Page 36 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The barn stinks of manure and hay. My dress—the same silk that Dante peeled from my body two nights ago—is now a canvas of dirt and dried egg yolk.

Each sweep of the broom sends up little clouds of dust that catch in my throat, making me cough.

The splinters in the wooden handle bite into my palms, tiny reminders that this is real, not some nightmare I'll wake from.

Marco's nearby, his once-pristine white shirt looking like someone used it to clean an oil spill.

He's brushing one of the cows with mechanical strokes, and I can see the exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the way his hand trembles slightly when he thinks no one's watching.

We haven't spoken in twenty minutes. The silence feels safer than words.

The guard at the entrance shifts his weight from foot to foot.

Even in his farmer's disguise—white shirt, worn jeans—I can see what he really is.

The bulge at his waistband where his gun sits.

The way his eyes never stop moving, scanning for threats that might come from us.

From me. As if I'm dangerous. As if I'm anything more than a woman in a ruined dress, sweeping a barn floor.

My heart starts racing when he reaches into his jacket. This is it. He's going to?—

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"Going for a smoke," he mutters to no one, stepping outside.

The doorway is clear. My pulse pounds in my ears, counting the seconds. A cigarette takes what, five minutes? Seven if he's savoring it?

"Thank you," I whisper.

I drift closer to Marco, keeping my movements casual, just a tired woman changing her sweeping pattern. The cow he's brushing—a massive black and white thing—moos softly as I approach.

"Marco." My whisper is barely louder than the cow's breathing.

"We really shouldn't talk." He doesn't look at me and keeps brushing.

"Do you have your gun?"

His hand stills for a moment. "Yeah. And whatever you're thinking, it's a bad idea."

"He's one man." My fingers tighten on the broom handle. "You could take him. Knock him out, take his weapon?—"

"And then what? There are thirty-three others like him." His voice stays low, controlled, but I hear the frustration bleeding through. "They'd gut us before his body hit the ground."

"No, they won't." The words come out more desperate than I intended. "We're under Dante's protection. They touch us, he skins them alive. Even Paulie wouldn't?—"

"Did you miss his performance earlier?" Marco finally looks at me, and there's a glint in his eyes I don't want to name. Fear, maybe. Or exhaustion. "That man doesn't give a shit about Dante's protection. He had a gun to your head, Bella. He was going to?—"

"It was just a show." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Scare tactics. If he really wanted to kill us, what's stopping him?"

"Maybe he's waiting for an excuse."

"Or maybe he can't." I step closer, close enough to smell the sweat and fear on him. "Our lives are worth more than all these men combined. Dante would burn this whole state down if something happened to us."

Marco laughs, quiet and bitter. "You really believe that?"

"I have to."

The admission hangs between us. I have to believe it because the alternative—that we're expendable, that Dante's protection means nothing here—is too terrifying to consider.

"Listen," I continue. "I'll distract the guard when he comes back. Flirt a little, get him off balance. You come up from behind, knock him out. We take his gun and lock this entrance. Send a message that we're not cattle waiting for slaughter."

"That's the stupidest thing you've said all day."

"Why? Because it requires you to do more than make jokes?"

His jaw tightens. "Because it requires me to get us both killed."

"You're a coward." The accusation slips free before I can stop it, sharp and mean and designed to hurt.

Marco stops brushing entirely. The cow moos in protest, but he ignores it. When he turns to look at me, there's no anger in his eyes. Just exhaustion.

"You're right," he says simply. "I am a coward. Have been my whole life. Want to know why I'm still breathing at thirty-one in this business? Because I keep my hands on tits instead of triggers as much as possible. Because I know when I'm outgunned, outmanned, and out of options."

"So, you'll just stand there? Let them treat us like animals?"

"We are animals, Bella. Every last one of us.

The only difference is some of us know it and some of us pretend we're playing house.

" He turns back to the cow. "Besides, you think Dante's any different?

He tied you to a chair this morning. For your own good, right?

At least Paulie's honest about being a monster. "

"Dante's nothing like?—"

"Sure, he's not. That's why you're here, covered in cow shit instead of at that meeting with the FBI." His laugh is cruel. "Face it, Bella. We're all the same. Just different degrees of fucked up."

"I thought you were different," I say quietly. "Thought maybe under all that bullshit bravado there was someone who'd stand up when it mattered."

"Then you thought wrong. I'm exactly what I appear to be—a coward who survived this long by knowing when to shut up and brush the fucking cow."

"Fine." I grip the broom handle until splinters dig deeper. "I'll do it myself. And when Dante asks why you let his woman get hurt?—"

"His woman can make her own stupid choices. Free will and all that philosophical bullshit."

I hear footsteps—the guard's cigarette break is over. My heart starts pounding, but I force myself to move, to act before I lose my nerve.

"Excuse me?" I approach him, trying to put some sway in my hips despite the farmyard couture I'm wearing.

He straightens like someone shoved a rod up his spine. "Back to your post, lady."

"It's just..." I wrap my arms around myself, pushing my breasts up slightly, knowing how pathetic I must look trying to be seductive while covered in farm filth. "It's so cold in here. I was wondering if maybe you had a jacket? Or could you get me one?"

His face might as well be carved from granite. No reaction at all. "We're all cold. Keep sweeping."

"I thought maybe a strong man like you might want to help a lady in distress?" I move closer, close enough to smell the cigarettes on him, mixed with gun oil and the musk of a man who hasn't showered in days. "Maybe we could warm each other up?"

Still nothing. Like trying to seduce a brick wall.

I glance back at Marco, hoping he's reconsidered, ready to strike while the guard's distracted. But he's still brushing that damn cow, pretending I don't exist. Coward, I think viciously. They're all cowards or monsters or both.

More footsteps. Different ones that make every hair on my body stand up before my conscious mind processes why. That particular gait—measured but slightly off-rhythm, like someone who hears music no one else does.

Paulie.

My skin goes cold, then hot, then numb. I back away from the guard, but there's nowhere to go. The barn feels smaller, like the walls are closing in.

He appears in the doorway carrying two bottles of water, that empty smile already in place. His suit is still pristine despite the farm setting, like dirt wouldn't dare touch him without permission.

"Bella. Marco." His voice is pleasant, conversational. "Thought you might be thirsty. All this hard work must be building up quite an appetite."

I turn back to my sweeping, staring at the floor, the repetitive motion suddenly feeling like the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll get bored. Maybe he'll leave.

"You," he says to the guard. "Take a walk."

The guard disappears without question. Of course he does. Paulie owns them all.

"I've been thinking about your plan," Paulie says, and I can hear him getting closer, each footstep deliberate. "The FBI gambit. Using them as unwitting soldiers in your personal war. It was inspired."

I keep sweeping. The same spot. Over and over. The floor is clean now, but I keep going, needing the motion, the repetition, the illusion of purpose.

"Most men in our world wet themselves at three little letters. F. B. I." He's right behind me now. I can smell his cologne. "Like piglets squealing before slaughter. But you? You weaponized them. Turned the government into your personal attack dog."

"What the fuck do you want, Paulie?" Marco's voice cuts through, tired but with an edge.

"I'm simply a fan appreciating genius when I see it." I feel him lean closer, his breath on my neck making my skin crawl. "Though I do have notes. Constructive criticism, if you will."

My hands are shaking on the broom handle. I can feel his body heat, too close, violating the invisible boundaries that even Dante respects.

"What if we'd added another layer?" His voice drops to a whisper that feels like spiders crawling across my skin. "Picture this: you call Sofia, play the damsel in distress. She comes running to save you, probably alone because she thinks she's your friend. Then..."

He pauses for effect, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"We show her what happens to federal agents who interfere in family business.

Start with the fingers—did you know there are twenty-seven bones in a human hand?

Each one makes a different sound when it breaks.

Then the eyes. The FBI is all about surveillance, right?

Ironic to take away the tools of their trade. "

My stomach roils. The breakfast I couldn't eat tries to come up anyway.

"Send a real message," he continues, his hand coming up to touch my face. "No one touches Queen Isabella's kingdom without losing pieces of themselves."

His fingers trace my jaw, and I try to pull away, but his grip tightens, digging into my cheeks with surprising strength. He forces my face toward his, studying me like I'm a specimen in a jar.