that's been asking questions since I got here. "And how do you feel about that?"

"Relieved." The admission surprises me with its honesty. "Safe."

Her entire body goes tense, just for a moment. Then she's moving again, pulling out a midnight blue dress that looks like captured starlight.

"Safe," she repeats, a strange hollowness in her voice.

"What would you do?" I ask. "If you were in my place?"

She doesn't answer immediately, still examining dresses with meticulous attention.

"Kidnapped," I continue. "Trapped between two mob bosses. What would you do?"

"I'd be smart," she says finally. "Realize that the legal path is the only real option. Contact the police. Get help."

"And if you’re surrounded by guards?” I push, eyeing her. “Probably cameras and voice recorders everywhere in the house if you tried to get someone else to report for you."

"Then I'd find a way. Because it's the only choice that leads to actual freedom."

"Maybe it doesn't have to be." I finger the fabric of the blue dress, its silk cool against my skin. "Maybe I can learn to want this. Maybe what I'm feeling is?—"

"It's not real." She cuts me off, voice firm. "Whatever you're feeling, it's not real. It's your mind trying to make sense of trauma."

We both know what she's talking about. The syndrome everyone jokes about, but no one wants to name. The sickness that makes captives fall for their captors. What makes victims defend their abusers.

"What if it is real?"

"Scientifically?" She meets my eyes in the mirror. "It's not. It's brain chemistry. Survival instincts. Nothing more."

She moves closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "We can't talk here. Too many ears. But tomorrow, at the gala..." She trails off, glances at the door, then continues in a normal voice. "Try this one on."

My pulse quickens. What can't she say here? What's so important that it has to wait for a crowded gala? The way she's looking at me—urgent, meaningful—makes my skin prickle with anticipation and dread.

"The gala," I repeat softly, searching her face for clues.

She gives the smallest nod, then busies herself with the dress like nothing happened.

I slip into the midnight blue dress with shaking fingers and let her zip me up. In the mirror, I transform into what Dante needs me to be. A mob wife. Beautiful, expensive, worthy of warfare.

"You’re stunning," Sofia says, but her eyes don’t match her words. "He won't be able to take his eyes off you."

"That's the point, isn't it? To be looked at."

She adjusts the hem, her fingers careful with the delicate fabric. "Sometimes we have to play roles to survive. Doesn't mean that's who we really are."

When we're done, I look like a million dollars. Literally. The dress probably costs that much. My hair is pinned up, exposing my neck and the fading marks Dante left. My makeup is subtle but skilled, highlighting features that catch a devil's attention.

Sofia has changed too, now in a sharp black suit more suitable for security than a housekeeper. The transformation is startling—suddenly she appears authoritative, dangerous even. Like she has always been more than a servant, like this is who she really is.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Do I have a choice?"

We head downstairs, where Dante waits in the foyer. He's in a tuxedo that fits like it was sewn onto his body, all clean lines and expensive fabric. When he sees me, heat flashes in his eyes.

"Beautiful," he says simply.

Marco appears, also in a tux, grinning like this is all a game. "The car's ready. Let's go show the Commission that true love conquers all."

"True love," I repeat, tasting the lie.

We file out into the night, and I pause on the threshold. The driveway stretches into darkness, the gates distant but visible. Beyond them, the empty exurban roads that lead to the city, to airports, to anywhere that isn't here.

The cool air raises goosebumps on my bare arms. I breathe it in, trying to steady my nerves. About seeing Sal. About performing for the Commission's judgment.

I keep glancing at Sofia as we walk to the car.

She moves differently in that suit, with purpose and confidence I haven't seen before.

What did she mean about talking at the gala?

What can't she say here? The urgency in her whisper keeps echoing in my mind, making my stomach twist with equal parts hope and fear.

"Cold?" Dante asks, noticing my shiver.

"Nervous."

His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric. "Don't be. I'll be right beside you the entire time."

I lean into his touch without meaning to. I hate myself for finding comfort in it. Sofia's words echo in my mind—it's not real, just brain chemistry, survival instincts.

But as we slide into the car and Dante's thigh presses against mine, his cologne filling my lungs and stirring memories of last night, I wonder if knowing something isn't real makes it any less powerful.

The city lights blur past the window as we head toward whatever tonight brings. A performance. A judgment. A chance to prove I'm worth a war.

I glance at Sofia in the passenger seat, sitting straight-backed and alert like she's already on duty. Tonight at the gala, she said. We'll talk then. The promise dangles in the air like a lifeline, and I'm not sure I want to grab.

Dante's hand finds mine in the darkness of the car, and I let him take it. Let him hold it like we're a real couple heading to a real event.

I hold Dante’s hand and pretend that the warmth spreading through my chest is just adrenaline.

Just survival instincts.

Just my broken brain trying to make sense of an impossible situation.

It's not real , Sofia said.

But God help me, it feels real.

And that terrifies me more than anything waiting for us tonight.