Page 24 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

The lamp explodes against the wall in a shower of ceramic and twisted metal. It echoes through my office like a gunshot, like the sound my heart made when I found Isabella’s bed empty.

My father's crystal decanter follows the lamp. Forty-year-old whiskey bleeds down the wallpaper, filling the room with its stench. The glass crunches under my feet as I pace, each step grinding fragments smaller, like I'm trying to pulverize the reality that she’s gone.

"Boss." Tommy hovers in the doorway, smart enough not to enter. “She could still be in the house. The library, maybe. You know how she gets lost in those books."

"I've checked. Every room. Every closet. Every fucking shadow."

The morning light streaming through the windows feels wrong. Too bright. Too normal. Like the world doesn't understand that she's gone, that she left me after everything we?—

"The guards would have seen?—"

"Would they?" I spin to face him, and he takes that step back. "Your guards? The ones you personally vetted? The ones you swore were incorruptible?"

"They are?—"

"Then explain to me how she vanished. How Isabella walked out of this house like smoke."

The silence stretches, thick with implications. Someone helped her. Someone I trusted. The betrayal tastes like copper in my mouth, like blood before it's spilled.

"Get Rodriguez."

Tommy's jaw tightens. "The morning shift guard?"

"Now."

Rodriguez appears in my office three minutes later.

Ex-Marine, built like a brick wall, bald head gleaming with nervous sweat despite the cold.

His eyes dart between the destroyed lamp, the whiskey-stained wall, and the hole my fist left in the plaster twenty minutes ago when I realized she was truly gone.

"Mr. Caruso." He stands at attention, military habits dying hard.

"Tell me how my woman walked out the front door." I don't move from behind my desk, but he flinches anyway. "Tell me how she left."

"Sir, I followed protocol. Sofia had her usual Friday departure scheduled?—"

"Sofia left?" My hands grip the desk edge hard enough to crack wood. "When?"

"Five-fifteen, sir. With another staff member. New hire, according to her. Said Marco recruited her personally."

Marco. Of course. My brother's weakness for beautiful women, his casual approach to security, his fucking comfort zone obsession?—

"Describe this new hire."

"Blonde. Glasses. Standard maid's uniform." Rodriguez shifts slightly. "She said she had all the qualifications Mr. Marco looks for."

The implication dangles in the air. We all know what qualifications Marco prioritizes.

"And you didn't verify? Didn't think to question why a new hire was leaving with Sofia at dawn?"

"Sir, with respect, Mr. Marco hires staff regularly. Young, attractive female staff. It's not unusual?—"

I'm around the desk before conscious thought, inches from his face. He doesn't step back. Credit for that, at least.

"Staff walks out with someone you don't recognize, and you call that not unusual?"

"I didn't know it was her. The disguise?—"

"You're paid to know." Each word comes out sharp as glass. "Paid to see through disguises. Paid to keep people in as much as keeping them out."

"Dante." Tommy steps between us, either brave or stupid. "The man was doing his job. If Sofia helped her, if it was planned?—"

I shove Tommy aside, hard enough that he stumbles into the bookshelf. Books cascade to the floor.

"Then someone still failed." I roll my shoulders, rage building like pressure in a chamber. "Rodriguez. You want to keep your job?"

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing.

"Then defend it."

"Sir?"

"Fight me. No weapons. Prove you deserve to guard my home."

"Boss, this is insane." Tommy's voice rises from where he's steadying himself. "You can't just?—"

"I can do whatever the fuck I want in my own house." I'm already removing my jacket and hanging it on the chair. Even in rage, some habits persist. "Unless you'd like to join him?"

Rodriguez looks between Tommy and me, calculation in his eyes. Then something shifts—pride, maybe, or resignation to the insanity of the morning.

"If that's what you need, Mr. Caruso."

He removes his own jacket with deliberate calm and folds it precisely. When he turns back, his stance has shifted. Looser. Ready. The soldier shows through the security guard.

Tommy scrambles to push furniture against the walls, creating space and muttering about insanity and lawsuits. The morning sun creates an impromptu ring, dust motes floating like tiny spectators to the violence about to unfold.

Rodriguez circles right, and I go left. He's trained and dangerous, but also smart enough to know the politics here. His first swing is telegraphed, pulled. Testing.

I let it connect anyway, needing to feel anything but her absence.

Pain blooms across my jaw, sharp and clean and real. Better than the hollow ache in my chest.

"Fight properly or get out."

"Mr. Caruso?—"

"Stop pulling your punches."

"This is crazy!" Tommy shouts from the sideline. "Rodriguez, don't—this is your job, your pension?—"

Rodriguez swings again, still holding back. I catch his fist, twist, and send him stumbling.

"I said fight me."

"I'm not going to?—"

I hit him. Hard. No holding back. His head snaps to the side, blood immediately flowing from his nose.

"Jesus Christ!" Tommy starts forward.

I grab him by the collar and throw him back. "Stay there or you're next."

Rodriguez touches his nose, looks at the blood, then at me. His expression morphs. The restraint drops.

"You want a fight?" He spits blood onto my Persian rug. "Fine."

The second stage begins with his fist in my stomach with force, driving air from my lungs. I double over, and his knee comes up. I barely twist away, catching it on my ribs instead of my face.

"She played you," he pants, circling again. "Walked out right under your nose."

I tackle him. We crash into the desk, papers flying, photo frames shattering. His elbow catches my temple, stars exploding across my vision. But I've got a weight advantage, leverage. I rain down punches, feeling his defense weakening.

"Boss!" Tommy's voice seems distant. "Enough!"

Rodriguez bucks and throws me off. We both scramble up, breathing hard. Blood runs from his nose and my knuckles are split. My office is a war zone.

"You let her leave." I advance, and he retreats. "Let her walk away from me."

"Maybe she wanted to leave." He swings, catching my ribs. "Maybe she finally saw what you are."

The words hit harder than his fists. I roar, charging him. He sidesteps, and I hit the wall. His fist connects with my kidney, dropping me to one knee.

"You're fucking lost without her," he says. "One woman, and the great Dante Caruso falls apart."

I surge up, nailing him in the chest with my shoulder. We go down together, rolling across broken glass. It cuts through skin, mixing our blood on the floor.

The third stage is pure violence. I end up on top, fist raised, his face already swelling. I bring it down again and again. His resistance fades, and his guard drops. Blood spatters across my shirt, my face, and the floor.

God, it feels good. Freeing. Each impact releases a dark and primal instinct, an impulse I usually keep caged. My knuckles split further, but I don't care. This is what I am underneath the suits and control—violence given form.

"Brother…"

The voice cuts through everything. Calm. Amused. Marco.

I freeze, fist still cocked, Rodriguez groaning beneath me. My brother leans in the doorway, not his usual pristine self—disheveled, like he drove here in a hurry.

"Well, this is festive."

I'm off Rodriguez and across the room before Marco can react, slamming him against the doorframe. My hand finds his throat, blood—Rodriguez's, mine—smearing across his collar.

"Sofia. The woman you hired."

"Yeah—."

"She helped Isabella escape. Because you can't keep your dick in your pants, you brought a liability into my house."

"Dante—" He tries to pull my hand away, but I press harder.

"You're always preaching about comfort zones. About keeping things stable. Where's your stability now?"

"If you'd let me breathe," he wheezes, "I have her."

The words don't compute. I stare at him, hand still on his throat, trying to process.

"What?"

"I have her. Bella."

What the fuck is going on? He has her? With him? My mind conjures images—Marco and Isabella driving away together, Sofia in the backseat, all of them laughing at how easily I was fooled.

"You helped her escape?" The rage builds higher, hotter. He's with Sofia. They're all in on it. "You're working with them?"

I hit him. Hard. Square in the face. He drops, blood immediately flowing from his nose.

"Jesus!" He's laughing despite the blood. "No, you psychopath. I picked her up. She called me."

I pull him up by his shirt, ready to hit him again.

"Yeah, sure, thank me for staying up all night to drive her home," he says, still with that fucking grin. "Really feeling the gratitude here, brother."

"Rodriguez." I don't look away from Marco. "You keep your job. Barely."

The guard groans an acknowledgment.

"And Tommy?—"

"Dante?"

The voice freezes everything. Soft. Tentative. Hers .

Isabella stands in the doorway, and my world tilts back into focus.

She's wearing a ridiculous maid's uniform, a blonde wig askew, and thick-framed glasses crooked.

The polyester stretches across her curves in ways that make my blood heat.

The short skirt shows legs I've memorized with my mouth.

The prim collar can't hide the marks I left on her throat last night. She’s every fantasy I've never admitted to having—submission and power wrapped in a servant's clothes.

She takes in the scene, her storm-gray eyes processing the carnage. Rodriguez bleeding on the floor. Marco holding his nose. Me, covered in blood that isn't all mine. The destroyed office.

The flood of relief is so intense, I have to grip the doorframe. She's here. She's real. She came back.

Then embarrassment, hot and unfamiliar. She's seeing me like this—violent, uncontrolled, exactly the monster I swore I wasn't.

"You ran." The accusation comes out wounded.

"No." She steps into the room, careful around the broken glass. "I came back. I'll never run from you, Dante."

"This was a mistake." I gesture at myself and the carnage. "This is the real me, Bella. This is what you're choosing."

"I know." She moves closer, and I see her pulse jumping in her throat. "But it's too late now. I already chose you. Again and again and again."

She reaches up, touching my split lip. Her fingers come away red.

"I have so much to tell you," she says softly. "About where I went. Who Sofia really is. I have a plan?—"

I don't let her finish. I crush my mouth to hers, tasting coffee and loyalty.

She gasps against my lips, and I swallow the sound, deepening the kiss until she's melting against me.

My hands find her waist and pull her flush against my body, letting her feel what seeing her in that uniform does to me.

"Dante," she breathes when I release her mouth to bite at her throat. "The FBI—Sofia's federal—I need to tell you?—"

"Later." I'm already pulling at the uniform's buttons, revealing black lace underneath that makes me growl. "I need you now. Need to know you're real."

My hands slide inside the partially open uniform, finding soft skin, proof she's here. She arches into my touch, and I back her against the wall, claim her mouth again. Blood from my split lip smears across her jaw, her throat, marking her as mine.

"You're fucking fired, Tommy," I say against her mouth, not breaking the kiss.

"What? Because—this is insane?—"

But I'm already lifting Isabella, her legs wrapping around me automatically. The maid's uniform rides up, and I grip her thighs hard enough to leave prints.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Marco groans from the floor. "Really? Right here? I'm bleeding, Rodriguez might be dead, and you're—Jesus, Dante, you're getting blood all over her."

He's right. The pristine maid's uniform is streaked with red now—my blood, Rodriguez's blood, smeared across the white polyester. It should be disturbing. Instead, it makes me harder.

"At least take it to a bathroom," Marco continues. "Wash off the evidence first."

He has a point. I want her properly. Want to take my time. Want to wash the blood off her skin with my tongue.

“Leave,” I growl to the room. “Get far away from here.” Then, I’m carrying her toward the door. “You need a bath,” I whisper with a snarl. “And I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

I carry her up the stairs, her mouth finding mine again, her tongue doing things that make me stumble. Each step is measured control, fighting the urge to take her right here on the staircase.

"You thought I left you," she gasps between kisses.

"I thought you finally woke up."

"I did wake up." Her teeth find my ear. "Woke up and chose you anyway."

The bathroom door slams behind us. I set her on the counter and start the bath. Steam rises immediately, fogging the mirror, creating our own private world.

The bathroom door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds like a promise. Or a threat. Or both.

She stands there, thick glasses fogged over. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, those eyes tracking my every movement.

My hands find the uniform's collar, working the buttons with deliberate slowness.

Each one reveals more—the pale column of her throat, the delicate collarbones, the swell of her breasts barely contained by black lace.

Blood has seeped through the polyester, marking her with evidence of what I've done, what I am.

But she doesn’t know it all. Not yet.

I’ll change that.