Page 45 of Devil’s Gambit

"Welcome to the fucking club." He holds out his glass. I fill it automatically, muscle memory from years of serving him. "Used to hate this shit. Wine, whiskey, all of it. Tastes like piss."

"When did that change?" My words are starting to smear together at the edges.

"First time I put a bullet in someone's skull." He's staring at the TV but not seeing it. "This kid couldn't have been twenty. Owed money. Not even that much. But examples had to be—had to be made. You know?"

I don't answer. Just drink. The wine is almost gone. How is it almost gone?

"His eyes," Sal continues, words getting mushier. "Still had hope in them. Right up until the end. One second, hope. Next second, nothing. Just meat. After that, whiskey helped. Made the hope go away. His and mine."

"That's..." I search for the word. "Sad. That's sad, Sal."

"Everything's fucking sad."

The bottle's empty. How the fuck? The world has gone sideways while I wasn't paying attention.

"Need more," I announce, standing too fast. The room spins, and I have to grab the couch to keep from falling. "More wine. All the wine in the world."

"In the kitchen," Sal says, already starting to move, weaving toward somewhere. "Might lie down..."

The kitchen feels like it's in another country.

I navigate by keeping one hand on the wall, the other clutching a fresh bottle I've liberated from the bar.

The cork comes out wrong—half of it crumbling into the wine.

I fish out the pieces with my finger and lick them off.

Classy. The taste of cork mixed with wine makes me giggle again.

By the time I make it back—and it takes forever, the hallway keeps stretching—the living room is empty. Where did he go? I hear a TV blasting elsewhere. The bedroom. He must have moved to the bedroom while I was fighting with the cork.

I follow the sound, finding him sprawled on the king-sized bed, dress shirt completely unbuttoned, pale chest exposed.

The chest hair is gray in places. When did he get old?

He's got another cigar going, the smoke mixing with the wine smell to make my stomach lurch dangerously.

The bedroom TV is on—more coverage, more burning hotels.

"Unless you're here to fuck," he says without looking at me. "Leave me alone."

I pour wine into two glasses, though the concept of "into" has become somewhat theoretical. Wine ends up on the nightstand, the white duvet, and my dress. My hands won't stop shaking.

"I am here to... to fuck, Sal." The words tumble out, wine-thick and clumsy.

That gets his attention. His good eye swivels toward me, pupil dilated so wide the brown has almost disappeared. He's trying to focus, but his gaze keeps sliding away like I'm made of water.

"Bullshit." The word comes out as "bullshhhit," stretched and sloppy. "You never want it. Always playing dead. Like a... like a fucking mannequin."

"Maybe I was dead." I move closer to the bed.

Each step requires intense concentration.

The floor has developed the alarming habit of not being where I expect it.

My heel catches on nothing, and I stumble, catching myself on the bedpost. This is insane, my drunk mind whispers.

You're trying to seduce him while you can barely walk. "Maybe I was trying to... to fight it."

"Fight what?" He's squinting at me like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces.

I crawl onto the bed, and we both have to adjust for the way the mattress shifts. It's like trying to navigate a boat in a storm. His hands immediately go for my dress, pawing at the zipper with fingers that can't quite coordinate.

"Take it off," he demands, words running together. "Now. Been waiting too fucking long."

"Patient," I slur, climbing on top of him and catching his wrists. They're sweaty, slippery. I almost lose my grip. "Be patient, Sal. Have you... have you forgotten how to pleasure a woman?"

He laughs, ugly and wet. "Never had to pleasure them. They wanted my money. That was... was enough. Always enough."

"Was it enough for me?" I grind against him slightly, hating myself. Through the fabric, I can feel him half-hard at best. He's too drunk, I think with manic relief. Too drunk to do anything. "All those times you just... shoved it in?"

"You never wanted it anyway. Just that frozen face. That... that rigid body. Like fucking a corpse. A beautiful corpse, but still."

"Maybe that's what I was." I lean forward, our faces inches apart. His breath reeks of wine and cigars and decay. "A corpse. Dead girl walking. Dead girl spreading her legs. But I was fighting something..."

"Fighting what?" He tries to grab my breast but misses, hand landing on my ribs instead.

"This." I sit back up and reach for the wine, nearly knocking it over and saving it at the last second. "Stockholm syndrome, Sal. You know what... what that is?"

"The fuck is that?" Each word takes effort. His eye keeps trying to close.

"This bank. In Sweden. Stockholm. Robbers took hostages. Held them for... for days. Days and days. And the weirdest thing happened."

He's watching me now, really watching, though his eye keeps drifting shut like it weighs too much.

"The hostages fell in love with the robbers." I trace a finger down his chest, fighting revulsion. His skin is clammy. "Started defending them. Refused to... to testify. One woman—get this—one woman got engaged to one. Engaged! To the man who held her at gunpoint! Can you fucking believe that?"

"Like you and Dante?"

"No, Salvatore." I lean down, whispering in his ear. The movement makes the room spin violently. "You and me. Ever since Papa sold me like a whore."

He goes still, or as still as someone can be when they're swaying slightly even while lying down. I can feel him trying to process my words through the wine fog.

"I'm cursed," I continue, sitting back up. The movement is too fast. I have to grip his chest to keep from falling sideways. "Cursed to love you. The man who bought me. Beat me. Owned me. My body learned to want you even when my mind screamed no. Screamed and screamed and screamed."

"You're lying." His voice is thick but interested now. "You fucking lying whore. You never... never wanted..."

"Your whore," I correct, grabbing the wine bottle. It's heavier than it should be. Or lighter. I can't tell anymore. "Always have been. Even when I ran to Dante, I was still yours. My body knew it even if my mind didn't. My traitorous fucking body."

This is the worst performance of your life, I think desperately. He has to believe this. Has to.

A shadow in the doorway. Joey, holding another bottle of whiskey and looking deeply uncomfortable.

"Boss, you wanted?—"

"GET OUT!" Sal's voice cracks. "No whiskey! Just wine! Can't you see I'm with my wife? My fucking wife! Understand?"

"Yeah, boss."

Joey vanishes, and we're alone again with our drunken disaster. The room feels smaller now, the walls breathing in and out.

"All those deaths," I whisper, putting the wine bottle to Sal's lips like he's a baby.

Wine dribbles down his chin, staining his neck purple.

"Marco burning. That man at the Inferno.

Hendrik's brains on the floor. They... they toughened me up.

Made me ready to accept what I am. Your bitch. Your property. Your little whore."

His hands find my hips, gripping hard through the dress. Each finger a brand.

"Tomorrow," he slurs, taking forever to get the word out, "Pan... Pan something. That place with the... the beaches. The fucking beaches."

"Panama?" I keep pouring wine into his mouth. He's choking slightly but doesn't seem to notice.

"Yeah. Got friends there. They'll... they'll set us up nice. Private beach. No neighbors for miles. Miles and miles." His grin is predatory even through the drunk haze. "You'll be all mine. No one to hear you scream. Scream all you want."

"I won't scream," I lie, letting the wine run down his chin. "I'll be good. So good."

"Fuck, need you now." His hands are on my dress again, more insistent but less coordinated. "Take it off. Want to see your tits. Missed them. Missed your perfect fucking tits."

His coordination is better than it should be.

Dangerous. I need to give him something, or this falls apart.

I pull the dress down enough to reveal the lace bra underneath—black, expensive, Domenico's attention to detail.

You're performing a striptease for your abuser while Marco's blood is still under your fingernails, my mind screams.

"Fuck yes." His eyes go wide, trying to focus. "So fucking perfect."

His hands go for the bra clasp, trying to touch them, when suddenly his expression changes. Something dark flickers across his face—paranoia, suspicion. His hand moves away from my chest, sliding toward his waist where his jacket bulges.

My heart stops. He's going for his gun.

"Sal?" I put my hand over his, gentle, non-threatening. "Baby, what's wrong?"

"You trying something?" His voice has gone cold even through the slur. "Trying to... to distract me?"

"No, no, no." I slowly guide his hand to the gun and pull it out myself.

The metal is cold and heavy. I wave it slightly, giggling.

"See? It's empty anyway, you drunk bastard.

You told me yourself, remember?" I toss it across the room, where it clatters on the floor. "Can't hurt you with an empty gun."

He watches me for a long moment, then his face relaxes. The paranoia fades back into drunken lust.

"My sneaky bitch," he mumbles, hands finding my waist again.

"You know what the saddest part is?" I say, voice dropping. "That pathetic excuse for a devil? Dante? He didn't even touch me."

Sal's eye sharpens slightly through the haze. "What?"

"Seven days." I hold up fingers, though they keep multiplying in my vision. "Seven fucking days I was there, and he didn't touch me once. Not once, Sal."

"But at the Inferno..." His brow furrows, trying to think through wine fog. "You said... you said he fucked you."