Page 29 of Devil’s Gambit

It's Paulie. But not the Paulie from yesterday's meeting, the one who played with his switchblade and talked about slaughtering Sal like a pig. This Paulie wears matching chef's whites, his hair pulled back neatly, movements graceful as he helps set the table.

"Good evening," the older man says, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who genuinely enjoys his work.

"Hendrik," Dante says to him with obvious affection. "This looks incredible."

"Wait until you taste it, Mr. Caruso." He has an accent—Dutch, maybe? "My son and I have prepared something very special tonight. The duck you requested was raised right here on the farm."

"The '67 vintage," Paulie adds, producing a bottle with unexpected reverence. "From your grandfather's private collection."

He pours with steady hands, no trace of the killer he was yesterday. The transformation is so complete it's unsettling. When they move away to prepare the next course, I can't contain myself.

"What the hell was that?" I lean forward, keeping my voice low.

Dante swirls his wine, a small smile playing at his lips. "Psychopaths hide in plain sight, Bella. They're chameleons. They can be whatever the situation requires."

"And Hendrik doesn't mind that his son is..."

"Adopted son. And Hendrik's pragmatic. He knows what Paulie is. Better to have him close where he can watch him than out in the world unchecked."

The wine hits my tongue like liquid gold—complex, layered, with a finish that seems to last forever.

"This is incredible."

"My grandfather made it. Wanted to save it for the right moment."

"And I'm the right moment?"

He looks at me across the candle flame, and his expression makes my chest tight. "You're every moment that matters now."

I take another sip to avoid responding, letting the wine warm its way down. The evening has gotten cold, but the pavilion blocks the wind, creating our own small world.

"Strange, isn't it?" I say eventually. "This being our first real date. No guns visible. No one bleeding. Just... dinner."

"Is it what you expected?"

"I didn't expect anything. I never thought we'd get something normal."

"This is normal?" He gestures at the armed men pretending to be farmhands, the pavilion, and the wine that probably costs more than a car.

"Normal for us." I smile slightly. "Our version of it, anyway."

"I'm not sure I remember how to do this," he admits, and there's vulnerability in his voice. "The actual dating thing. Without pretense or performance."

"The great Dante Caruso doesn't date?"

"Not really." He turns the wine glass, watching candlelight refract through the liquid. "When my father was alive, I'd take women to events. Let him think I was building connections, considering futures. But they were just... arrangements. Performances."

"What kind of arrangements?"

"The kind Marco specialized in arranging." He meets my eyes. "Based on his particular criteria for women."

The implication hangs between us. "You dated prostitutes?"

"I wouldn't call it dating. More like... hiring actresses for family dinners. They were well-compensated for their time, and my father stopped pressuring me about marriage."

"You never had anything real?"

"I have something real now." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "This is the first time I've sat across from someone who matters. The first time I chose to be here."

The admission creates a strange intimacy. The candlelight makes his eyes look softer, younger somehow. I find myself leaning forward.

"So, tell me," I say quietly. "How did it happen? Your first time?"

"That's a very personal question."

"We're very personal people at this point."

He's quiet for a moment, thumb tracing circles on my hand.

"High school," he finally admits. "Junior year.

I actually had a bit of a normal life back then.

Her parents were out of town, and we thought we knew what we were doing.

We didn't. It was awkward and over too fast, and she never talked to me again. "

"That's almost sweet."

"Sweet isn't the word I'd use." He takes a sip of wine. "What about you?"

The question I've been dreading. The wine turns heavy in my mouth.

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"No." His hand squeezes mine gently.

But his eyes are patient, waiting without demanding. Somehow, that makes me want to tell him.

"Italy," I whisper. "With Sal."

His hand tightens on mine, but he doesn't interrupt.

"We'd just gotten married. He flew me to Tuscany for our honeymoon.

This beautiful hotel, overlooking this fountain.

" I stare at our joined hands, unable to meet his eyes.

"For three months, maybe four, I thought I was living a fairy tale.

He was... different then. Gentle. Attentive. The monster came later."

"Bella—"

"I can still smell the cologne he wore that first night.

Bergamot and cedar. So expensive. He was patient with me.

Can you believe that? Sal Calabrese being patient?

" My laugh comes out caustic. "Sometimes I wonder if I imagined those first months.

If my mind created a fantasy to make the rest bearable. "

The silence stretches, heavy with words unspoken. When I finally look up, Dante's jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle is jumping.

"I shouldn't have told you that."

"I'm glad you did." His voice is carefully controlled. "It helps me understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why his death needs to be slow." He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles softly. "Why it needs to hurt."

Before I can respond, Hendrik appears with the main course, Paulie beside him carrying a wooden box.

"The duck, as promised," Hendrik announces with obvious pride, setting down plates that look more like art than food. "Fed on organic grain, raised right here. The berries are from our own bushes—picked them myself this morning."

The duck glistens with a berry reduction that catches the candlelight and vegetables lie arranged with an artist's precision.

"And for after," Paulie adds, lowering the wooden box and opening it to reveal rows of small glasses filled with amber liquid.

"Apple cider from last year's harvest. My father makes it himself.

" There's something in the way he says 'father' that's both genuine and strange.

"Pairs beautifully with talk of revenge. "

After they're gone, I take a sip of the cider. It's nothing like the commercial stuff—complex, slightly tart, with a warmth that spreads through my chest. There's a hint of cinnamon, maybe cardamom, and something else I can't identify.

"This is also incredible," I murmur, then cut into the duck, watching the juices run pink across the white plate. "There's a reason I won't hesitate. When the time comes."

"Tell me."

So I do. Between bites of perfectly cooked duck and sips of cider that tastes like autumn distilled, I tell him about the evolution of Sal's cruelty. The escalation from control to violence. The times I tried to run. The ways he'd punish me for trying.

"The worst part was how he'd apologize after. Buy me something expensive as if that made it okay. Like a Hermès bag could cover bruised ribs."

"It won't be clean." Dante's voice is dark with promise. "When it happens. It won't be clean or quick or merciful."

"Good." I take another bite, surprised that I still have an appetite while discussing murder. "I want to be there. Want to watch. Want him to know it was me."

He studies me as I eat, and I can see him cataloging this transformation. The woman who couldn't hold a gun steady an hour ago is now calmly discussing watching her ex-husband die.

"You're walking a dark path, Bella."

"I know."

"It changes you. Violence. Even seeing it."

"I know that too."

He leans back, and in the candlelight, I can see every angle of his face—the sharp cheekbones, the shadow of stubble, the way his eyes have gone almost black.

"Stunning," he says quietly. “You are absolutely stunning.”

The admission sends heat through me that has nothing to do with the wine. "You're attracted to homicidal tendencies?"

"I'm attracted to your transformation. Your strength. The way you're taking control."

"By planning murder?"

"By becoming magnificent. Dangerous."

The words settle between us, heavy with meaning. In the distance, there’s a crash followed by creative cursing. We both turn to see Marco flat on his back in the mud, his horse trotting away while Destiny stands there, hands on her hips, disgusted.

"Baby, come back!" Marco calls after her as she storms toward the house. "It was the horse's fault!"

I can't help but laugh. "So much for his authentic Western experience."

"He never could stay on a horse." Dante's watching his brother try to stand in the mud, slip, and fall again. "Even as a kid. Five minutes maximum before he'd find a way to fall off."

Paulie materializes from the shadows—he's changed back into dark clothes, moving with the predator grace that seems more natural on him.

"Dessert?" he asks, though his attention is on Marco's struggle.

"We'll pass." Dante's hand finds my thigh under the table and squeezes gently. "We're in a bit of a rush."

Paulie's knowing look makes heat rise to my cheeks. "The chocolate soufflé will keep." He pauses and watches Marco finally make it to his feet. "Thirty-four, by the way."

"Deployed?"

"As discussed. Five-mile radius, heaviest concentration on the eastern approach.

" He looks at me directly. "Your plan is inspired.

Elegant, even. But I should remind you—" his smile turns sharp, "—I do this for the thrill.

The sound of gunfire, the smell of cordite, the way bodies drop when you place the shot just right.

That's what I live for. Not the outcome.

Not the strategy. Just the beautiful violence of it all. "

"I understand."

"Do you? Because if this goes sideways tomorrow, I won't be playing cleanup crew. I'll be too busy enjoying the chaos."

"Noted."

I watch them talk, and it strikes me—this isn't an employer and an employee. They are two devils using each other, each getting what they want. No real power dynamic, just mutual benefit wrapped in death.

"Good." Paulie starts to leave, then Marco crashes into him, covering his clean clothes with mud.

"Paulie!" Marco throws muddy arms around him. "My man! What was it you said girls around here are into?"

"Money works every time."

"No, no, no. I mean authentic. Local. Like... I don't know, cheese? Tulips? What do Dutch farm girls want?"

"I'm from Amsterdam, not a farm. And that girl was from Jersey."

"But the principle?—"

They wander off, still arguing, leaving us alone with the candles and the cooling food. The night has gotten cold now, but I feel warm from the wine and his hand on my thigh.

"So," I say softly, very aware of how his thumb is tracing small circles through my dress. "Why are we in a rush?"

"Because," he leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper, "I’m famished.”

“We just ate.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started devouring you,” he promises with a smile. “I want to spend the rest of this night showing you exactly how much you mean to me. Before tomorrow. Before everything changes."

"That's very romantic," I whisper back.

"I have my moments." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Where would you like to go?"

"Well, Marco seemed very interested in that barn..."

"Hay is scratchy. And dusty. And gets into places you really don't want it." His hands settle on my waist and pull me closer. "I have better ideas."

"Such as?"

Instead of answering, he lifts me into his arms. I should protest—this is becoming a habit—but I don't. Being carried by him, feeling his strength, makes me feel both vulnerable and protected.

"The farmhouse?" I ask as he carries me away from the pavilion.

"Mm." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Somewhere private. Somewhere that's ours."

The farmhouse is different at night—older, full of shadows and secrets. The stairs creak under our combined weight, and somewhere in the distance, there’s faint music.

The bedroom isn't what I expected. Not modern or grand, but lived-in and personal. Heavy wooden furniture that's been here for generations. A four-poster bed with a quilt that looks handmade. Windows open to the night, letting in the sound of crickets and wind through the grass.

He sets me down gently, like I might break or disappear if he's not careful.

"This was my grandfather's room," he says quietly. "When he built this place. Before the family became what it became. When we were farmers who made wine."

"And you kept it like this?"

"Some things are worth preserving exactly as they are." His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "Some things are perfect in their imperfection."

The subtext isn't lost on me. I reach up and cover his hands with mine.

"Tomorrow—" I start to say.

"Tomorrow doesn't exist yet," he whispers, leaning down to press his forehead to mine. "Tonight, you're Bella. I'm Dante. And this is us.”

"And after tomorrow?"

"After tomorrow, we'll be whatever we become. But tonight..." He kisses me softly, gently, like we have all the time in the world. "Tonight we're two people choosing each other."

I let him pull me down onto the bed, allowing tomorrow to fade into nothing.

For now, this is enough.

For now, we're enough.

And in this farmhouse bedroom that smells like cedar and history, with the night sounds of rural land drifting through open windows, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we'll survive what's coming.

Even if survival means becoming something darker than either of us intended.