Page 3 of Devil’s Gambit

"When you lose, you mean."

"The bet stands? My entire casino against your wife?"

"Permanent ownership. No takebacks." He shoves Isabella away. She stumbles but catches herself on Tommy's chair. "Deal the cards."

I shuffle slowly, methodically. The room holds its breath. Marco clears his throat—a warning. He knows me well enough to read the ice in my veins. Vito and Tommy sit frozen, witnesses to something that feels older than law.

"Dante," Marco cautions, carefully neutral. "Maybe we should?—"

"Deal's a deal." I cut him off, eyes on Sal. "Five-card draw. One hand. Winner takes all."

"Finally. Someone with balls in this city."

I deal five cards each, face down. The soft whisper of paper on felt sounds like fate. Isabella stands frozen between our chairs now, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something expensive trying to mask fear-sweat and resignation.

Sal grabs his cards and fans them out. His tell is immediate—the neck scratch. Good cards then. Maybe very good. His grin widens as he rearranges them

I look at mine without moving a muscle. The five, six, and eight of hearts. Workable.

"How many?" I ask.

"Two." He throws cards down and grabs new ones. The neck scratch again. Still happy.

I discard two, draw two more. The seven of hearts. And the nine of hearts.

"Well?" Sal demands. "Let's see them."

"You first. You made the bet."

He slaps his cards down like a conquering hero. "Four eights. Beat that, you bastard."

Tommy whistles low. Vito mutters something in Italian. It's a monster hand; the kind you'd sell your soul for. Sal has had maybe a dozen hands like that in his whole worthless life, and he's drawn it now when it matters.

"Good hand," I acknowledge.

"Good?" Sal laughs, reaching for Isabella. "It's fucking perfect. You're done, Caruso. Your whole empire for one hand of cards."

"Very good hand," I agree. "But not perfect."

I lay my cards down gently. Five through nine of hearts.

"Straight flush."

The words hang there. Sal stares at the cards like they might change if he looks hard enough. The color drains from his face, bourbon flush going corpse-pale.

"No." The word comes out strangled. "No, you cheated. You fucking?—"

"Careful." I let ice creep into my voice. "You made the bet. In front of witnesses. Are you saying your word means nothing?"

"I'm saying you're a fucking cheat!"

Tommy and Vito shift, hands moving to weapons. But I hold up a finger, and they freeze.

"Check the deck." I push it toward him. "Count the cards. Hell, check the security footage. I don't need to cheat to beat a drunk amateur."

Sal's hands shake as he reaches for the cards, then stops. We both know what he'd find. Fifty-two cards, no marks, no tricks. Just his shit luck and worse judgment.

"The bet stands," I say quietly. "Unless you're saying Sal Calabrese doesn't honor his word?"

In our world, that's death. A man who doesn't honor his bets, doesn't pay his debts, doesn't keep his word? He's nothing. Less than nothing. Sal knows it. Everyone at the table knows it.

"Four weeks," he says finally, voice breaking. "You get four weeks."

"That's not what you said. Permanent, no takebacks. Your words."

I watch him crumble. The big bad Butcher of Brooklyn reduced to a shaking drunk who just gambled away his wife like a watch or a car.

"Fine." The word comes out like pulled teeth. "But I want her back when you're done with her."

"That's not how permanent works, Sal."

"You know what I mean. When you get bored. When she disappoints you like she disappointed me." He stands, swaying. "Frigid bitch doesn't know how to spread her legs anyway."

Isabella's face never changes.

"Get your things," I tell her, keeping my voice neutral. "You belong to me now."

That's when she finally looks at me. Really looks at me. Storm-gray eyes full of fury and fear and something else. Defiance maybe. Or hope so beaten down it doesn't have a name anymore.

"I don't belong to anyone," she says quietly.

"You do now." I stand and straighten my jacket. "Marco will make sure you get there safely."

My brother understands the subtext. Follow at a distance, ensure no interference, but let her walk out on her own power.

"This is wrong." Her voice stays steady even as her hands shake. "You can't buy people."

"I didn't buy you." I move closer, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. "I won you. Important distinction in our world."

"Your world, " she says with a bitter laugh. "I never asked to be part of your world."

"No," I agree. "But here you are."

Sal grabs her arm, fingers digging into old bruises. "You embarrass me again, and I'll?—"

I move. Fast enough that Sal doesn't see it coming. My hand closes around his wrist, squeezing until bones grind together.

"Touch her again and lose the arm." I keep my voice conversational, but Sal goes white. "She's mine now. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. You lost that right when you threw her on the table like chips."

I release him. He stumbles back, cradling his wrist.

"Two weeks to get the paperwork sorted," I continue like nothing has happened. "Lawyers, transfers, whatever the state requires. In the meantime, she stays with me."

"You can't just?—"

"I can. I will. I did." I turn to Isabella. "Let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"You are. The only question is whether you walk, or I carry you."

She studies my face, looking for something. Kindness maybe. Or cruelty she can catalog and prepare for. I give her neither, just calm certainty.

"I'll walk," she says finally.

"Smart choice."

I watch her gather the scraps of her dignity, chin up despite everything. She moves past Sal without looking at him. Past Tommy and Vito, who avoid her eyes, before she pauses at the door.

Then she's gone, the click of her heels fading down the corridor.

Sal makes a sound like a wounded animal. "Fucking bitch. Fucking?—"

"Get out." I sit back down and pick up my cards. "You've got nothing left to lose."

He stumbles toward the door and stops. "When you're done with her. When she bores you?—"

"If she bores me, that's my problem. Not yours. She's mine now, Sal. Permanently."

After he leaves, Tommy whistles again. "That was some cold shit, boss."

"Was it?" I ask, dealing a new hand. "Man bets his wife like she's property. Gets what he deserves."

"And her?" Vito asks carefully. "What does she get?"

I think about those storm-gray eyes. The bruises. The way she stood for an hour in those heels without complaint. The flash of fire under all that trained submission.

"She gets a choice," I say finally. "For the first time in her life, she gets a choice."

"After two weeks?"

"We'll see."

But I already know Isabella won't go back to Sal. Not in two weeks. Not ever. I've won her in a poker game, but she won something too.

Freedom from a monster.

The fact that she traded one monster for another? Well. Time will tell which is worse. But I've never hit a woman. Never forced one. Never treated one like furniture or poker chips.

I might be the Devil of New York, but even devils have standards. And something about those eyes makes me want to be a better class of monster.

"Deal me in," Marco says, returning to the table. "She walked out clean. I'll tail her, make sure she gets wherever she's going."

"Good." I shuffle the deck, my mind already elsewhere. On bruises and defiance. On storm-gray eyes that see too much.

Tommy shakes his head. "Your house is gonna feel different with a woman in it."

"Everything's about to feel different," Vito adds.

They aren't wrong. I've just won a woman in a poker game. Changed her life with a turn of the cards.

"You really gonna keep her?" Tommy asks, trying to sound casual.

"I won her."

"That's not an answer."

No, it isn't. But I don't have a better one. Not yet. All I know is the image of those bruises won't leave me alone. The way she flinched when Sal raised his hand. The resignation in her voice when she said she doesn't belong to anyone.

She's wrong about that. In our world, everyone belongs to someone. The trick is belonging to someone who understands the weight of that ownership.

"Boss." Vito clears his throat. "The Commission ain't gonna like this."

"Since when do I care what the Commission likes?"

"Since human trafficking brings heat we don't need."

"It's not trafficking." I gather the cards and square the deck. "It's a business transaction. The husband transferred ownership to pay a debt. Happens every day in Corporate America."

"Corporate America doesn't usually involve wives."

"Sure it does. They just use lawyers instead of cards."

The room falls quiet. They know better than to push when I've made a decision. But I can feel their unease. This is new territory, even for us. We deal in drugs, guns, and money. Not people. Never people.

Except now I've crossed that line. For bruises on a stranger's arms and fire in her storm-gray eyes.

"Meeting's over," I announce. "Tommy, Vito—spread the word. Isabella Calabrese is under my protection. Anyone who touches her answers to me."

They file out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering scent of her perfume. Fear and flowers.

I pour myself a scotch. The good stuff. Outside, the city glitters like broken glass. My city now, mostly. Won through blood and bullets and careful strategy.

And now, apparently, through poker.

“Isabella,” I roll the name off my tongue, tasting it. Wife of my enemy. Pawn in a game she never asked to play. Mine now, for better or worse.

Those bruises. That flinch.

She needs time to heal. Time to discover what choice actually means.

I'll give her that time. In my house, under my protection, by my rules.

After all, I've won her fair and square.

And Dante Caruso always keeps what he wins.