Page 37 of Devil’s Gambit

"Isn't that right, Your Majesty? Wouldn't you love to hear her scream? After all, she lied to you. Pretended to be your friend while gathering evidence. Doesn't betrayal deserve punishment?"

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice doesn't sound like Marco—too hard, too dangerous. But when I manage to turn my head, it's him, gun drawn and pointed at Paulie's temple.

"Or what?" Paulie doesn't let go, doesn't even seem concerned. "You'll shoot me? Surrounded by my men?"

"Try me, asshole."

For a moment, nobody moves. I can't breathe. The cow moos softly, oblivious to the violence about to explode.

Then Paulie laughs—that high, delighted sound that makes my skin crawl—and releases me, hands going up in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. No need for dramatics. You're more muscular anyway, Marco. Probably better in a fight. I'm more of a... precision instrument."

He steps back, smoothing his jacket like this was all perfectly normal. "Lunch is ready. Father's already set the table. Don't be late."

He's gone before either of us can respond, leaving behind that expensive cologne and the phantom feeling of his fingers on my face.

"Jesus Christ," Marco mutters, lowering his gun with shaking hands. "We could stay here. Skip lunch. Say we're not hungry."

"No." My stomach growls, betraying me. "I'm starving. And hiding will make him think we're scared."

"We are scared."

"He doesn't need to know that."

Outside, the November air bites through my destroyed dress like frozen teeth. Every step toward the farmhouse feels like walking toward an execution, but the smell pulling us forward—roasted meat, fresh bread, something with cinnamon—makes my mouth water despite everything.

Inside, the warmth hits like a physical force. The table's set for a feast that seems obscene given the circumstances, with fine china that probably belonged to Dante's grandmother and crystal glasses that catch the light. There’s enough food for ten people.

But it's the extra place setting that makes my chest tighten. Five chairs when there should be four.

"Who else is coming?" I ask as we sit, trying to keep my voice casual.

Hendrik beams from the kitchen, apparently oblivious to this morning's grotesque tensions. "Paulie said we have a special guest."

The way Paulie smiles makes my blood run cold. There's anticipation in it, like a cat who knows exactly when the mouse will run.

"It would be rude to start without him," Paulie says, folding his napkin.

We sit in silence that feels like held breath.

Hendrik chatters about the meal—how he braised the beef for six hours with wine and aromatics, made the bread from scratch using his grandmother's recipe with that special honey from the local apiary.

No one responds. We're all watching that empty chair like it might spontaneously combust. My mind races through possibilities.

Footsteps on the porch. Measured, unhurried, confident.

"Ah," Paulie says, that empty smile widening. "He's here."

The door opens, and my heart stops completely.

Domenico. That grandfather face from the gala, silver hair flawlessly styled despite the rural setting. His beard is freshly trimmed, and he smells like luxury aftershave and Cuban cigars. He smiles at us like we're grandchildren he's visiting for Sunday dinner.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for waiting. Such consideration for an old man."

Marco's on his feet before Domenico finishes speaking, gun drawn and pointed. "What the fuck is this, Paulie?"

"Such a warm welcome." Domenico's voice stays grandfather-pleasant as he removes his coat with careful movements, hanging it on a hook by the door. "Young people today are always so quick to violence. I'm simply here for a meal and conversation."

"Bullshit." Marco grabs my arm and pulls me into the corner away from the table. His grip is too tight, scared. I can feel his pulse through his fingers, rabbit quick. "This is a setup. Whatever this is?—"

"These people are under Mr. Caruso's protection," Hendrik says, confusion clear on his weathered face. "Whatever this is, it's not appropriate. You should leave."

"Leave?" Domenico picks up a plate. "But I just arrived. And this meal looks too wonderful to waste."

"Where's my father?" The question tears from my throat, raw and desperate.

"Safe. Comfortable. Probably enjoying room service as we speak." He cuts into his beef and takes a bite, closing his eyes in appreciation. "Magnificent. Truly. You'll see him soon enough, my dear."

"What does that mean?"

"It means what it means." Another bite, savored like communion. "Oh, this is exquisite. Hendrik, you're wasted here. You should be cooking in the finest restaurants."

Two men enter behind him—bodyguards, thick-necked and dead-eyed. They position themselves by the door like gargoyles, blocking our only exit. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

My legs start shaking so hard I have to grip the table. This is wrong. This is all wrong. I can taste blood in my mouth—I've bitten my tongue without realizing it. The Commission is supposed to be neutral, overseeing the war, not?—

"I heard about your clever plan with the FBI," Domenico says between bites, each word measured. "Involving law enforcement. Very creative, though it rather ruins the game, doesn't it?"

"Game?" The word comes out strangled.

"The war. The bloodshed. The drama." He gestures with his fork like he's conducting an orchestra. "It's supposed to be Shakespearean. Montagues and Capulets. Passion and violence and tragic beauty. Instead, we have federal agents in their bad suits crawling over everything like ants at a picnic."

"The FBI acted?" My mind struggles to process.

"Oh yes. Both the Caruso and Calabrese operations are currently being dissected by some very serious people with very boring badges.

" He dabs his mouth with his napkin. "They're seizing assets, freezing accounts, arresting foot soldiers.

It's like watching a chess match end because someone called the referee. Where's the artistry in that?"

"The Commission sanctioned this war," Marco says, his gun still drawn but pointing at the floor now.

"We sanctioned entertainment," Domenico corrects. "Blood and passion and betrayal. Tragedy and triumph. Not paperwork and Miranda rights."

"You see," Paulie finally speaks. "Dante and Sal are children, fighting over scraps of paper, territories that mean nothing, and.

.." His eyes find mine. "Pieces of flesh.

They think they have power, but they're just dancing for them.

The Commission—they're the real power. They don't fight for money or revenge.

They do it for the thrill. The aesthetic of violence.

The pure art of watching empires crumble. "

"You're all insane." The words slip out before I can stop them.

"Perhaps." Domenico's smile never reaches his eyes. "But we're insane with purpose. Unlike your boyfriend and husband, who are insane with love and jealousy. Such base emotions. So predictable."

"I'm not a piece of meat for you to fight over."

"No, you're much more interesting than that." He stands, brushing invisible crumbs from his suit. "Which is why you're coming with me. To your husband."

The word hits like ice water in my veins. "Sal isn't my husband. We're getting divorced. Dante won me?—"

"Legally, the divorce was never finalized. And possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law." He smiles that grandfather smile. "Besides, young Dante seems to be otherwise occupied at the moment."

Marco's gun comes up again. "She's not going anywhere with you."

Hendrik stands, moving between Domenico and me with the protective instinct of a father. "This is unacceptable. This woman belongs to the Caruso family now. Whatever game you're playing, she's not a part of it."

"Everyone's a part of it," Domenico says pleasantly.

The gunshot is so sudden, I don't even see him draw. One moment, Hendrik is standing, protecting me, and the next he's falling backward.

The scream that tears from my throat doesn't sound human. Hendrik hits the floor with a wet thud, blood immediately pooling beneath his head. So much blood, more than a body should hold. It spreads across floorboards he probably laid himself, seeping into the grain, permanent as death.

Paulie doesn't even look at his father's corpse. Just keeps eating his beef, cutting precise bites while his father's blood pools toward his shoes.

"You fucking—" Marco's gun swings up, and he fires without hesitation.

Domenico spins, clutching his leg where Marco's bullet found its mark. Blood immediately soaks through his expensive suit, dripping onto the floor, but his expression barely changes.

"Nobody fucking move!" Marco's gun swings between the bodyguards. "Paulie, you traitorous piece of shit, I should?—"

It happens too fast. The bodyguards move like machinery. One disarms Marco with a sickening crack of his wrist, while the other pins his arms. His gun clatters across the floor, sliding through Hendrik's blood with a sound that makes me retch.

"No!" I lunge for it, desperate, but Domenico's hand catches my hair and yanks me back with surprising strength. Strands tear from my scalp, and I feel blood—my blood now—trickling down my neck.

Even bleeding, he moves to Marco with that grandfatherly calm. The gun he presses to Marco's mouth is small, elegant, and pearl-handled.

"Young Caruso," he says pleasantly, his own blood dripping steadily now, creating a second pool that mingles with Hendrik's. "Always so impulsive. Just like your brother."

"Please." I'm sobbing now, blood and tears mixing. "Please don't. I'll go with you. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt him. This is my fault. I started this. Not him. He’s innocent."

"Innocent?" Domenico laughs. "No one in this room is innocent, my dear."

Marco stares at Domenico with exhausted eyes. Like he always knew it would end like this.