Page 26 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

Smoke hangs thick enough to cut with a blade. Cuban cigars—the real ones, not the shit they sell to tourists—fill my meeting room with earthy sweetness. Through the haze, I watch my men's faces. Uncertainty. Disgust. Fear they're trying to hide behind expensive suits and expert indifference.

Their eyes keep drifting to Isabella.

She sits pressed against my side, closer than necessary and precisely where I want her.

The red dress from the Inferno night clings to her like liquid fire, the one that started it all.

Her black hair swept up to expose the bruises on her throat—my bruises, fading to yellow-green but still visible. Still mine.

Her hand rests on my thigh under the table, fingers trembling slightly. She's nervous. Good. She should be walking into a room full of killers with a plan that could get us all buried.

The leather chair creaks as Vito shifts his weight, his massive frame barely contained by Armani.

One arm drapes possessively around Jeff—our lawyer, though that word hardly covers what he does for us.

Jeff clutches a whiskey bottle like a lifeline, refilling Vito's glass with shaking hands every time it gets low.

His Adam's apple bobs with each nervous swallow, and when Vito's hand slides down to squeeze his shoulder, Jeff goes rigid.

Marco lounges across from me, picking at his cuticles with a knife, looking bored. But I know my brother. The more casual he looks, the more attention he's paying.

Paulie sits at the far end, baby face and slim build making him look more like someone's mistress than a captain who's killed twelve men this year. The man’s as pretty as a woman and as deadly as cancer. He's cleaning his nails with a switchblade, humming something tuneless.

"Gentlemen." I light my own cigar, taking my time. Let them sweat. "Thank you for coming."

"Like we had a choice." Vito's voice rumbles through the smoke, his free hand gesturing for Jeff to top off his glass again. "When the boss calls at dawn, saying it's life or death?—"

"It is." I set the cigar in the crystal ashtray and lean forward. Isabella's hand tightens on my thigh. "Three nights ago, at the Ashford Foundation gala, the Commission made a decision."

The room goes still. Even Marco stops playing with his knife.

"They've sanctioned a war," I continue. "Between us and the Calabrese family. Winner takes everything. The loser..." I let it hang. They know what happens to losers in our world.

"The Commission agreed to this?" Jeff's voice cracks slightly, whiskey sloshing as he pours. "Domenico himself?"

"Domenico loves a good show." Marco flips his knife closed. "Old bastard probably hasn't been this entertained since he beat his own son to death."

"Jesus, Marco."

"What? We all know the story. The kid was talking to the feds, and Domenico made an example. Very biblical." He pauses, glances at Isabella. "Beat his wife to death in the same rage, too, actually. Collateral damage. The son was her favorite."

Isabella tenses beside me, even though she's heard the story before. Her breathing shifts, subtle but sharp. I put my hand over hers under the table, steadying.

"Which is what the Commission wants now," Marco continues, grinning without humor. "A show."

"Then we give them one." I glance at Isabella, who's gone pale but stays pressed against me like I'm the only thing keeping her upright. "But not the show they expect."

Vito's thick fingers drum against Jeff's shoulder. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we're not doing this the old way. No driving through Brooklyn spraying bullets. No car bombs. No midnight executions." I pause, watching their faces shift from confusion to concern. "We're going to destroy Sal Calabrese legally first."

"Legally?" Vito laughs, the sound like gravel in a blender as his arm tightens around Jeff. "Since when do we give a fuck about legal? That's Jeff's department, and no offense, sweet cheeks, but you look ready to piss yourself."

Jeff fumbles the bottle and nearly drops it. "I-I'm fine. Just. Legal, how?"

"Since the FBI started camping outside my casino." I keep my voice level, but Isabella's fingers dig into my thigh. "Since they planted an agent in my house."

The room erupts. Voices overlap, chairs scrape, and hands move to weapons they're not supposed to have in here but brought anyway.

"The FBI was here?"

"In this house?"

"Are we compromised?"

I let them panic for three seconds. Then I slam my hand on the table, cutting through the panic like a gunshot.

"Sofia Martinez. The housekeeper. Six months undercover." Jeff pales, and Vito's hand drifts toward his jacket. "She's been feeding them information on our operations."

"Fuck me." Vito's face darkens to purple. "That shipment last month. The one that got seized?—"

"Probably her." I nod. "Among other things. Tommy, too, before I fired him. The feds have been circling him like vultures."

"Tommy?" Marco laughs. "That paranoid fuck? The one with cameras on every corner from here to Jersey? He's the one who got made by the feds?"

"Ironic, isn't it?" I take a drag from my cigar. "Man spends his life watching everyone else and doesn't notice when someone's watching him."

"Where is he now?" Paulie's voice is high and sweet, completely at odds with the violence in his eyes.

"With Sal." I exhale smoke. "Jumped ship the day I fired him."

"So, we kill him." Paulie tests the edge of his blade with his thumb, drawing a bead of blood that he licks away.

"Eventually." I look at Isabella. She's been silent this whole time, pressed against me like she's trying to disappear. "But first, we use him."

Marco sits forward, grinning. "So, here's the thing. We're gonna—how do I put this? We're gonna get cozy with our federal friends."

The table’s nothing but blank stares.

"You know," Marco continues, gesturing vaguely. "Give them a little of this, a little of that. Play footsie under the table."

"Are we bribing them?" Paulie asks, genuinely confused.

"No, no. More like... feeding the beast. You know how you throw a dog a bone, so it doesn't bite you?"

"We're buying guard dogs?" Vito's getting frustrated and squeezing Jeff harder. "Jeff, is he talking about witness protection?"

"I don't—I don't think—" Jeff stammers.

"Jesus Christ." Marco runs a hand through his hair. "We're going to use them. Like a weapon. Point them at Sal and pull the trigger."

"We're hiring the FBI?" Paulie looks delighted at the prospect. "Can we do that? Is that a thing?"

Isabella finally speaks, her voice soft but clear. "We're not hiring them. We're... directing their attention."

Every eye in the room turns to her. She shrinks slightly but continues.

"The FBI already thinks they saved me. Agent Martinez spent thirteen months watching me suffer. She wants to be my hero." Her fingers are on my thigh now. "They want a big fish. We give them Sal Calabrese on a silver platter."

"We're snitching?" Vito's on his feet, dragging Jeff up with him. "We're fucking snitching to the feds?"

"Not snitching," Isabella says quickly. "Misdirecting. There's a difference."

"This is insane." Jeff's whiskey sloshes as his whole body shakes in Vito's grip. "The FBI doesn't take anonymous tips. They need evidence. Witnesses. Documents."

"They have a witness." Isabella's voice gets smaller. "Me."

My chest tightens. This is the part I hate.

"You?" Vito sits back down heavily, pulling Jeff onto the arm of his chair. "Sal's wife?—"

"Sal's victim." She corrects him, gaining a little confidence. "Two years of documented abuse. Hospital records. Police reports that mysteriously disappeared."

She pauses, takes a shaky breath, then continues. "Tommy's working with Sal now. When you have a new master, you want to impress them. Show them you're valuable."

I see where she's going with this, and my jaw clenches. The others are starting to piece it together, too.

My teeth grind together, but I keep my expression neutral. We've already discussed this. Argued about it for hours last night while she traced the scars on my chest and made her case.

"Tommy has eyes everywhere," she continues, voice barely above a whisper. "Cameras on every corner. And I... I've already made myself obvious. Walking around the city. Looking directly at the cameras."

"You painted a target on yourself." Vito's voice takes on a darker tone.

"Exactly." She presses closer to me, trembling. "He's already looking for me. Has been since yesterday. It's only a matter of time before..."

She doesn't finish, but we all understand.

"And then what?" Vito leans forward; Jeff still trapped against his side. "Say this works. Say the feds are breathing down his neck, and his operations are crumbling. What's the endgame?"

Isabella's hand moves to her purse with shaking fingers. She pulls out a Glock 19, the weight of it making her hand wobble. The metal gleams dull in the smoke-filled light as she sets it on the table with a soft thud.

"Then he dies."

The words come out small but certain.

Paulie laughs—high, delighted, the sound of someone who's just heard the best joke. "This plan is fucking beautiful. You're gonna have the feds strip everything from him—his money, his power, his protection—and then slaughter him like a pig when he's got nothing left."

"How do we make it look legal?" Jeff asks, voice cracking. "The FBI will be all over this. If Sal dies while under investigation?—"

"That's why we need you." Isabella looks at Jeff directly for the first time. "Both of you. The legal framework has to be perfect."

I hear my cue. Time to take control before anyone starts questioning the wisdom of sending my woman into enemy hands.