Page 2 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

The Inferno's private room reeks of Cuban cigars and desperation. I've built this empire on reading men's weaknesses, and tonight, the air is thick with them. Five players surround the green felt table, but only one empty chair matters.

Sal Calabrese is late.

I check my Patek Philippe—forty-three minutes now.

In my world, keeping Dante Caruso waiting is either stupidity or strategy.

With Sal, the line blurs. I deal another hand to kill time, watching my associates pretend they aren't nervous.

Tommy Marino keeps touching his collar. Vito Torrelli's been sweating since he sat down.

Even my brother Marco drums his fingers against his whiskey glass.

"Maybe he's not coming," Tommy ventures, pushing chips forward with forced confidence.

"He'll come." I study my cards—a pair of kings. Fitting. "Sal's been hemorrhaging money for months. He needs this game."

"His territory's in shit shape," Vito adds. "Heard the feds are sniffing around his warehouses."

Marco snorts. "Feds are the least of his problems. Word is the Luccheses want their loans paid. With interest."

I've heard the same rumors. Sal Calabrese, once the Butcher of Brooklyn, is drowning. His empire, built on fear, is crumbling because fear without funds means nothing. He's been sending messages for weeks, desperate for a seat at my table. I made him wait, let him marinate in his own panic.

The door slams open.

"Gentlemen." Sal's voice booms across the room, too loud, too forced. The smell of bourbon precedes him—not the good stuff either. Cheap whiskey trying to pass for confidence.

He drags someone behind him.

No, not someone. Her.

Dark hair falls like a curtain, hiding her face as she tries to shrink into herself.

The dress screams money but whispers all wrong—too short for her comfort, too tight for breathing, too bright for someone trying to disappear.

Bruises mark her upper arms where the fabric can't hide them. Fresh ones overlapping old.

Sal yanks her forward, and she stumbles in heels too high for her unsteady gait. When she catches herself on the edge of the table, I see her face.

Storm-gray eyes, carefully blank. Full lips pressed thin. Cheekbones that belong in Renaissance paintings. Beautiful in the way broken things sometimes are—sharp edges where there should be curves, steel where there should be softness.

"My wife, Isabella." Sal shoves her behind his chair like he’s positioning furniture. "She's my good luck charm tonight."

She doesn't react to the introduction. Doesn't look at any of us.

Just stands there, hands clasped in front of her, knuckles around a small clutch purse.

I've built an empire reading tells, and hers scream volumes.

The way she flinches when Sal moves too quickly.

How she positions herself just out of his reach.

The micro-expressions that say she's learned to be invisible to survive.

"Mrs. Calabrese." I nod to her, a professional courtesy.

Her eyes flick to mine for half a second before dropping back to the floor. But in that fraction, I see it—a flash of something that isn't fear. Anger, maybe. Or defiance worn down to its bones but still breathing.

Interesting.

"Let's play cards." Sal drops into his chair with the grace of a wrecking ball. His chips are already waiting—the buy-in I've required upfront. A hundred grand that I know he's borrowed from people who break kneecaps for late payments.

"Antes in," I announce, tossing a chip forward. The others follow suit—house rules, minimum stakes to keep things colorful.

I deal the cards, smooth and practiced. The familiar rhythm of shuffle and slide, chips clicking like expensive teeth.

But my attention keeps drifting to the woman standing statue-still behind Sal's chair.

Isabella. The name doesn't fit the broken bird pose.

Isabella is a queen's name, not a possession's.

On the first hand, Sal bets aggressively.

An amateur move when you're desperate. His tells are neon signs—touching his wedding ring when bluffing, scratching his neck on good cards.

His wife notices them, too. I catch the tiny tension in her shoulders before each of his bad plays.

She knows. Of course, she knows. You don't survive marriage to a man like Sal without learning to read the storm.

"Rough week, Sal?" I keep my voice conversational.

"Fuck you, Caruso," he says. "Just had some temporary cash flow issues. Nothing I can't handle."

Tommy and Vito fold. Smart. This is between Sal and me now—has been since he walked in late.

"Temporary." I taste the word, let it hang. "Is that why you put your waterfront territory up as collateral with the Luccheses?"

His face goes purple. "That's none of your fucking business."

"Everything in this city is my business." I turn over my cards. Full house. "Eventually."

He mucks his cards and shoves chips my way. Behind him, Isabella's shoulders drop a fraction. Relief? Or resignation?

The next hour is systematic destruction. I don't need to cheat—Sal is drowning himself just fine. His stack dwindles as his drinking increases. The bottle he brought sits half-empty already, and he keeps refilling his glass like salvation waits at the bottom.

Eventually, Sal goes all in with nothing—three queens. I call with a straight. Isabella's eyes flick between the cards and her husband's face, cataloging another loss, another tell.

"Need a break, Sal?" Marco suggests after Sal loses another massive pot. "Maybe some coffee?"

"I don't need your fucking pity." Sal slams his glass down. The sound makes Isabella flinch, subtle but there. "Deal the fucking cards."

I watch her while I shuffle. She's shifted her weight; those impossible heels are probably killing her feet. But she doesn't move otherwise, doesn't ask to sit, doesn't complain. Just stands there like she's been trained. The perfect mob wife—silent, decorative, invisible.

Except for her eyes. When she thinks no one is looking, those gray eyes track everything. The exits. The number of men in the room. Where the weapons would be. Smart. Survivor's instincts wrapped in designer clothing.

Sal's chips are nearly gone. Maybe five grand left of his hundred thousand buy-in. His hands shake as he reaches for the bottle again.

"Last hand?"

"Fuck that." He throws back the bourbon, misses his mouth, and liquor dribbles down his chin. "I need more credit."

"This is a cash game. You know the rules."

"Rules." He laughs, ugly and sharp. "Your rules. Your table. Your fucking city now, right?"

I don't rise to the bait. Just wait. Men like Sal always hang themselves if you give them enough rope.

"I'll put up collateral." His bloodshot eyes dart around the room. "My waterfront territory."

"Already mortgaged. To the Luccheses, as we established."

"The Brooklyn routes then."

"Sold those to the Gambinos last month." I keep my voice pleasant, factual. "You're out of assets, Sal."

That's when his eyes land on Isabella.

The moment stretches. I see the calculation in his face, desperation doing the math. She must sense it too because her whole body goes rigid.

"I have one more asset." His smile is all teeth and no soul.

"Sal." Her voice, speaking for the first time. Low, careful. "Don't."

He backhands her without looking. Casual violence, practiced and efficient. Her head snaps to the side, but she doesn't cry out. Just presses her fingers to her cheek and goes silent again.

The room goes still. Even Tommy stops fidgeting.

"I'll wager my wife." Sal's words drop like stones in water. "Against your whole fucking casino."

Silence. Then Marco's sharp intake of breath. Vito's chair creaks as he leans back. Tommy curses in Italian, crossing himself.

I keep my face neutral while my mind races. The smart play is to refuse. You don't win human beings in poker games. Bad for business, bad for reputation. The FBI already sniffs around my operations enough without adding human trafficking to their wish list.

But.

Those bruises on her arms. That practiced flinch. The way she's stood for over an hour in those heels without complaint, because sitting might earn worse than a backhand.

"You can't bet a person." Her voice again, stronger this time. "Sal, please. I'm not a?—"

"You're whatever the fuck I say you are." He grabs her wrist and yanks her forward. "Everything I own includes you. The ring on your finger makes you property."

"I'm not property." But even as she says it, her free hand goes to her throat. Old bruises are surely there, hidden under makeup and pearls.

"In our world? Everything's for sale. Everyone's for sale. You've been bought and paid for since your daddy handed you over."

I process that information. An arranged marriage, then. Debts or deals, it’s the oldest currency in our world. It explains the resignation under her defiance. She was currency before.

"What's your proposal exactly?" I hear myself asking.

Isabella's eyes snap to mine. Betrayal flickers there before she shutters it away.

"Simple." Sal leans forward, bourbon breath fouling the air. "I win, I walk with your casino. The whole fucking thing. You win..." He jerks his head toward Isabella. "You get four weeks with my wife. Do whatever you want. Break her in properly since I never could."

"Four weeks." I force my voice to stay calm. "For my entire casino? Seems unbalanced."

"Fine. Permanent then. You win, she's yours. Forever. Papers signed, lawyers paid, whatever makes it legal."

"Sal!"

"Shut up." His fingers tighten around her wrist until she winces. "You cost me more than you're worth anyway. Frigid bitch."

I catalog every mark on her. Every flinch. Every tell that says this isn't new. Sal Calabrese has been destroying this woman by degrees, and now he wants to sell the wreckage.

"I'll need two weeks to arrange the legal side." I keep my voice businesslike. "Divorce papers, asset transfers, whatever keeps it clean. If I win."