Page 28 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The weight of the Glock surprises me every time I pick it up. Heavy and cold. My palms are already damp against the grip, and I haven't even raised it yet.

November wind cuts across the shooting range—if you can call this cleared patch of Dante's farmland a range.

The targets are propped against hay bales fifty feet away, paper silhouettes that flutter and dance in the breeze like ghosts.

The sun bleeds orange and pink across the horizon, painting everything in shades of endings.

"Breathe." Dante's voice comes from just behind my right shoulder, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his body in the cold air. "You're holding your breath."

I exhale, fog curling from my lips. The ear protection muffles everything into an underwater quiet, but I can still hear my heartbeat thundering. My arms shake slightly as I extend them, trying to remember his instructions. Both hands on the grip. Feet shoulder-width apart. Don't lock the elbows.

The first shot cracks through the evening like breaking bone. Even with the ear protection, I flinch. My ears ring. The paper target doesn't even flutter—complete miss.

"Again."

I lower the gun and flex my fingers to ease the death grip I had on it. The metal has warmed slightly from my hands, but it still feels alien. Wrong. Like holding someone else's sins.

"I can't stop shaking." The admission comes out frustrated.

"That's normal." His hand settles on my lower back, steadying. "Your body knows what this tool is for. It's responding appropriately."

I raise the gun again. The sunset has progressed, painting his shadow long across the ground beside mine.

Another shot. Another miss. The sound echoes across the empty farmland, probably carrying for miles. Are Sal's men close enough to hear? His estate is only a few miles east. The thought makes my skin prickle.

"This is impossible." I lower the weapon and turn to look at him. "How do people make it look so easy?"

"Practice." He takes the gun from my hands. "And usually, they're not thinking about the weight of taking a life."

"Is that what you think about?"

"I try not to think at all." He hands it back. "Here. Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Trust me. Close them."

I do. The world narrows to sensation—wind on my face, the smell of gunpowder and hay, the weight of the weapon in my hands.

"Now picture him. Sal. Picture his face."

Behind my eyelids, Sal materializes. That sneer he'd wear before backhanding me. The dead eyes when he'd force himself on me. The laugh when I'd cry.

"Hold that image. Now open your eyes and put him right in the center of that target."

I open my eyes, and for a moment, I swear I can see him there. The gun rises almost on its own. I squeeze the trigger.

The target jumps. Not center mass, but I hit it. Upper right portion of the silhouette.

"Better." His approval warms my chest. "But you're still anticipating the recoil."

"It's loud. And violent. Hard not to anticipate something that feels like it's trying to jump out of your hands."

"You don't need to become an expert marksman." His hands settle on my hips, adjusting my stance slightly. "Not for tomorrow."

"What if I do, though? What if something goes wrong and this is the only thing between me and?—"

"Nothing will go wrong."

"You can't promise that."

"Watch me." He steps closer, his chest almost touching my back. "Try again. I'll help with the recoil."

His arms come around me, hands covering mine on the grip. He surrounds me—his warmth, his solidity, the expensive cologne that clings to his clothes mixed with gunpowder and leather. My concentration fractures.

"Focus."

"I am focused."

"On the target."

"That's what I'm doing."

We fire together, his hands absorbing most of the kick. The target takes the hit dead center.

"See? Easy."

"That was you, not me."

"It was us." He steps back, and the cold rushes in where his warmth was. "And tomorrow will be us too. You're not doing this alone."

"Tomorrow, I walk into Tommy's trap alone."

"For maybe an hour. Less if everything goes right."

"And if it doesn't?"

He's quiet for a moment, and I can feel him choosing his words. "There has to be another way, Bella. We can still?—"

"No." I turn to face him fully. "You gave me a choice, remember? You said I could make my own decisions. I'm making one."

"Choosing to walk into danger isn't?—"

"Isn't what? Isn't smart? Isn't safe?" I set the gun down on the wooden table beside us, tired of its weight. "At least this danger is one I'm choosing."

"It's suicide."

"It's calculated risk." I look back at the target, at the holes we've put in it. "I know Sal. He's not smart, just cruel. And cruel men are predictable. He wants me humiliated, broken, begging. He can't do that to a corpse."

"You don't know Tommy as well as you think."

"Oh, I know his type. All surveillance and no spine. The kind of man who watches from shadows because he's too scared to step into the light. Paranoid, not powerful."

A small smile touches his lips. "That's... actually not far off."

"See? I'll be fine."

The sound of hoofbeats interrupts whatever he was about to say.

We both turn to see a horse approaching through the golden dusk.

Marco sits in front, wearing what has to be the most ridiculous cowboy outfit I've ever seen—fringed shirt, massive hat, actual spurs on his boots.

Behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, is a blonde in pigtails wearing a matching costume that looks like it came from a Halloween store.

"Well, howdy there, partners!" Marco attempts a Texas drawl but sounds more like he's having a stroke. "Y'all out here practicin' for the big showdown?"

"Jesus Christ." Dante pinches the bridge of his nose. "What are you wearing?"

"Authentic Western wear, brother." He tips his hat, nearly losing his balance. The blonde giggles. "Got it from that costume shop in town. They said John Wayne himself wore this in a movie."

"John Wayne has been dead for forty years."

"Well, his spirit lives on through me." Marco pats the girl's hands where they rest on his stomach. "Ain't that right, Destiny?"

Destiny giggles again, and my stomach turns slightly. I know that sound too well—it's the same performance I heard for two years, every time Sal brought home another woman who pretended his money made him attractive.

"Didn't we explicitly talk about not bringing strangers here?"

"Relax, sheriff." The accent gets worse with every word. "She's one of Paulie's personally vetted ladies. Practically family."

"That's not how that works."

"Sure, it is. She's very... talented. Aren't you, sugar?"

Another giggle. She nuzzles into his neck, and I have to look away.

"We're fixin' to find us a barn," Marco continues, waggling his eyebrows. "You know, for that authentic roll in the hay experience. Always wondered if it's as good as they say in them old movies."

"It's not," Dante says flatly. "It's scratchy and gets everywhere you don't want it."

I look at him with raised eyebrows. "Voice of experience?"

"Marco, what do you want?"

"Right, right." Marco drops the accent for a moment. "Dinner's getting cold. Though I reckon—" the accent returns, worse than before, "—dinner's always warm when the night's young and the company's willing."

Destiny laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard, which makes me wonder how much Marco is paying her.

"We should go," Dante says to me quietly. "We have reservations."

"Reservations?" I look at him. "For dinner at your own house?"

"Our first date deserves some ceremony."

Our date. Right. The last normal thing before tomorrow's insanity.

Marco clicks his tongue, and the horse starts moving away. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" he calls back. "Which ain't much! Maybe try that thing with the?—"

"Goodbye, Marco," Dante calls firmly.

Their laughter fades into the distance, leaving us in the deepening twilight. The farmland around us has taken on that golden quality that only exists in the hour before dark. I can smell wood smoke, mixing with the hay and earth scents that permeate everything here.

As we walk back toward the farmhouse, I notice things I missed on the way out. Men in work clothes who stand too straight and watch too carefully. They lean against fence posts, fiddle with farm equipment that probably doesn't need fixing, and smoke cigarettes with eyes that never stop moving.

"Paulie's men," I murmur.

"You're getting good at spotting them."

"That one has a gun under his left armpit." I nod toward a man fixing a tractor. "You can see the bulge when he reaches up."

"Very good." There's pride in his voice. "What else?"

"Two more by the barn. One in the hayloft—I saw the glint of something. Probably binoculars or a scope." I pause. "All of this because Sal's place is a few miles that way?"

"All of this because you're here," he corrects. "And yes, because Sal is too close for comfort."

The farmhouse glows warm against the purple sky. It's not grand like his mansion—this is older, more authentic. White clapboard siding, wraparound porch with actual rocking chairs. The kind of place that's been standing for a hundred years and will stand for a hundred more.

Off to one side of the house, a pavilion has been set up. White fabric walls billow gently in the breeze, string lights creating a golden bubble in the darkness. It looks like something from a fairy tale.

"You did all this? For dinner?"

"I had help." He squeezes my hand. "I wanted tonight to be special."

"Why?"

He stops walking and turns to face me fully. "We needed this. One perfect night that's just ours."

Before I can respond, two figures emerge from the house carrying covered dishes.

The older one moves with the careful grace of someone who has been doing this for decades—white hair combed, wearing chef's whites that have seen better days but are still pristine.

The younger one beside him makes me do a double-take.