Page 4 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

My hands won't stop shaking as I fold the same dress three times.

Sal throws another glass against the wall, and I flinch at the shatter. Two years of marriage, and I still flinch. Some lessons you never learn.

"Fucking Caruso." He paces our bedroom—his bedroom, nothing here was ever mine—like a caged animal. "Thinks he owns this city. Thinks he owns everything."

I keep folding. The blue dress he bought me for his nephew's christening. The black one from our anniversary. Each piece of fabric is a memory I want to burn.

"You listening to me?"

His hand cracks across my face before I can answer. I taste copper.

"Yes, Salvatore."

"You'll be back." He grabs my chin, forces me to look at him. "One day with Caruso and you'll come crawling back, begging me to take you in."

I don't tell him that I'd rather die than crawl back to him. I don't tell him anything. Two years of marriage taught me when to be furniture.

"He'll use you up." His fingers dig into my jaw. "Pass you around to his men like a party favor. That's they do with women like you."

Women like me. Things to be traded for debts and deals.

"And when he throws you away—because he will throw you away—don't come crying to me." He releases my face with a shove. "You're damaged goods now. Worthless."

I zip the suitcase. Three dresses, two pairs of shoes, and underwear that make me feel like merchandise. Everything I own fits in one bag. Everything Sal allows me to own.

"Get out." He turns his back, staring out at the garden where I used to imagine escaping. "Your new owner's waiting."

I don’t turn back.

The car idles outside like a hearse. Black town car, tinted windows, engine purring. One of the men from the casino leans against it, scrolling through his phone.

He glances up as I approach. He looks young, in his mid-twenties maybe, with the kind of smile that probably works on women who haven't been broken yet.

"Mrs. Calabrese?" He opens the back door with a flourish. "I'm Marco. Dante's brother."

I slide in without acknowledging the introduction. The leather seats smell new, nothing like Sal's cars with their lingering cologne and cruelty.

Marco gets in the driver's seat and adjusts the mirror to watch me. "Long night?"

I stare out the window.

"Not much of a talker, huh? That's cool. I can talk enough for both of us."

The city blurs past. It’s been two years since I've been in a car without Sal or one of his men. The last time I rode alone was to my wedding. White dress, white lies, white-knuckled grip on a future I couldn't escape.

"You want music? I got a playlist for everything. Road trips, workouts, getting rid of bodies—kidding! That last one's a joke. Mostly."

I watch the side mirror. A black Bentley follows three cars back. My stomach drops.

"He's behind us."

Marco's eyes flick to the rearview. "Yeah, Dante wanted to make sure the transfer went smoothly. Don't worry, he's keeping his distance. My brother's good at reading people, knowing what they need. You need space, he gives space."

Space. Like I'm a wild animal who might spook.

"Though between you and me," Marco continues, taking a turn north, "I think he wanted to make sure Sal didn't try anything stupid. Your husband's got a reputation for not honoring deals when he sobers up."

"Ex-husband." The words come out sharper than intended.

"Not technically. Not yet. But Dante's lawyers are good. The best money can buy. They'll have you divorced in no time."

The buildings give way to trees. We're in a different New York now, one where monsters wear finer suits and drink better scotch.

"This is us." Marco turns through iron gates that open before we arrive. A mansion rises from manicured grounds, all stone and shadow. "Casa Caruso. Dante's had it for about five years."

The Bentley slides up behind us. My chest tightens.

Dante unfolds from the driver's seat, all controlled power and custom tailoring. Sharp cheekbones, eyes the color of whiskey, hands that could break or build with equal precision.

"I'll take it from here," he tells Marco.

"You sure? She’s warming up to me. We're practically best friends now."

Dante's expression could freeze blood. Marco raises his hands in surrender, winks at me, and drives off.

"Your things?" Dante glances at my single suitcase.

"That's all."

Something flickers in his eyes. He takes the suitcase without asking and heads for the entrance. I follow because what else is there to do?

The house staff inside stares straight through me. They all do—servants trained to see nothing, know nothing, tell nothing. I'm just another woman changing hands, another transaction in a city built on them.

"Shall we?" He gestures toward the entrance, where a servant waits with carefully averted eyes.

The entrance hall is all marble and money, cold as a mausoleum. Our footsteps echo like judgment.

The elevator is mirrored on three sides. I catch glimpses of us from every angle—him in his perfect suit, me in my escape clothes that helped do anything but. We look like a photograph from someone else's life.

He presses the button for the third floor. Even at home, men like him need levels to separate themselves from others.

The elevator rises, and my stomach drops. One floor. Two.

His cologne fills the small space—something expensive and subtle that makes me think of dark wood and darker intentions. I press myself against the far wall, but there's nowhere to go.

"Are you afraid of me?"

The question surprises us both, I think. He's watching me in the mirror, those dark eyes unreadable.

"Should I be?"

"That's not an answer."

"Neither was yours."

Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "Touché."

The elevator stops. The doors open into a grand hallway lined with oil paintings.

The space hits me like a physical force. Windows overlooking grounds that stretch like a private kingdom. Furniture that costs more than lives. Art that belongs in museums. Everything pristine, cold, untouchable.

Like him.

"Your room is through here." He leads me down a hallway wider than my childhood bedroom and opens a door to reveal a suite that makes Sal's house seem middle-class.

A king bed dominates the space, dressed in whites and grays like expensive armor. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the estate grounds. An attached bathroom, I can see marble gleaming in. And on the door?—

"Is that a lock?"

"It is."

"On the inside?"

"Yes."

I turn to face him fully for the first time since the poker room. "I don't understand."

"It's not complicated. That's your room. The lock is for your privacy."

"My privacy." I taste the words like foreign food. "And you have a key?"

"No."

The word hangs between us, impossible and therefore probably a lie.

"What's your game?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "What kind of man wins a woman in a poker game and then gives her a lock?"

"The kind who doesn't force women." His voice carries no inflection, simply facts. "Despite what you've been told."

"Right. You just win them. Same difference."

"Is it?"

"You tell me. You're the one who accepted a human being as collateral."

"To get you away from him." The words come out sharp, then he seems to catch himself. To smooth his edges. "You'll join me for breakfasts and dinners. You'll accompany me to certain social functions. Beyond that, your time is your own."

"My time." Another foreign concept. "And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll be hungry."

I almost laugh. Almost. "That's it? The big threat is missed meals?"

"Threats are a bad first impression—” He stops. "What should I call you?"

"Nothing." The word tastes like truth. "I'm nothing."

Something flashes in his eyes. Anger? But not at me.

"Isabella, then. Until you decide otherwise."

He turns to go, and suddenly I need to know. "When?"

He pauses. "When what?"

"When will you—" I gesture helplessly at the bed, at myself, at the transaction we're dancing around. "Sal said you'd want to break me in. That's what men like you do with new toys."

He goes still. When he turns back, his face is carved from stone.

"I don't force women," he repeats. "Not for any reason. Not under any circumstances. If you come to my bed, it'll be because you choose to. No other reason."

"And if I never choose to?"

"Then you'll sleep alone." He moves to the door and pauses. "There are clothes in the closet. If you need anything, the intercom connects to security. They'll help."

"Why are you doing this?"

He considers me for a long moment. "Because I want to."

Then he's gone, the door closing with a soft click that sounds like a promise. Or a threat. They're often the same thing.

I test the lock immediately. It works. Solid. Real.

For the first time in two years, I have a lockable door.

I should be relieved. Instead, I’m terrified. Men like Dante Caruso don't give gifts without expecting payment. And the price of this lock, this room, this illusion of choice—I can't calculate what that might be.

I search the space methodically. Check the vents, the mirrors, the smoke detectors. No cameras that I can find, but that doesn't mean they're not here. Men with this much money can buy invisible eyes.

The closet is full of clothes in my size. Designer labels. Soft fabrics. Everything is tasteful, expensive, nothing like the bright, tight things Sal preferred. Someone put thought into this. Someone who knew my measurements but not my preferences.

Or maybe someone who thought they knew what I should prefer.

I find pajamas—silk, of course—and lock myself in the bathroom. More marble. A shower that could fit five people. Products that smell like things I can't name but know cost more than most people's rent.

I shower Sal's touch off my skin. The water runs pink from where his ring split my lip, and my blood circles the drain like a metaphor I'm too tired to analyze.

When I emerge, the bedroom windows reveal grounds shrouded in midnight darkness. It’s one in the morning, and the estate stretches beyond like a black void.

I find a letter opener in the desk—because of course there's a desk, complete with stationery embossed with “DC.” My initials now. Dante's Captive. Devil's Chattel. Doesn't matter.

The bed is too soft. Too big. Too much like sinking into something I might not escape. I drag a chair to face the door, the letter opener clutched like a talisman.

He'll come. They always do. The lock is foreplay, the privacy a game. It’s to make me feel safe, lower my guard, and trick me into thinking I have choices. Then when I'm asleep or showering or breathing wrong?—

Hours pass.

The grounds brighten with dawn. My eyes burn. My hand cramps around the letter opener.

He doesn't come.

7:00 AM. Dawn's breaking—I should be getting ready for breakfast. Thirteen hours until dinner. A schedule. Structure. Rules I understand, at least.

My eyes are so heavy. The chair is so uncomfortable. The door so steadfastly closed.

Maybe a few minutes to rest my eyes. I’ll keep the letter opener ready and stay in the chair where I can see the door. I'll wake before eight. Only a moment of?—

Sleep takes me between one breath and the next, dragging me under like warm water.

In my dreams, I'm not nothing.

In my dreams, the lock works both ways.

In my dreams, the Devil keeps his promises.

But I know better than to trust dreams. Just like I know better than to trust Devils who give gifts.

When I wake, if I wake, I'll remember that.

It's not freedom.

But it's not Sal.

And maybe, for now, that's enough.