Page 20 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The balcony door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds like a trap springing shut.

Manhattan sprawls below, a glittering carpet of lights that’s deceptively peaceful from this height.

Like you could fall into it and land somewhere soft instead of splattering on concrete.

The cold wind cuts through my dress, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the man standing three feet away.

My father.

He’s smaller than I remember. His tuxedo from shoulders that have learned to curve inward, to make themselves less of a target. When our eyes meet, his face crumbles like wet paper. "Bella." My name shatters in his mouth. "Piccola, I?—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than intended. My whole body trembles—rage, fear, love, hate—all mixing into poison. "Just... how? I called you. I told you to run. To hide."

"I tried." His hands shake as he reaches for me, then thinks better of it, letting them fall like broken birds. "But Sal's people... they were everywhere. At the bank, when I tried to withdraw money. At the train station. Even at your mother's grave, Bella. They were waiting at her grave."

The cruelty of it—using my dead mother's resting place as a trap—is so achingly Sal that bile rises in my throat.

Around us, the Commission leans against the stone railing like they're watching dinner theater. Domenico sips champagne with the casual air of someone enjoying a pleasant evening. The other four old men mirror his relaxation, but their eyes are sharp, calculating. This is entertainment for them.

Sal stands to my left, weight shifted to his good leg, that elegant cane both prop and weapon.

The wind ruffles his impeccably styled hair, and for a moment, I remember running my fingers through it on our wedding night, thinking I could learn to love him.

Before the first bruise. Before the first broken promise.

Dante stands to my right, violence radiating off him in waves. His stillness is different from the Commission's relaxation—he’s a predator deciding which throat to tear out first.

"Paolo here has been invaluable," Sal says, lighting a cigar. "Runs my real estate portfolio like a dream. Well, when he's not in my warehouses playing cards with money he doesn't have."

My father seems to shrink further, disappearing into his ill-fitting clothes.

"Tell them the whole story, Paolo." Sal's voice drips false sympathy. "Tell your daughter how you begged me for just one more game. Just one more chance to win it all back."

"Stop." My father's voice is barely a whisper.

"Twenty-three times." Sal holds up his fingers like he's counting party guests. "Twenty-three times, I gave you another chance. Another loan. Another week to pay. And every time, what did you do?"

Silence.

"What did you do, Paolo?"

"I lost." The words fall like stones. "I lost everything."

"Everything except your daughter." Sal's eyes find mine, and fear rolls across my tongue. "Beautiful Isabella. Smart, clean, nice tits, untouched by our world. The perfect payment for imperfect debts."

"She was never supposed to be payment," my father protests weakly. "It was supposed to be a marriage. An alliance. You promised?—"

"I promised not to put a bullet in your skull." Sal's voice goes cold. "And look, you're still breathing. I'm a man of my word."

"A man of your word?" Dante's voice cuts through like a blade. "You bet your wife on a poker hand. Threw her on the table like chips."

"I was drunk."

"Drunk enough to bet your wife yet sober enough to remember the exact cards you lost with."

Sal's face darkens. "Watch your tone, Caruso."

"Or what? You'll bet something else you can't afford to lose?"

"Gentlemen." Domenico's voice is warm honey over broken glass. "Such hostility. And at a charity event, no less."

The tension ratchets higher. My father reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. His palm is clammy, cold, and familiar. My chest aches. How many times did this hand hold mine when I was small? How many times did it sign away pieces of our lives to feed his addiction?

"There's a simple solution here," Sal continues, addressing Domenico like they're reasonable men discussing reasonable things. "She's my wife. Legal documents, church wedding, consummated marriage. Just because this cafone won her in a game doesn't change facts."

"Facts." Dante laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The fact is you lost. You put her up as collateral, and you lost. In front of witnesses."

"I was protecting my investment?—"

"Your investment?" Dante steps forward, and suddenly the spacious balcony feels cramped. "She's not a fucking investment. She's?—"

"What? Your whore?" Sal's smile is all teeth. "At least when she was my whore, she was legally mine."

The word hits like a physical blow.

"Enough." Domenico sets down his champagne with a delicate clink. "This is growing tedious. We're all civilized men here. Surely we can resolve this without descending into vulgarity."

But Sal's on a roll now, the cruel words flowing like wine.

"You want to know the difference between us, Caruso?

When I married her, it was a business arrangement.

Clean, simple, traditional. Her father gave her to me to clear his debts.

But you? You won her like a prize at a carnival.

At least I had the decency to put a ring on her before I fucked her. "

My whole body goes hot with humiliation. They're discussing my sex life like comparing restaurant reviews.

"The difference," Dante says quietly, dangerously, "Is that she chose me. She came to my bed willingly."

"Willingly." Sal barks out a laugh. "Is that what you tell yourself? That a terrorized woman came to you willingly? She's a survivor, Caruso. She spreads her legs for whoever keeps her breathing. Yesterday me, today you, tomorrow, who the fuck knows?"

I want to scream. But my voice is trapped behind years of conditioning to be silent when men discuss my fate.

The balcony door opens, and we all freeze like guilty children. A young waitress appears with a silver tray, oblivious to the violence crackling in the air.

"Canapés?" Her voice is bright, cheerful, absolutely wrong for this moment. "The chef's special tonight—duck confit with cherry reduction."

Domenico's entire demeanor transforms instantly, eyes twinkling with delight.

"Oh, how wonderful! Look at that stuff." He takes one with deliberate delicacy. "Please, everyone must try one. It would be insulting to the chef otherwise."

The threat under the politeness is clear. We all reach for the tray like marionettes. Even Sal, even my trembling father. I take a canapé I'll never taste, my mouth too dry with fear.

"You have such lovely features," Domenico tells the waitress, his voice as warm as a fireplace. "Korean heritage?"

"Half, sir. My mother's side."

"How wonderful. You know, I had a marvelous Korean secretary once. Brilliant woman. Very... thorough in her work." His smile never wavers, but his tone makes the waitress step back.

"I should... the other guests..."

"Of course, dear. Run along."

She flees, and the grandfather mask drops. The message was clear—Domenico controls this moment, this space, our very breathing. He could order all our deaths while commenting on canapés and probably has.

"Now then," he continues, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "Where were we? Ah yeah, the sordid matter of ownership."

"It's not sordid," Sal spits. "It's simple. She's my legal wife."

"Legal." Dante's voice drips with contempt. "Since when do any of us give a fuck about legal?"

"Since the FBI started giving a fuck about us," Domenico interjects, still pleasant, still terrifying.

"Gentlemen, we have federal agents so far up our collective asses they can taste what we had for breakfast. The last thing any of us need is for the respectable Mr. Caruso, casino owner, and Mr. Calabrese, hotelier, to end up in a very public, very bloody dispute over a woman. "

"Then make him give her back," Sal demands.

"Make me?" Dante's hand moves to his jacket. "You want to try making me do anything?"

"Gentlemen, please."

My father squeezes my hand harder. He's crying now, silent tears that he doesn't bother to wipe away, letting them fall onto his wrinkled tuxedo shirt.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, just for me. "I never meant for this. I thought... I thought if I could just win once more. One big score to pay him back, to buy your freedom."

"You thought wrong." The words come out cold, but inside I'm fracturing. "You've been thinking wrong my whole life."

"I know. God, Bella, I know. I'm weak. I'm pathetic. I'm?—"

"You're my father." The admission burns. "And I forgive you."

The words surprise us both. I don't know if they're true. But watching him break, watching these men argue over me as if I'm territory to be claimed, I realize I'm about to do exactly what he did. Trade someone for my own survival.

"Such drama!" Domenico claps his hands like he's at the opera. "Young love, old debts, the eternal dance of power and possession. It's almost Shakespearean."

"There's nothing Shakespearean about this," Dante says. "Sal violated our codes. He came into my establishment armed, threatened what's mine?—"

"What's yours?" Sal's voice rises. "She's never been yours! You're just holding stolen property."

"I won her fair and square."

"You won a poker hand! That doesn't make her yours any more than winning a stolen car makes you the owner!"

They're escalating, voices rising, bodies tensing. It’s building like storm clouds—the violence that's been threatening since we walked onto this balcony.

"Perhaps, you two are right," Domenico says thoughtfully. "We need a more... traditional solution."

Everyone turns to him.

"In the old country," he continues, "when two men claimed the same woman, the same territory, the same right to power, there was only one solution." He spreads his hands like a benevolent god. "War."