Page 21 of Devil’s Gambit

The word permeates the air like a death sentence.

I feel my moment approaching like a train I can hear but not see. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it. The words form in my throat, dangerous and necessary.

"Take my father."

The balcony goes silent. Even the wind seems to pause.

"What?" Dante's voice is sharp, confused.

I step forward, pulling free from my father's grip. My legs shake, but my voice comes out steady. "You want war? Fine. But make it fair."

Domenico's eyebrows rise with interest. "Go on, dear."

"I've seen enough movies, read enough history to know how this ends.

" The words flow now, driven by adrenaline and desperation.

"There's no peace here. No compromise that leaves everyone breathing.

So, make it official. Take my father somewhere safe, somewhere neutral.

Let them fight their war. And whoever wins—whoever proves they're strong enough, ruthless enough, inevitable enough—keeps me. "

"Bella, no—" my father starts.

"Permanently," I continue, meeting Domenico's amused gaze. "No more games, no more trades, no more negotiations. Winner takes all."

Sal laughs, ugly and sharp. "Listen to this bitch, thinking she gets a vote. Thinking she matters."

But Domenico is smiling now, that dangerous grandfather smile that probably precedes massacres. "Positively biblical. Trial by combat, winner takes the prize."

"This is ridiculous," Sal snarls. "Paolo works for me. His debts are mine. He goes nowhere without my permission."

"Actually," Domenico says, "I think the young lady has made a good point."

"You can't be serious," Dante says.

"Oh, I am." Domenico looks at the other Commission members, who nod like this is the most entertainment they've had in years. "It's been so long since we've had a proper war. The kind with rules and boundaries and clear victory conditions."

"Bella, what are you doing?" My father grabs my arm, desperate.

"What you did," I tell him, not gently. "Trading someone to save myself."

The truth of it sits between us like a corpse. He traded me to save his life. Now I'm trading him to save mine. The Rossi family tradition continues.

"This is insane," Sal says, but his hand is already moving to his weapon.

"Insane?" Domenico laughs, bright and delighted. "This is magnificent! When was the last time we had something worth fighting for? Something beautiful enough to justify the blood?"

Dante's hand is inside his jacket, too, now. The energy on the balcony crackles, violence inevitable as sunrise.

"Paolo doesn't go anywhere," Sal says, voice low and dangerous.

"Actually, he does," Dante counters. "The Commission takes custody, keeps him safe. That's the only way this stays fair."

"Fair?" Sal pulls his gun. "Fuck fair."

Dante's weapon appears in the same instant.

My heart stops.

Then two red dots blossom like poisonous flowers—one on Sal's forehead, one on Dante's chest. Laser sights from somewhere in the Manhattan darkness. Sniper rifles trained on both from God knows where.

I can't breathe. The world narrows to those two points of light, promises of death.

"Gentlemen." Domenico's voice stays grandfather-soft, but the threat is absolute.

"We're at a charity gala. Cancer research.

A very worthy cause. It would be terribly gauche to turn it into a bloodbath, don't you think?

Think of the donors. Think of the photographs in tomorrow's papers.

'Respected Businessmen in Shootout at Cancer Benefit. ' The FBI would orgasm."

Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. Those red dots remain perfectly still, trained on kill spots by hands that probably don't even tremble anymore.

"Lower your weapons," Domenico continues, like he's asking them to pass the salt. "Please."

Slowly, so slowly, both guns lower. The red dots remain for another heartbeat, two, three—then vanish like they were never there.

My knees almost buckle from relief. Or terror. Or both.

"Paolo," Domenico says, taking my father's arm. "Why don't you come enjoy the rest of the party with me? You must tell me about your real estate ventures. I find that world fascinating."

My father looks at me one last time, eyes full of questions I can't answer, apologies I can't accept, love I don't deserve anymore.

"War it is, then!" Domenico announces with the enthusiasm of someone declaring the start of a parade. "How fucking great! It's been so dreadfully boring lately. But this—passion! Drama! Blood for beauty! Just like the old country."

He looks at the other Commission members, who nod with similar delight. Old men, excited by the prospect of violence they will observe from a distance.

"You have our blessing, gentlemen. Resolve your dispute with all the creativity and enthusiasm you can muster.

But—" his voice sharpens slightly, "Quietly.

Professionally. We're not savages, after all.

No public spectacles, no federal attention.

Keep it between your families like civilized monsters. "

"Your whore daughter just killed you, Paolo," Sal spits over the railing.

"Come, Isabella," Dante says, his hand on my elbow firm but not harsh. "We're leaving."

I follow him through the ballroom in a daze. The orchestra still plays. Couples still dance. Diamonds still glitter. The world still spins despite the fact that I started a war. Chose violence over peace. Chose Dante over Sal not once, not twice, but three times now.

The cold hits me again when we exit, but now it feels different. Electric. Every nerve in my body is firing, adrenaline turning my blood to lightning. I should be terrified. Should be sobbing. Should be anything but what I am, which is alive. So desperately, dangerously alive.

"Get Marco," Dante barks at one of his men.

"Let him stay," I interrupt. "He's having fun with Sofia."

Dante stares at me. "You started a mob war, and you're worried about Marco getting laid?"

"It's only fair."

"Fair?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Nothing about this is fair."

"No?" I step closer to him, drawn in by a dark desire awakened by those laser sights. "My father traded me. Now I've traded him. Seems fair to me."

"This isn't a game, Isabella."

"Isn't it?" I'm shaking now, but not from the cold. From the memory of red dots that could have ended everything in a heartbeat. From the power of standing on that balcony and changing fate with a few words. "Isn't everything we do mere moves on someone's board?"

The valet brings the limo around. No driver—Dante takes the keys himself.

Inside, the leather seats still smell new, still feel like wealth I'll never deserve.

My skin is hypersensitive, every texture magnified.

The silk of my dress whispers against my thighs.

My pulse throbs in my throat, between my legs, everywhere blood flows.

"Drive," I tell him.

"Home?"

I glance at his watch. The diamonds catch streetlight like stars—11:34.

"Just drive."

He starts the engine, but I can feel his attention split between the road and me. The city streams past, more beautiful now, sharper. Like I'm seeing it through new eyes.

The adrenaline is eating me alive. My skin feels too tight, too hot despite the cold still clinging to my dress. I slide across the seat and place my hand on his thigh. The muscle tenses under expensive fabric, solid and real and alive.

"Pull over."

"Here?" We're nowhere near home. Just Manhattan streets and shadows and the kind of dark that hides sins.

"Here. Now."

He turns into an alley between two buildings and kills the engine. The sudden silence feels loud, filled with our breathing and the distant city noise. My heartbeat still thunders, refusing to slow.

"You're shaking," he observes.

"I know." I move closer, my breath ghosting across his neck. "I can still see them. The laser sights. One second you were there, the next you could have been gone."

"But I'm not gone."

"No." My hand slides higher on his thigh. "You're here. Alive. Warm."

"Isabella—"

"Do you understand what happened to me on that balcony?" My voice comes out breathless, desperate. "I thought I was going to watch you die. Both of you."

"But you didn't."

"No. Instead, I started a war. I traded my father like currency.

I became exactly what I always hated." I laugh, but it's wild, unhinged.

"And the worst part? The absolute worst part is that it made me feel powerful.

For the first time in my life, I held the cards.

I made the choice. I decided who lives, who dies, who wins. "

"You're in shock?—"

"I'm not in shock." I climb into his lap, dress riding up, not caring about anything but the need burning through me. "I'm alive. So fucking alive I can't stand it."

His hands find my waist, steadying me. "The adrenaline will fade?—"

"I don't want it to fade." I grind against him. He’s already hard beneath me. "I want to feel this. Want to feel everything while I still can."

"This is dangerous?—"

"Everything about us is dangerous." I kiss his neck, tasting salt and cologne and life. "Tell me you didn't feel it too. When those dots appeared. When death was one trigger pull away."

His grip tightens. "I felt it."

"Tell me what you felt."

"Rage." His voice has gone rough. "That anyone would dare threaten what's mine. That Domenico would dare. That Sal still breathes."

His hand slides under my dress, fingers finding me already wet, already desperate. I gasp against his mouth.

"He won't breathe much longer," I whisper, rocking against his hand. "Tell me how you'll do it. How you'll kill him for me."

"Slowly." His fingers work me with deliberate precision, making me tremble. "I'll take everything from him first. His territory, his money, his pride."

"And then?" The words come out breathless as he adds another finger.

"Then I'll bring him to you. Let you watch while I make him beg."

"I want to be there," I gasp as he curls his fingers just right. "Want to see his face when he realizes he lost everything."

"You will be. Right beside me."

"Promise me something," I say, grinding down on his hand, chasing the building pleasure. "Let me be the last thing he sees. Let him know I chose this. Chose you. Chose his death."

"Fuck, Isabella." He kisses me hard, swallowing my moan as his thumb finds it. "You really have become mine, haven't you? My beautiful, vicious thing."

"Yours," I agree, and shatter around his fingers with vengeance in my heart and his name on my lips.

We move to the backseat, graceless and desperate. My dress tears—expensive silk giving way to need. His jacket gets tossed aside, shirt buttons scattering. The windows fog with our breath, hiding us from the world or hiding the world from us.

When he enters me, it's with barely controlled violence, like the evening's danger has infected us both.

I ride him hard, punishing us both for what we've become, what we're becoming.

His hands leave bruises on my hips that I'll treasure, marks of this moment when I stopped pretending to be innocent.

"You could have died," I gasp, nails raking down his chest. "Those snipers?—"

"I would have died for you." He thrusts up harder, making me see stars. "Would have considered it a good death."

"Don't you dare." I bite his shoulder, tasting blood. "Don't you fucking dare die and leave me alone in this world we've made."

"Never." His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. "You're mine, Isabella. In this life and whatever comes after."

"And Sal?" I whisper, the question twisted with pleasure.

"Dead. Soon. For you."

"For us," I correct, and come again.

When he follows, it's with promises of blood and retribution that sound like love songs in our twisted world.

After, we lie tangled in the backseat, my dress destroyed, his shirt bloodied from my nails. The leather is cool against our overheated skin, grounding us in reality.

"I still hate you," I tell him, though the words lack conviction now.

"I know."

"I hate what you've turned me into."

"I didn't turn you into anything." He traces the bruises forming on my throat. "I just gave you permission to be what you always were."

"And what's that?"

"Mine."

The possessiveness should disgust me. Instead, I want him again, want to disappear into this dark tie between us until I can't remember who I was before.

I look at him in the dim light, his face shadowed but still beautiful in that dangerous way. I want to tell him everything—every secret, every fear, every desperate thought. Sofia's offer burns on my tongue like acid. The promise of escape, of freedom, of a life without blood and violence.

But then I remember the laser sights. The way he stood ready to die for me. The way he promises Sal's death how other men promise roses.

I can't tell him. Not yet. Maybe it's smart to keep options open, to weigh the warm certainty of his arms against the cold unknown of freedom.

One path leads to more nights like this—dangerous and electric and wrong in all the right ways.

The other leads to... what? A life without him? The thought makes my chest tight.

I don't want to think. Don't want to analyze, plan, or consider consequences.

"We should go home," he says eventually, reaching for his scattered clothes.

But I don't want to go home. Don't want this night to end. Don't want to face tomorrow's decisions. I want to stay here in our dark corner of the city, where we're not a mob boss and his traded wife but something simpler.

"Not yet," I whisper, catching his hand before he can start the engine.

"Isabella—"

"Please." I reach over and turn the key, killing the engine before it fully starts. "Once more. I need—I need to feel you again. Need to feel alive again."

He doesn't refuse. How could he, when I'm already climbing back into his lap, when my mouth is finding his in the darkness, when my hands are showing him what I need?

This time is slower but no less desperate. Like we're trying to memorize each other. We both know what’s coming—war, death, choices that can't be unmade. His hands map every inch of me while I trace the scars on his chest, each one a story of survival.

"Mine," he growls against my throat.

"Yours," I agree, and push away thoughts of dawn, Sofia, and escape routes.

Tonight, in the back of this limo, I'm exactly where I choose to be. Tomorrow's decisions can wait.

Tonight, I choose to stay.