Page 34 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

The van smells like gun oil and sweat. Not mine—theirs. The five men crammed in here with me reek of it, that particular stench of soldiers who know they're about to do something stupid but will do it anyway because that's what loyalty costs in our world.

My Glock sits heavy in my hand with the safety off. Through the tinted windows, I watch Rodriguez work his magic a few yards away, talking to one of Sal's dealers in the middle of nowhere—some abandoned rest stop where the trees grow thick enough to muffle screams.

"Boss." Giovani shifts beside me, his knee bouncing with nervous energy. "You don't have to be out here yourself. Could coordinate from?—"

"Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it permanently."

The words come out ice-cold, and he flinches, his shoulder pulling away from mine. Good. Let him flinch. Let them all see what I've become for her—a man willing to burn his own empire for a woman who's probably cursing my name right now.

But she doesn't understand. Can't understand.

Locked up, furious, safe—she can't see that this is the only way.

Sal dies today, and then we're free. Both of us.

No more looking over our shoulders, no more wondering when he'll come for her, when he'll try to reclaim what he thinks is his.

Just blood now, peace later. Blood I'll gladly spill, souls I'll gladly damn, all for her.

Rodriguez's voice carries on the wind through the cracked window.

Deep, intimidating, the kind of voice that makes grown men remember being scared children.

The kid he's talking to—can't be more than twenty-five—keeps wiping his palms on his jeans.

From here, I can see the sweat gleaming on his forehead despite the cold.

"This ain't what we agreed on." Rodriguez's hand rests casually on his hip, inches from his weapon. "Deal was for fifty keys. This looks like thirty."

"That's what I was told to bring." The kid's voice cracks slightly. "Nobody wants this to go sideways, Mr. Rodriguez."

Rodriguez laughs, the sound like gravel in a blender. He claps the kid on the shoulder, and the dealer tries not to stumble under the weight.

"What's your name, son?"

"Eddie. Eddie Romano."

"Well, Eddie Romano, let me explain something about respect.

" Rodriguez's grip tightens, fingers digging into the kid's trapezius until he winces.

"Mr. Lucchese doesn't like being disrespected.

And showing up with thirty keys when we agreed on fifty?

That's disrespect. Your boss, Sal, already owes the Lucchese family damn near everything.

Blood debt, money debt, respect debt—the Calabreses are drowning.

And now with this war with Caruso?" He shakes his head slowly, theatrically.

"Can't afford to be short-changing the hand that feeds you.

Makes Mr. Lucchese nervous. Makes him think maybe it's time to collect on all those debts at once.

You don't want to make Mr. Lucchese nervous, do you, Eddie? "

Eddie's Adam's apple bobs like he's trying to swallow a golf ball. "I can—I can get more. From the car. We brought extra, just in case."

"Smart boy."

Eddie nods to his two bodyguards, thick-necked idiots who turn toward the blue sedan parked twenty feet away. The moment their backs are turned, I tap the van's wall twice.

The doors explode open.

The silence of the morning shatters with gunfire. My men move with precision—two shots per target, center mass, no hesitation. Eddie's bodyguards drop before they can reach for their weapons. Blood spreads across the grass, black in the dim light.

Eddie drops to his knees, hands shooting up, fingers spread wide. His whole body shakes like he's having a seizure. "Please, please, I got a family, I got a little girl, she needs me, please?—"

I'm out of the van before he finishes. The morning air tastes like cordite and pine. I crouch in front of him, close enough to see tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face.

"How old's your kid?" The question surprises us both.

"Six—six months. A girl. Sophia."

Sophia. Like the FBI agent. The irony tastes bitter.

"I'm sorry." I mean it, which makes this worse. This is for Bella, I remind myself. Every death, every soul, all for her. "You picked the wrong side."

The gunshot echoes through the trees, sending birds scattering.

Eddie falls forward, a neat hole in his forehead leaking thoughts he'll never think, dreams he'll never dream.

His eyes stay open, surprised, like he really thought mentioning his daughter would save him.

Quick. Clean. More mercy than Sal would have given.

I stand, knees creaking—thirty years old and already feeling ancient.

Rodriguez approaches, and in the morning light, I can still see the bruises I gave him that day Bella disappeared.

Purple faded to yellow-green around his jaw.

But he's here, following orders, rare loyalty in a world where everyone's for sale.

"Call the others," I tell him, stepping over Eddie's spreading blood. "Three of us take the dealer's car and play dress-up. The rest follow at a distance."

Rodriguez nods, already pulling out his phone.

I head for Eddie's sedan, trying not to look at the blood pooling under his body.

The car smells like cheap cologne and marijuana, the seats sticky with spilled energy drinks and God knows what else.

In the glove compartment, under registration papers and unpaid tickets, I find a photograph.

Eddie, a pretty brunette, and a baby in a pink dress. All smiling. All unaware that daddy dealt drugs for psychopaths. That daddy would die for choosing wrong.

My fist closes around the photo until the edges cut into my palm. He chose this life. Chose to work for Sal. Chose wrong. Just like everyone who stands between me and keeping Bella safe.

I throw the picture out the window and watch it flutter away like a dying bird, like all the dreams that die when you enter our world.

Twenty minutes later, we're approaching Sal's manor. It sits like a tumor on the landscape—white columns trying for classy but just looking desperate, windows that reflect nothing but emptiness. The guard at the gate waves us through without question. Eddie's car is expected. Eddie's death isn't.

"Remember," the driver—one of my guys, wearing Eddie's jacket—mutters through clenched teeth. "Play it cool with the door guard. His name's Enzo. Been with Sal since?—"

"I don't give a fuck about his life story."

The manor looms larger, and I can see Enzo now, leaning against the front door like he owns the place with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Bored. Unsuspecting. About to die for the woman I love.

We park. I slide on sunglasses despite the gray sky—hiding my eyes, hiding my intent. The weight of the Glock against my ribs feels like promise, like destiny, like Bella's name carved in bullets.

Enzo approaches, flicking his cigarette away in a perfect arc. "Leave the cash and fuck off. Boss is busy."

I step out of the car, taking my time. The morning air is crisp, cold enough to see our breath.

"There's no money."

The words hang in the air for two seconds. Enzo's face shifts from confusion to understanding to the beginning of rage that he'll never complete.

"What the fuck do you mean, rookie? You think you can?—"

The gunshot cuts him off mid-thought. I don't even remember drawing, just the kick of the recoil traveling up my arm and Enzo falling, the back of his skull painting the white door red. The cigarette is still burning on the ground beside him, smoke rising like his soul departing.

"Blow the fucking door!" I'm already running, adrenaline making everything crystal clear, every detail as sharp as broken glass.

Behind me, our vans scream up the drive, tires spraying gravel, doors slamming like thunder. One of my guys slaps C4 on the door, the plastic explosive looking innocent as clay. We all dive for cover behind the decorative pillars that are about to become functional.

The explosion shakes the entire building, windows rattling in their frames. The door disappears in a cloud of splinters and smoke, pieces of wood embedding in the walls. I'm first through the hole, gun raised, scanning through the smoke and dust.

"Every fucking room!" I shout over the ringing in my ears. "Find that coward! I want Sal Calabrese dragged to me so I can put a bullet in his skull myself!"

Sal's men pour out from doorways, half-dressed and grabbing for weapons they'll never reach.

The gunfire is immediate and deafening. Muzzle flashes strobe in the smoke.

I dive behind a marble column as bullets chip pieces away, each impact sending dust into my eyes.

Somewhere, a woman is screaming—probably one of the maids who chose the wrong day to come to work.

I move through the house like I own it, because soon I will.

Soon, all of this will be Bella's—every room, every painting, every square inch Sal thought was his.

Up the stairs, Rodriguez beside me, both of us check corners, covering angles.

My shoes slip on blood someone's already spilled.

The office is where it always is in these cookie-cutter mansions—second floor, overlooking the grounds, the king surveying his kingdom.

The door splinters under my boot, wood giving way to rage.

Tommy's there, hiding behind Sal's desk.

He flinches when he sees me, hands going up automatically.

A TV remote falls from his grip. His two bodyguards are too slow, still reaching for their weapons when Rodriguez and I put them down.

Four shots, two men, clean kills that spray blood across Sal's precious rug.