Page 33 of Devil’s Gambit

"I need to get dressed," Marco announces, heading for the door. "Ladies are probably using all the hot water anyway." He pauses at the doorway. "If I don't come back..." he trails with a grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Tell them to mix my ashes with that special lube we talked about."

"Marco, stay." Dante's eyes shift to Paulie, and something passes between them—some silent communication that makes Marco's hand drift to his gun.

"Actually, change of plans, ladies!" Marco calls up. "Save some hot water for me!"

The message is clear: Dante doesn't trust Paulie alone with me.

Rodriguez appears in the doorway. All business, all violence barely contained in a button-down shirt. "Cars are ready, boss. Thirty men, armed and positioned. Sal's expecting his Colombian shipment this afternoon—he'll have minimal security until then."

Dante stands and transforms. The desperate lover disappears, replaced by the Devil of New York.

"Marco, Paulie—she doesn't leave this house.

She doesn't make calls. She doesn't do anything except wait for me to come back.

" His voice drops. "If anything happens to her—if she has so much as a bruise I didn't put there myself—I'll take both your heads. Understood?"

"Crystal clear," Marco says, but his eyes are on Paulie.

Paulie just smiles. It's the emptiest expression I've ever seen on a human face.

Dante looks at me one more time. His hand reaches out like he wants to touch me, then falls. "I'll be back before you know it."

"And if you don't come back?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

"Then you'll finally be free." He heads for the door before pausing without turning. "But I always come back for what's mine."

The sound of engines starting fills the morning—multiple vehicles, heavy ones. Through the window, I watch a convoy form. Black SUVs form a funeral procession. Dante's in the lead vehicle, and even from here, I can see the set of his shoulders. Determined. Deadly.

The convoy disappears down the dirt road, kicking up dust that hangs in the air like smoke from a war that has already begun.

"Goddamnit, Marco." My wrists are completely numb now. "Untie me."

He’s genuinely conflicted, running a hand through his already destroyed hair. "Am I allowed to do that?"

"Yes, you're allowed." The lie comes easily.

Marco looks at Paulie, who's back to studying his knife. "What do you think?"

Paulie shrugs, the blade catching sunlight. "Your funeral."

"That's... not reassuring." Marco pulls out his own knife and starts sawing at the ropes. "This is insane. This whole fucking thing. A month ago, our biggest problem was which wine to serve with dinner. Now it's all war and tied-up women and brothers losing their minds."

The ropes fall away, and I nearly collapse. My legs are numb, arms screaming as blood flow returns in burning waves. I grip the table, waiting for the pins and needles to pass.

"I'm leaving." I stand on shaking legs, spots dancing in my vision.

"Bella, come on. You know I can't?—"

"Watch me."

I spot a knife among the breakfast settings Hendrik must have laid out earlier—the table's set for a meal no one's eating, complete with what looks like a pumpkin pie that's probably cold by now.

The knife is small but sharp, meant for cutting fruit.

I palm it, the weight insignificant but better than nothing.

"Nobody moves." I back toward the door, knife visible but not quite threatening.

Marco raises his hands, almost amused. "Thirty armed men outside, Bella. All Paulie's. Where exactly are you planning to go?"

"Away from here. Away from all you fucking psychopaths."

I'm almost to the door, eyes on Marco, when I back into something solid. Not something. Someone.

Paulie.

He moved without sound, without warning. Just suddenly here, a wall of elegant menace in designer clothes. This close, I can smell his cologne—expensive and wrong, like flowers growing in a graveyard.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is conversational, bereft of emotion.

I spin, bringing the knife up to his throat. The blade trembles against his skin. "Don't touch me. He'll kill you if you hurt me."

He smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. Not because it's cruel or cold, but because it's genuinely delighted. Like I've done something wonderful.

"You think Dante scares me?" His hand comes up slowly, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising gentleness. "You think anyone scares me?"

"He's your boss?—"

"He's my employer. There's a difference."

I do something desperate then, something insane. I turn the blade toward myself and press it against my own throat until the sharp edge bites.

"Maybe you're not scared of him," I say, voice shaking. "But if I die, he'll never stop hunting you. And we both know I can hurt myself faster than you can stop me."

For a long moment, nobody moves. Nobody breathes. I can feel my pulse against the blade, rabbit-quick and terrified.

Then Paulie laughs. Not cruel laughter, but genuine amusement.

A gun appears in his hand. I don't see him draw it—one moment, empty air, the next cold metal pressed against my forehead.

"Or," he says pleasantly, "I could shoot you. Much cleaner. Less dramatic."

The knife falls from my numb fingers, clattering on the floor between us.

"Paulie, what the fuck!" Marco's got his gun out now, pointed at Paulie's head. "Put it down!"

Paulie's free hand comes up and grips my face. His fingers dig into my cheeks, forcing my mouth open slightly. The violation of it—the casual ownership of the gesture—makes me want to vomit.

"You know what you are?" His thumb traces my lower lip, and I taste metal—blood from where his nail breaks skin.

"You're fascinating. Most women in our world are nothing.

Toys. Temporary entertainment. But you?" His grip tightens until tears spring to my eyes.

"You're different. Dangerous. When I respect someone—really respect them—I always wonder what their guts taste like.

What courage tastes like. What defiance would pair well with. "

"You're insane." The words come out muffled by his grip.

"Yes." He says it simply, like stating his height.

"But functionally so. I make Dante money.

I solve his problems. I play my part. But you.

.." His fingers dig deeper. "You make me curious.

And curiosity is so much more dangerous than insanity.

Dante isn't going to stop me from satisfying that curiosity. "

"Let. Her. Go." Marco's voice has lost all humor. "Now."

Paulie releases me so suddenly that I stumble backward, catching myself on the wall. The gun disappears as mysteriously as it appeared.

"Breakfast!" he announces cheerfully, moving to the table. "Father made pumpkin pie. His specialty. We should eat before it goes completely cold."

My legs give out. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, hand at my throat, where I can still feel his fingers. Marco helps me to a chair—different from the one I was tied to, a small mercy.

Hendrik appears with coffee and takes in the scene—the cut ropes, my defensive posture, the tension that makes the air hard to breathe. He sets down cups with practiced calm, like this is all normal.

"The pumpkin pie," he says, voice deliberately bright. "Made from Gertrude—she was the largest pumpkin I've ever raised. Fifteen years of careful cultivation. I've been saving her for a special occasion."

I force myself to take a bite. It should taste like autumn—cinnamon and nutmeg and brown sugar. Instead, it tastes like earth. Like burial. Like death dressed up in pastry.

"Delicious, Father." Paulie takes a huge bite, making a sound of genuine pleasure. "Perfect spice balance. You can really taste the love."

This is insane. We're eating breakfast with a psychopath who threatened to literally ingest me, while the man who claims to love me is off killing my ex-husband. The pie might be excellent, but all I taste is guts and the ghost of Paulie's fingers on my face.

"You know," Paulie says, cutting another piece with surgical precision.

"We might be here quite a while. Mob wars are unpredictable.

How about we all embrace some authentic farm life?

Everyone contributes. My men are already earning their keep—mending fences, feeding animals. Why should you be different?"

"You want us to do chores?" Marco's voice is carefully neutral.

"I want you to work." Paulie's smile is as sharp as the knife he sets down. "You can help with the eastern fence repairs. And Bella can collect eggs. The chickens are harmless. Mostly."

He assigns tasks with the efficiency of someone who's thought this through. Marco to the fence that faces the direction Dante went. Me to the chicken coop, close enough to watch but far enough to feel the illusion of distance.

"Fresh air," Paulie says as he stands, pocketing the phone—my phone, my lifeline to Sofia. "Nothing like a morning on a farm. The smell of earth and hay and possibility."

He walks out, and I finally breathe properly for the first time since he moved behind me.

"Jesus Christ," Marco mutters. "We're trapped here with a fucking psychopath."

"Thirty psychopaths," I correct. "All armed. All loyal to him. We need to get out of here."

"We need to not die." Marco checks his gun, then looks at me. "Which means playing along until Dante gets back."

"If he comes back."

"He'll come back." But Marco doesn't sound certain.

Hendrik returns, apology written across his weathered face. "Your assignments. Paulie insists you start immediately. The chicken coop is past the barn, Miss. Marco, tools are by the eastern fence."

We file out into the November morning. The air is sharp enough to cut, and I'm still in last night's dress—silk meant for seduction, not farm work. My heels sink into the half-frozen mud with each step.

The farmland stretches endlessly, freedom so close I can taste it.

But Paulie's men are everywhere—fixing things that don't need fixing, watching while pretending not to.

One cleans a rifle while leaning against the barn.

Another sharpens a knife while sitting on a fence post. They're not even trying to hide what they are.

I can see Sal's estate from here, a dark smudge on the horizon. Somewhere between here and there, Dante is hunting. Killing. Proving his love with blood.

The chicken coop reeks of ammonia and captivity. The hens regard me with stupid eyes, pecking and clucking their disapproval as I reach under them for eggs. They're as trapped as I am—producing because they must, existing because they're allowed to.

One pecks my hand hard enough to draw blood. I watch the red bead on my palm, mixing with the dirt and feather dust, and think about choices. About agency. About the distance between love and ownership, and whether that distance exists at all.

An egg breaks in my hand, the shell cutting into my palm and yolk running yellow between my fingers.

I don't even flinch.

After all, what's a little more blood in a story already drowning in it?