Page 42 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The hand pressed over my eyes smells wrong—expensive cologne layered over chemicals.

My legs shake with each blind step forward, the November cold giving way to artificial heat that makes my skin crawl.

I can hear my own breathing, too fast, too shallow, echoing in my ears along with the click of my heels on pavement, then marble.

"Keep walking, Bella." Sal's voice comes from just behind my right ear, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. "Almost there."

My stomach clenches. The dress Domenico forced me into—deep burgundy silk—clings to my body like a second skin.

Too tight at the ribs, where I can barely breathe.

Too low at the neckline, where cold air kisses my collarbones.

My fingers curl involuntarily, and I feel it—the blood still caked under my nails.

Marco's blood. Hendrik's blood. Domenico's sick joke, forcing me to keep it like a twisted souvenir.

The hand drops away.

Light floods my vision, and I blink hard, eyes watering.

We're in a hotel lobby, but not one of Sal's.

This place breathes different air—established elegance.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm pools of light across marble floors so polished I can see my own terrified reflection.

Jazz drifts from hidden speakers, a melody with piano and bass that should be soothing but makes my skin prickle instead.

The space is full but not crowded. A man in a three-piece suit checks his phone by the elevator. Two women in cocktail dresses laugh over martinis at the bar. Normal people living normal lives, with no idea that a monster just walked through the revolving doors.

"Stay close." Sal's hand finds the small of my back, fingers pressing through the silk hard enough to bruise. "Try anything—anything at all—and my men will handle it. They're at every exit. Every stairwell. Even the fucking kitchen entrance."

I force myself to nod, though my neck feels like it might snap from the tension. My legs are shaking so hard I'm afraid I'll collapse right here on this pristine marble, in front of all these people who could help if only they knew.

The walk to the reception desk feels infinite.

"Good evening, welcome to the Meridian. How may I assist you tonight?"

She addresses Sal like any other guest—polite, professional, no recognition in her eyes. This isn't one of his hotels. He's hiding. Running.

"I want the penthouse." Sal's voice carries that particular breed of arrogance that money births. "The best fucking suite you have. And it better have a bar. Fully stocked. Whiskey, not that wine bullshit."

The woman's fingers dance across her keyboard, manicured nails clicking against keys. "I apologize, sir, but our penthouse suites are typically reserved weeks in advance. However, I can offer you our executive?—"

"Do I look like someone who stays in a fucking executive suite?

" Sal's voice drops, and I see the receptionist's smile falter.

He snaps his fingers—the sound makes me flinch—and one of his men steps forward.

Thick neck, scarred hands, the kind of face that belongs in mugshots.

He drops two duffel bags on the marble counter with a thud that echoes.

One zipper has come partially undone, revealing neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

The receptionist's eyes go wide. Her fingers freeze over the keyboard.

"Let me... check our system again." Her voice has changed, higher now, nervous. She types faster. "We do have the Ambassador Penthouse available. Forty-second floor. Private elevator access. Full bar. Panoramic views."

"Finally, someone who understands customer service." Sal pulls out a driver's license and slides it across the marble with two fingers. "Salvatore Santoro."

My heart stutters. A fake name. He's using an alias, which means he's scared. Scared men are unpredictable. Dangerous.

"Welcome, Mr. Santoro." She inputs the information, fingers trembling slightly. Her eyes shift to me. "And Mrs...?"

"Isabella Santoro." The lie rolls off Sal's tongue smooth as aged bourbon. "My wife."

"May I see your identification as well, Mrs. Santoro?"

The blood drains from my face. I don't have an ID. I don't have anything except this dress and the horror caked under my fingernails.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sal leans forward, and the receptionist takes a step back.

"You're asking my wife for papers like she's some kind of criminal?

Like we're suspicious?" His hand slams on the counter.

"Maybe we should take our business elsewhere.

Somewhere that doesn't treat paying customers like shit. "

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Santoro." The woman's professional smile is cracking at the edges. "Welcome to the Meridian. Jorge will be happy to assist with your luggage."

"We've got our own help." Sal gestures to his men—four of them, trying to look like private security instead of killers. Their suits don't quite fit right. Their eyes are too dead.

We move through the lobby, and my body is screaming at me to run. Every muscle coiled, ready to sprint. But I can feel them—Sal's men, positioned like predators. One by the bar. One near the elevators. More I probably can't see.

I take a small step backward, trying to drift toward a group of businessmen heading for the exit. Maybe if I scream?—

A wall of muscle blocks my path. Another guard, this one with a face that looks like it's been rearranged by fists more than once.

"Keep walking." His breath smells like cigarettes and metal. Blood, maybe.

The elevator is all mirrors and gold, reflecting my terrified face from every angle.

I press myself into the corner, as far from Sal as the small space allows.

He looks different when he’s sober—focused but unsteady, paranoid.

His hand keeps twitching toward his waist, where his jacket bulges. Gun. Has to be.

Two of his men crowd in with us. The broken-faced guard and a younger one with acne scars and nervous eyes that won't stay still. The elevator starts rising, and my ears pop. My breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space.

Sal stares at his men. Really stares, like he's trying to read their minds through their faces.

"Who the fuck are you two?"

The younger one blinks rapidly. "Boss? It's me. Joey. Been with you three years, boss. Since that thing in Newark."

"Bullshit." Sal's hand moves to his gun, and my whole body goes rigid. "You're feds. Or Caruso's men. Someone sent you?—"

"Jesus Christ, boss, it's Rico." The broken-faced one sounds exhausted. "Rico and Joey. We were at the compound this morning when shit went sideways."

"Prove it."

Sal pulls out a phone—an ancient flip phone, the kind drug dealers use because they can't be traced. He dials and waits. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, counting the seconds.

"Yeah, it's me. I got two guys here. Say they're Joey and Rico." A pause. "Uh-huh. Yeah. Acne scars? Broken nose? Yeah, alright."

He snaps the phone shut. The elevator dings. Forty-second floor.

"You two stay outside. By the door. I don't want to see your ugly fucking faces in my suite, understand? Someone comes up, anyone at all, you handle it."

The hallway is elegant in that understated way that whispers money with cream carpet thick enough to muffle footsteps. Sal storms ahead while I hesitate, looking back at Joey and Rico taking position by the elevator like gargoyles.

No escape that way.

"Move your ass, Isabella."

The penthouse door opens into excess. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city—thousands of lights glittering in the darkness, lives being lived forty-two floors below us.

White leather furniture that looks like it's never been touched.

A kitchen with marble countertops and appliances that gleam like surgical equipment.

Too clean for what's about to happen here. Too pristine for the kind of dirt we bring.

"Where's my fucking whiskey?" Sal's already at the bar, yanking open cabinets with increasing violence. "I asked for one thing. One fucking thing!" He finds wine—rows of bottles. "This is bullshit. Complete bullshit."

He wheels on Joey. "Get down there. Get me whiskey. Real whiskey, not that flavored garbage. Jameson. Johnnie Walker. Something that burns."

Joey disappears into the elevator. I stay near the door, arms wrapped around myself, watching Sal pour wine with shaking hands. The tremor is subtle but there. He's scared. The Butcher of Brooklyn is terrified, and that makes him more dangerous than ever.

He flicks on the massive TV mounted on the wall. The screen fills with fire.

"Continuing coverage of what authorities are calling coordinated arson attacks on properties owned by hotelier Salvatore Calabrese?—"

A building collapses on screen, flames reaching into the night sky. People run from the smoke. All of Sal's empire is becoming ash on live television.

"Fuck." Sal drains his wine glass and pours another immediately. "Fucking Caruso. Torching everything like a goddamn maniac."

My eyes widen. He's doing this. All of it. Burning down building after building, trying to smoke us out. Trying to find me. But we're not in any of those burning hotels. He has no idea where?—

"It's done." Sal's voice is hollow now, watching a lifetime of work become breaking news. "The Calabrese name. Everything my father built, his father built. Gone."

The reporter continues: "FBI sources confirm both Calabrese and casino owner Dante Caruso are primary subjects in what they're calling the largest RICO investigation in New York history?—"

"Take off your fucking dress."

The words freeze the blood in my veins. Every muscle in my body locks. Time seems to slow, each second stretching into eternity.

"What?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.

"You heard me." He pours another glass, his movements getting looser, more aggressive. "That dress. Off. Now."