Page 38 of Devil’s Gambit

"But you make a compelling argument," Domenico continues, pulling the gun from Marco's mouth with a wet pop. "I am, after all, a reasonable man."

Relief floods through me for exactly one second.

Then the gun traces down Marco's chest and stops at his stomach.

"I'm an Old Testament man, my dear. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth." His finger finds the trigger. "Leg for... stomach."

"No, please, GOD?—"

The shot is deafening in the small room. Marco folds in half, and the blood—God, the blood is immediate and terrible, soaking through his shirt and running down his pants to pool on the floor.

"NO!" I throw myself down beside him, pressing my hands over the wound. Hot blood pulses between my fingers with every heartbeat. "Marco, stay with me. Please, please stay with me! This is my fault, I'm so sorry, I should never have?—"

"Fuck," he gasps, blood bubbling on his lips, speckling my face when he coughs. "Should've... should've knocked out the guard like you said."

"Don't talk. Save your strength." My hands are slippery. I can't keep pressure on the wound. There's so much blood. It's everywhere—on my dress, my arms, pooling around my knees where I kneel in it.

"Tell Dante..." He coughs, spraying more blood, darker now, almost black. "Tell him I'm sorry. For the FBI bitch. For everything."

"You'll tell him yourself. You're going to be fine. You have to be fine. This is my fault, I did this, I'm so sorry?—"

Above us, Domenico claps, the sound obscene. "Yes! THIS! This is what mob wars should be! Blood and tears and desperate promises! The passion! The tragedy! Shakespeare himself couldn't have written it better!"

Another gunshot. I flinch, but Marco doesn't jerk. One of Domenico's bodyguards falls forward, brain matter splattering the wall.

Paulie stands behind him with a smoking gun.

"For my father," he says, then looks at Domenico. "You son of a bitch."

Domenico barely glances at his dead man, though blood—the bodyguard's blood—has sprayed across his suit, mixing with his own. "And how do you feel about that? Your father dead?"

"Nothing." Paulie tilts his head. "Absolutely nothing. But we agreed—I get Dante. I want to see how far I can push him. Want to taste his desperation when he finds what's left."

"And you will." Domenico's smile is genuine now. "Though it's a shame I'll miss his reaction."

"You'll have your own entertainment." Paulie's empty smile returns. "After all, once Sal is dead, Mrs. Calabrese will need a new husband."

My blood turns to ice. Domenico looks at me, really looks at me, and I see it—the hunger behind the grandfather mask.

"You're quite right," he says pleasantly. "Such a beautiful young woman shouldn't remain a widow long. Perhaps a more mature husband this time? Someone who appreciates the finer things?"

"No—" But the remaining guard is already grabbing me, pulling me from Marco. His blood is all over me—my hands, my dress, my face. I can taste it.

"Don't leave him!" I'm screaming, fighting, but the guard's grip is iron. "This is my fault! I did this! Marco, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"You don't have a choice." The guard's voice is flat as he drags me toward the door.

"We should stop somewhere," Domenico says conversationally, limping behind us and leaving a trail of blood. "Get you cleaned up. Though perhaps keep some of the blood? It's rather poetic—wearing one man's blood to meet another."

"He's not my husband!" My throat is raw from screaming.

"Details, details." Domenico waves dismissively. "Paulie, I trust you can handle things here?"

"Oh yeah." Paulie's already pulling out a gas can from behind the door—he planned this, all of it. “I’ve got everything under control.”

"A shame to miss it." Domenico sounds disappointed. "His brother burning alive, his woman gone—it would have been magnificent to witness."

They're both insane. Completely, utterly insane, and Marco's dying because of me, because I thought I could play their games?—

I'm pulled outside into the cold November air. Behind us, I hear liquid splashing, smell gasoline mixing with blood and death.

"No!" I twist to see Paulie and Domenico backing out, Domenico pouring gas despite his wounded leg, leaving a trail of fuel. "Marco's still in there! He's still alive! MARCO!"

"Not for long," Domenico says matter-of-factly.

The match falls in slow motion. The farmhouse doesn't explode—it catches with a whoosh, flames immediately racing along the gasoline trail, climbing the walls, finding the old wood.

"MARCO!" The scream tears my throat bloody. Through the window, I see him trying to crawl, leaving a blood trail, his mouth open in a scream I can't hear over the roar of flames. Then the smoke gets too thick, but I know he's still alive, still burning, still dying because of me.

The guard shoves me into the car. I'm covered in blood—Marco's blood, Hendrik's blood, my own blood from where Domenico tore my hair. It's everywhere, under my nails, in my mouth, soaking through my dress.

Through the rear window, I watch the farmhouse become an inferno. The flames are so high now, so bright, like hell opened to swallow everything I touched. Smoke pillows into the gray sky, black and thick, carrying Marco's screams, carrying my guilt.

"Stop screaming, please," Domenico says mildly, pressing his handkerchief to his leg wound. "You're giving me a headache."

But I can't stop. Can't stop seeing Marco trying to crawl through fire. Can't stop tasting his blood. Can't stop knowing that I did this—my plan, my war, my fault.

"I killed him," I sob, choking on smoke and guilt. "I killed them both. This is all my fault."

"Perhaps," Domenico agrees. "But don't worry. Soon you'll be reunited with your husband. And after he's gone—which won't be long now—perhaps we can discuss your future. I've always wanted a young wife. Someone beautiful to display at Commission meetings."

The farmhouse is collapsing now, beams falling inward, sending up showers of sparks.

Everything I touch turns to ash.

"Dante will come," I whisper, more prayer than certainty.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Domenico says. "After all, what's tragedy without an audience?"

The burning farmhouse gets smaller and smaller in the rear window until it's an orange glow against the gray sky. A funeral pyre.

I close my eyes.

This is what happens when you fall for the devil.

Everyone burns.