Page 19 of Devil’s Gambit

"Part of it. The parts that make us look strong instead of weak." I accept a champagne flute from a passing server, needing to busy my hands. "He's too nice. Men that nice in your—our—world are always the most dangerous."

"Perceptive." Dante's eyes scan the crowd, inventorying threats and allies. "Domenico once beat his own son to death with his bare hands. The boy was talking to the FBI."

The champagne turns to acid in my throat. I look back at where Domenico now charms a senator's wife, his grandfatherly warmth intact. Everyone here is wearing a mask. Everyone here is pretending to be civilized while blood dries under their manicures.

"Where's Sal?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

"He'll be here soon. Fashionably late, making an entrance." Dante's jaw tightens. "Don't worry. I'm watching."

A woman approaches us—fifties, silver hair in an elegant chignon.

"Mr. Caruso! I've been hoping to catch you. I'm Patricia Ashford, from the Foundation. I wanted to thank you personally for your generous donation."

She launches into a speech about cancer research and community outreach, her passion genuine even if her audience isn't. Dante responds with performed interest, discussing funding allocations and tax benefits with the ease of someone who's played this game before.

I drift away slightly, needing space and air that doesn't smell like lies.

Sofia materializes at my elbow like a summoned demon, holding a tray of wine glasses. In her servant's outfit she looks like any other catering staff. Anonymous. Invisible.

"Wine?" Her voice is professionally vacant.

"Please." I take a glass, then lower my voice. "You said we could talk here. No recordings."

She pours for another guest, eyes scanning the room. When she speaks, her lips barely move.

"Tomorrow morning. Dawn." Her voice is urgent, barely a whisper. "I'll get you out. I promise you that."

"What?"

"Keep smiling. Look bored." She adjusts the glasses on her tray, natural and practiced. "There's more to discuss, but not here. Too many eyes. Tomorrow, when I come for you, I'll explain everything."

"Sofia, this is insane. You'll lose more than your job—Dante doesn't forgive betrayal."

"Some things are worth the risk." Her eyes meet mine for a moment, and there's ferocity. "You deserve freedom. Real freedom. Not this gilded cage."

"The compound is surrounded. There's nothing for miles but?—"

"Trust me. I have a way." She glances around, checking that no Caruso soldiers are nearby. "You've gained his trust. He won't expect you to run now. That's our advantage."

"I don't?—"

"Well, well, well." Marco's voice cuts through my protest like a blade through silk. "Is that the 2015 Chateau d'Yquem? Now I understand why people suffer through these things."

He appears at Sofia's other side, his grin predatory. For a moment, my heart stops—does he know? Did he hear?

But his attention is entirely on Sofia, the way men's attention focuses when they've decided on their prey for the evening.

"You clean up nice," he tells her, eyes traveling her body with obvious appreciation. "The whole servant thing is working for you. Very... Spanish maid fantasy."

Sofia's expression doesn't change. "Can I get you something, Mr. Caruso?"

"You can get me a dance." He leans closer, his voice dropping to an intimate tone. "You know, when I was reviewing staff applications, yours stood out. Great qualifications. Excellent references." He pauses, grin widening. "Among other... outstanding qualities."

"I'm working," Sofia says evenly.

"So am I. I'm working on convincing you to dance with me." He takes a glass from her tray, fingers brushing hers deliberately. "Come on. One dance. Nobody here gives a shit if the help has a little fun. Hell, half these society wives started as secretaries or nannies. It's practically tradition."

"There's dancing?" I interject, confused.

"About to be." Marco nods toward the ballroom doors as they open. "The old-money assholes insist on it. Waltz, foxtrot, all that Jane Austen bullshit. But hey, any excuse to press against a beautiful woman, right?"

He winks at Sofia, who maintains her professional mask with impressive determination.

"Marco," I warn, but he waves me off.

"What? I'm being honest. Honesty's a virtue, right? And Sofia here is very... virtuous. Among other things."

Music drifts from the ballroom—a live orchestra, because of course there is. The crowd begins to flow toward the sound like moths to flame, and suddenly a hand captures mine.

Dante.

"Dance with me."

"I don't—I can't?—"

"Wasn't a question." His voice is steel wrapped in velvet. "The Commission is watching. Married couples dance."

He leads me into the ballroom, and my breath catches.

If the foyer was overwhelming, this is an assault by beauty.

The ceiling soars three stories, painted with cherubs and clouds that seem to move in the chandelier light.

Mirrors line the walls, multiplying us into infinity.

The orchestra plays from a raised platform, their music washing over us like warm honey.

Other couples are already taking positions on the floor.

All of them move with the grace of people who learned to waltz before they learned to lie.

Women float past in gowns that whisper against the polished floor, their partners leading them through steps as familiar as breathing.

The chandelier light catches on diamonds, on champagne flutes abandoned on side tables, on the sweat beginning to bead on dancers' foreheads despite the evening’s chill.

"I don't know how," I whisper as Dante pulls me into position. My hands shake as he places one on his shoulder and takes the other in his.

"Follow me." His hand on my waist is firm, guiding and warm through the silk of my dress. "Feel the rhythm. Three-four time. Like a heartbeat with one chamber missing."

The music swells, and he moves. I stumble immediately, stepping on his foot, my face burning with embarrassment.

"Sorry, I?—"

"Don't apologize. Look at me." His dark eyes hold mine, steady and sure. "Not at your feet. At me. Trust me to lead you."

We start again, slower this time. His hand on my waist applies gentle pressure, guiding me backward as he steps forward. I'm clumsy, all awkward angles and counted steps, but he's patient. When I step on his foot again, he doesn't flinch.

"You're thinking too much," he murmurs, pulling me closer. "Feel the music. It's like water—let it carry you."

Gradually, my body begins to understand the pattern—step, step, turn. The rhythm seeps into my bones, and I stop counting, stop thinking, stop worrying about the people watching us. Dante's hand on my waist becomes an anchor, his eyes a focal point in the spinning room.

"Better," he says, and spins me out.

For a moment, I'm lost, alone in the space, but then his hand finds mine and pulls me back.

I fall against his chest, closer than before, and he steadies me for a heartbeat before resuming the proper position.

But now there's less distance between us. I can feel the heat of him through his tuxedo, smell his cologne. It’s intoxicating.

The ballroom becomes a kaleidoscope of sensation.

The whisper of my dress against my legs as we turn.

The slight roughness of his palm against mine where our hands meet.

The way the music pulses through the floor, up through my heels, into my very bones.

Other dancers swirl past in a blur of color and light, but they seem distant, unreal.

There's only Dante's eyes, dark and focused on me, and the warm pressure of his hand guiding me through steps I'm learning with my body rather than my mind.

"You're a natural," he murmurs, spinning me out and back effortlessly. This time I don't stumble, letting momentum carry me away and back to him like I'm attached by an invisible string.

"Natural at what? Playing your perfect wife?"

"Natural at surprising me."

"The only surprise is that I haven't run screaming from this room."

We turn, and I catch sight of us in the mirrors—him in his perfect tuxedo, me in midnight blue, and for a moment, we look like we belong here.

Like we're one of those couples who've been dancing together for years, who know each other's rhythms, who move as one. The realization makes my breath catch.

Dante must feel the change because his hand tightens slightly on my waist, pulling me a fraction closer. The music shifts to a slower, more intimate score, and around us, other couples adjust, the dancing less about steps and more about proximity.

"You're beautiful," he says quietly.

His eyes aren't cold and calculating now, but warm, focused on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter.

For a moment, I forget about the Commission watching, about Sal coming, about Sofia's offer of escape.

There's just this—the music, the movement, the way he's looking at me like a precious gem rather than a poker pot.

Over Dante's shoulder, I spot Domenico dancing with a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. His eyes aren't on her. They're on us, studying, evaluating. Looking for cracks in our performance.

What does he see? A woman in love or a woman surviving? A real marriage or an elaborate lie?

I don't even know anymore.

"You won't run," Dante whispers. "Can't."

Run .

Sofia's words echo in my mind. Tomorrow. Dawn. Freedom from all of this—the performances, the danger, the constant fear that undergirds even the softest moments.

But as Dante spins me again, as the lights blur into streams of gold and crystal, as his hand presses against the small of my back with possessive tenderness, I wonder: Do I want to be free from this? From him? From these moments where we stop being captor and captive and become our own… entity?

The thought terrifies me more than anything.

"How many people have you killed, Dante?" The question slips out without permission, quiet enough that only he can hear.

He doesn't miss a step. "Enough."

"Did they deserve it?"

"Does anyone deserve death?"

"Legally? Yes. Some crimes warrant capital punishment."

"And morally?"

I meet his eyes. "Morally, we all deserve what we choose."

"And what have you chosen, Isabella?"

The question balances between us as we turn.

"Promise me something, Dante."

"More promises? We're accumulating quite a collection."

"Sal needs to be the last man you kill."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's a significant request."

"I'm tired of blood. Tired of violence. If we're going to play husband and wife, I want to at least pretend we could be normal."

"Normal." He tastes the word like foreign cuisine. "You want normal with the Devil of New York?"

"I want to wake up without wondering who you've murdered while I slept."

"And if I made that promise? What would you give in return?"

Before I can answer, the ballroom doors open with unnecessary drama.

The music doesn't stop, but it might as well have. Every head turns toward the entrance, where Salvatore Calabrese stands like damaged royalty, leaning on an elegant cane that doesn't quite hide his limp.

He's dressed impeccably—Armani suit, hair slicked back, appearing every inch a successful businessman rather than the monster who terrorized me. Only the tightness around his eyes and the white-knuckle grip on his cane betray his pain.

My body goes cold, then hot, then numb. Even across the ballroom, even with Dante's arms around me, the monster’s presence hits like a physical blow. My skin remembers his hands. My ribs remember his boots. My soul remembers the weight of him, crushing everything good until only survival remained.

But that's not what makes my heart stop.

It's the man beside him.

Shorter than Sal, graying at the temples.

Wearing a tuxedo that doesn't quite fit because he's lost weight.

Shoulders curved inward like he's trying to make himself smaller to disappear into the crowd.

Eyes that won't quite meet anyone's gaze, darting around like a trapped animal until they find mine.

The word leaves my lips like a prayer, a curse, a question I don't want answered:

"Dad."