Page 23 of Devil’s Gambit

"Bella," Sofia says from behind me, and something metal appears in my peripheral vision. A badge.

"Special Agent Sofia Martinez, FBI. This is Agent Jennifer Park."

The letters hit like bullets. F. B. I.

My legal mind tries to activate. "Am… am I under arrest?"

"No." Sofia's voice has completed its transformation. This is someone with the entire federal government as backup. "You're not under arrest. You're a victim."

"A victim." The word tastes poisonous.

"We've been investigating Dante Caruso for thirteen months," Sofia continues, her voice clinical now. "Money laundering, racketeering, extortion, murder. And now kidnapping and false imprisonment."

"You don't understand?—"

"We understand perfectly. You were human payment for your father's gambling debts. Traded to Salvatore Calabrese, then won by Dante Caruso. Held in his compound against your will, under armed guard."

"What if I chose to stay?"

Agent Park glances at me in the rearview. "Stockholm syndrome. It's a survival mechanism, not a choice."

The town materializes around us like a movie set—small, sleepy, the kind of place that exists in the gaps between real cities. Main Street is empty except for a diner with its lights on, bleeding warm yellow into the cold morning.

Inside, the warmth hits like a slap. The scent of coffee is strong enough to wake the dead. The older man behind the counter grins at us with an easy charm.

"Early birds or night owls?" he jokes.

"Coffee for two," Sofia says, sliding into a cracked vinyl booth. Agent Park stays by the car, watching the street.

I sit across from Sofia, hands wrapping around the ceramic mug. The coffee is terrible—burnt and bitter—but the heat alone is worth it. I’m chilled to the bone. Maybe even to the soul.

"Less than three hours now," Sofia says quietly, checking her watch again, "And he’ll mobilize every resource in his network. When he starts looking, it will be... comprehensive."

“And what will you do to protect me?” I test.

“All that we can.”

“And if I don’t want your protection?”

Her lips tighten. “Then you’re free to refuse.”

With a gulp, I look toward the diner door. "So, I can just walk out?" I test. "Right now? You won't stop me?"

"You're not under arrest. You're free to go." She pauses, stirring sugar with mechanical precision. "But for your safety, I'd strongly recommend protective custody. Just for debriefing. To understand your options."

They don't know. Don't know about the Inferno. About provoking Sal. About trading my father like currency. They see a victim, not an accomplice.

Sofia pulls out a digital recorder and sets it on the table like a loaded gun.

"I need you to tell me everything," she says. "About your captivity. About what Dante Caruso has done. About the crimes you've witnessed."

"What crimes?" I wrap my hands tighter around the mug. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Let's start with Lorenzo Ricci. Beaten to death a few days ago in a warehouse."

My stomach turns. Lorenzo. The one who made a joke about sharing me.

"I don't know anything about that."

"Carlo Maranzetti. Shot twice in the head, body found in the Hudson."

"Never heard of him."

"Michael Vance. Disappeared three weeks ago, likely dissolved in acid based on evidence from?—"

"Stop." The coffee tastes even worse now. "I don't know about any of this."

"But you know about the Inferno incident. You were there when Dante shot Salvatore Calabrese."

"In self-defense. Sal came in armed, threatening?—"

"Threatening to take back his legal wife." Sofia leans forward. "Which brings us to the kidnapping charges."

"I told you. I wasn't kidnapped."

"You were held against your will."

"I chose to stay."

"Could you have left? Any time you wanted? Could you have walked out that front door without consequences?"

I think about the guards, the dogs, the locks. Then I think about Dante's hands in my hair, his promises of protection, the way he makes me feel like I'm worth starting wars over.

"This is more complicated than you think."

"It's exactly as simple as I think." Sofia pushes the recorder closer. "Dante Caruso is a killer. A criminal. And you're defending him because you've been conditioned to. Because survival sometimes means convincing yourself that your captor is your savior."

"He did save me. From Sal. From a life of being beaten and broken and?—"

"He saved you from one cage by putting you in another. That's not salvation, Bella. That's a change of management."

The words hit too close to the truth. I push the coffee away, stomach churning.

"You don't understand," I say, voice cracking. "Dante's not like Sal. He gave me a lock on my door. He lets me read, lets me move around the house?—"

"Basic human rights aren't kindness, Bella. They're the minimum."

"In our world, there is no minimum. There's just varying degrees of ownership."

Sofia's expression shifts, part frustration, part pity. "Listen to yourself. 'Our world.' You're already identifying with them."

"Because that's reality. That's my life now."

"It doesn't have to be." Sofia pulls the recorder back slightly. "We can get you out. New identity, new life, somewhere Dante Caruso will never find you."

"And then what? I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder? Jumping at shadows?"

"As opposed to living with the shadow?"

I laugh, bitter. "At least with Dante, I know what the shadow looks like. I know its rules."

"Rules." Sofia shakes her head. "You're defending your imprisonment."

"I'm being realistic about my options."

"Your options." Sofia's voice hardens. "Let me be clear about your options. Option one: Cooperate with us now. We put you in protective custody immediately, get your full statement, and use it to take down both Caruso and Calabrese. You testify, we protect you, you get a new life."

"And option two?"

Sofia sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. "Option two is... Take some time. Think about it." She pulls out a phone—a simple flip phone—and slides it across reluctantly. "My number's programmed. When you're ready to talk—and eventually, Bella, you will be ready—you call me."

"That's it?”

She nods stiffly. “That’s it. I'm willing to give you space to process." But Sofia's jaw tightens like the words physically pain her. "Against my better judgment and direct orders, I'm willing to give you time to realize what Dante Caruso really is."

A knot tightens in my gut as I realize: she needs me. Whatever case she’s been building has tied us together. If I shut down, refuse to talk or cooperate, she’s screwed. For the first time in forever, I have an inkling of power. It doesn’t feel as good as I thought it might.

"And if I never realize it? If I choose to stay with him?"

"Then you're choosing to be complicit in his crimes. And when we take him down—and we will take him down—you'll fall with him."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise." Sofia stands and drops money on the table. "Bella... don't wait too long. Every day you stay with him is another day you're choosing to be part of his world. And that world? It only ends one way."

"You don't know him like I do."

"I know him better. I've seen the bodies.

I've talked to the families of his victims. I've traced the money, the drugs, the weapons.

" She pauses at the edge of the booth. "You're defending him because you have to.

Because believing he's good is the only way to survive what's happening to you. But that doesn't make it true."

"Maybe," I admit. "Or maybe you're so focused on making him the villain that you can't see he's another man trying to survive in a world that made him a monster."

"Men like Dante Caruso don't get made into monsters, Bella. They choose it. Every day. With every murder, every crime." Sofia's eyes bore into mine. "The question is: what are you choosing?"

She walks away, leaving me with cold coffee and a phone that feels heavier than it should.

"When you're ready to talk—when the trauma bond breaks—call me."

I watch them drive away in their sedan full of antennas and hidden weapons. Then I pull out my insurance policy—the phone from Dante's desk—and dial the number I memorized.

"Yeah?" Marco's voice is rough, exhausted.

"She's FBI. Just like I suspected." My voice shakes despite everything. "I'm at Rosie's Diner on Main Street."

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." I hear him moving, keys jangling, door slamming. "Honestly, Bella… I'm as fucked as you are. I hired her. And Dante's been calling me. Fifteen times. The texts are getting creative with the death threats."

My stomach drops through the floor. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. I didn't answer. Figured you needed time."

"Marco, he's going to think I ran. That I betrayed him."

"Did you?"

"No. I came back, didn't I?"

"After meeting with the FBI. That's not exactly a sterling reputation for loyalty in our world."

"How am I going to explain this?"

Marco sighs. "I don't know. But Bella? After everything you two have been through. In his world, in his mind, that's betrayal. And betrayal in our world?—"

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do. Dante doesn't forgive. He doesn't forget. He doesn't give second chances. The only reason you might survive this is because he's obsessed with you."

"I'm ten minutes out," he continues. "Try not to get arrested or killed before I get there."

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, then signal the waiter. Two black coffees, both bitter as the truth I'm about to face.

Because explaining to Dante why I snuck out with an FBI agent, why I met with them, why I came back—that's going to take more than coffee or courage.

That's going to take a miracle.

And in our world, miracles come with body counts.