Page 44 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The bathroom tile is cold against my bare feet, grounding me in a reality that keeps trying to slip sideways. I grip the marble counter with both hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror that seems to breathe—expanding and contracting with my wine-soaked vision.

I look insane.

Mascara has bled into dark half-moons under my eyes. My lipstick is gone except for a faint stain that makes my mouth appear bruised. The burgundy dress hangs wrong on my frame after my desperate shower, clinging in places where I didn't dry properly, gaping where the zipper won't stay up.

The wine bottle sits on the counter. More than half empty now. When did that happen? Time has gone elastic, stretching and snapping back without warning. The bathroom lights make everything look underwater, wavering, unsteady.

I reach for the bottle, miss, and try again. My fingers feel disconnected from my body. The wine burns going down, but it's a good burn. The kind that makes impossible feats feel possible.

Like what I'm about to do.

"Fucking insane," I tell my reflection, and she laughs back at me with wine-dark lips. The sound echoes off the marble, too loud, too manic. "Completely fucking insane."

But it's the only way. The only door that doesn't lead to a Panamanian beach where my screams won't matter in any language.

I fumble with the lipstick tube, trying to apply color to lips that won't stop trembling.

The wine has made everything soft—the edges of the counter blur into the wall, the bathroom lights halo like dying stars, the fear that should be paralyzing me but instead feels distant, manageable, like thunder from a storm that might pass us by.

The lipstick goes on crooked. I wipe it with the back of my hand, leaving a red smear across my cheek that looks like blood. I try again, and the tube slips, falling into the sink with a clatter. I fish it out, hands shaking so bad I can barely grip it.

"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. She doesn't look convinced. "You have to do this."

Another drink goes down. The bottle is lighter than it should be. Much lighter. The wine sloshes. There’s maybe a quarter left. When did I drink so much? My stomach is warm, too warm, and when I move my head too quickly, the room takes a second to catch up.

I push through the bathroom door before my resolve dissolves completely.

The penthouse suite stretches before me like a stage set for tragedy.

Everything too white, too clean, too expensive for the dirty drama about to unfold.

The city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows blur into streams of gold and silver, or maybe that's my eyes refusing to focus properly.

I have to keep one hand on the wall as I walk, the plush carpet seeming to grab at my feet with each step.

Sal is still on the leather couch, but he's moved—now slouched deeper into the cushions with the TV remote in one hand and a whiskey glass in the other.

The bottle of Jameson sits on the glass coffee table, maybe two fingers of amber liquid left.

The smell hits me from across the room—whiskey and cigars and the musk of a man marinating in his own rage.

The TV screen makes my heart stutter to a stop.

Our faces. All four of us in a neat grid like the world's worst yearbook photos.

Sal's old mugshot, the one where he still had that cocky smile.

Dante in a surveillance photo, getting out of his Bentley, looking like danger in an expensive suit.

My wedding photo—God, I look so stupid, smiling next to Sal like I didn't know what was coming.

And Papa, a recent photo where he looks lost, small, and breakable.

"MANHUNT INTENSIFIES: FBI SEEKS FOUR IN ORGANIZED CRIME INVESTIGATION"

"Fuck!" Sal hurls the glass at the wall. It explodes in a shower of crystal, whiskey painting abstract art down the pristine white. "Fucking fuck! That cunt downstairs—if she recognizes us, if she puts it together?—"

He grabs the Jameson bottle, sees it's almost empty, and starts pouring the dregs into another wine glass he finds on the side table. His hands shake slightly—fear or rage or withdrawal, I can't tell.

"We're fucked," he continues, voice rising with each word. "Completely fucked. Need to be out tonight. Right fucking now. Before?—"

I stumble forward and take the glass from his hand. Our fingers brush, and even drunk, revulsion crawls up my arm.

"Here," I slur, filling his glass with wine from my bottle. Some sloshes onto his hand, onto the white leather, onto the glass table that reflects our warped faces back at us. "Wine's better anyway. Wine is..." I misplace the thought and find it again. "Wine is for winners."

"The fuck are you playing at?" His good eye tries to focus on me but keeps sliding away, like I'm too bright to look at directly. "You trying to poison me? Is that it?"

A giggle escapes. Then another. Soon I'm laughing so hard I have to sit down, nearly missing the couch entirely.

"Poison," I gasp between giggles. "With wine. Like... like Shakespeare or something."

"You're drunk." He says it like an accusation.

"So are you." I pour myself a glass, spilling more than I make in. The wine spreads across the table like blood. "We're both drunk. Both fucked. Both..." I lose the word I'm looking for. "Both whatever we are."

He tries to stand, but his legs have other ideas. He sways and catches himself on the couch arm. His second attempt is worse—he nearly goes down entirely before grabbing the wall.

"Whatever game this is," he mutters. "Whatever you think you're doing?—"

"There's no game, Sal." The words come out too loud, echoing in the pristine space.

I follow him as he weaves toward the bar, my own path decidedly non-linear.

The floor has developed a disturbing tendency to tilt without warning.

I have to stop twice, gripping furniture, waiting for the world to steady.

"Just wine. Just us. Like... like that time in Vegas. Remember Vegas?"

"We never went to Vegas."

"Oh." I consider this. "Then I'm thinking of someone else."

"Thinking of him?" His voice goes dangerous. "Thinking of Caruso?"

"Joey!" He shouts before I can answer, voice cracking. "Rico! Get in here! Bring whiskey! The good shit?—"

"No." The word tears from my throat, surprising us both with its vehemence. "No whiskey. Wine tonight. We're having wine."

I grab his arm, and we both nearly fall from the sudden contact.

He turns to look at me—really look at me—and for a moment, neither of us moves.

We're both swaying slightly, like trees in the same wind.

His face is flushed. The eye I didn't damage is bloodshot and struggling to focus.

The eye I did damage has swollen grotesquely, weeping clear fluid that mixes with the dried blood on his cheek.

"Wine," I repeat, softer this time, lifting my bottle. "Just wine. Like civilized people."

"We're not civilized." But he lets me pour into his glass.

I raise it to his lips. The gesture is so absurd, so intimate, that we both freeze. The wine touches his lips, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.

"Marco's dead," I whisper, the words floating between us like smoke.

"What?" He pulls back, wine dribbling down his chin. "Caruso's brother?"

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep and wounded. It comes out harsh, almost a bark. "He's a Caruso too, you fucking—he was a Caruso. Was. Past tense. Dead tense." Another inappropriate giggle erupts. "That rhymes. Tense and tense."

"Jesus, you're wasted."

"So are you." I pour more wine, watching it swirl like liquid garnets. "That bastard Domenico shot him. In the stomach. Let him burn alive in that farmhouse while I watched. While I..." I trail off, lost in the memory of flames.

"Did he now?" Sal takes the glass and drinks deep before holding it out for more like a baby bird. "Good. One less Caruso in the world."

"Everything's been shit since I left you." The words tumble out, wine-loose and reckless. "Since I thought I could be more than your wife. Since I thought I deserved... deserved..." The word evades me. "Things. Choices. Whatever."

He grabs the bottle from my hand with more coordination than I expect and starts walking back toward the couch. His path involves several pieces of furniture that he seems surprised to encounter.

"Save it," he mutters, dropping heavily onto the white leather. The couch makes a whooshing sound with an exhale of its own. "Save the sympathy play. When you're ready to spread your legs like a good wife, come find me. Until then, fuck off with this—this whatever this is."

But I follow him, stumbling over my own feet and catching myself on the coffee table.

My shin connects with the corner and finds a sharp pain that will bruise tomorrow…

if there is a tomorrow. The wine bottle is somehow back in my hand—did he give it back?

Did I take it? Everything is happening in jump cuts now, scenes missing from the middle.

"That's mine," I say, petulant as a child. "Get your own bottle."

"It's all mine. Everything in this place is mine." He looks at me with unfocused intensity. "You're mine."

The words droop between us, heavy even through the wine haze.

I collapse onto the couch beside him, too close. Our thighs touch through fabric, and even drunk, my skin longs to crawl away.

But I stay. I have to stay.

"A man burned to death," I say, staring at the TV where our faces have been replaced by footage of burning buildings.

"Marco. Probably the worst way to go. Skin bubbling like.

.. like cheese under a broiler. Lungs full of smoke.

Screaming until his throat..." I take another drink, feeling it burn.

"Should make me sick. Should be puking in that bathroom. Instead, I want more wine."