Page 46 of Devil’s Gambit

I laugh. "I lied. Wanted to hurt you. Wanted to make you crazy." Another laugh. "But he never touched me. Too noble. Too... too much of a gentleman. Kept saying I needed time. Space. Choices." I spit the last word like it's poison.

"Weak fuck," Sal agrees, grip tightening on my hips.

"Do you know what that does to a woman like me?

" I continue, letting real frustration bleed through.

"Seven days of being treated like I'm made of glass?

Like, I might break? Like I need saving?

" I lean closer. "I was going insane, Sal.

Actually insane. I had to... had to initiate everything.

Had to show him what to do with whores like me. "

"You fucked him?"

"I had to! I couldn't... couldn't not be treated like what I am. He was driving me crazy with all his respect and boundaries and locked doors." I laugh again, manic. "You know what he gave me? A lock. On my door. Like I'm some princess who needs privacy."

Sal's breathing has changed. Heavier. "Fucking idiot."

"You're the one who showed me what I really am," I whisper, hating every word. "Not some victim who needs saving. Not something precious. Just a whore. Your whore."

"Mine," he agrees, pulling me down for a sloppy kiss that tastes like wine and death.

"And we should punish him," I say when he releases me. "For confusing me. For... for touching what's yours. For making me think I could be anything other than your property."

"Kill him," Sal says immediately, but it takes him three tries to get the words out.

"Better than that." I lean closer, selling it. My vision doubles, triples. "Remember that diner? On the highway toward Albany? The one from our... our honeymoon?"

His eye lights up with delayed recognition. "Our honeymoon. The one with the... the fifties theme. The jukeboxes."

"Yes!" The memory makes me want to vomit, but I push through. "You in that Pinstripe suit, looking like something from a mob movie. Me in that violet dress you bought me. The one that was too tight. Too tight everywhere."

"Looked fucking perfect in it." His grip on my hips tightens weakly. "Showed everything. Every curve. My property on display."

"And the bathroom..." I force myself to giggle. The sound is wet, desperate. "Against the sink. You behind me. Making me watch in the mirror while you..."

"Fucked you like you belonged to me." His breathing is getting heavier but uneven. "Your lipstick all smeared. Makeup running. Looking like a proper whore."

"What if we called Dante there? Lured him? Like... like bait?"

"How?" The word takes him forever to say.

"I call him. Play the scared little victim. Tell him I escaped." I'm laughing now, reaching for the phone. My fingers feel enormous. "He'll come running. Alone. Because he's in love with me. So in love."

"Do it." Sal's eye is bright with drunken excitement. "Fucking do it right now."

I fumble with the phone. The numbers swim, multiplying, dividing. I dial three wrong numbers before muscle memory takes over.

"Speaker," Sal demands. "Want to... want to hear."

It rings. Once. Twice. The sound echoes in my skull.

"Who's this?" Dante answers with a question, his tone cautious.

"Dante?" I make my voice small, scared. "It's me. It's Bella. Your... your Bella."

"Bella?" His voice explodes with emotion. "Jesus Christ, Bella, where are you? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me! Please, God, tell me you're safe!"

"I... I escaped." The words come out slurred despite my efforts. "From Salvatore. From... from Sal."

"Salvatore?" I can hear his confusion. "Why are you calling him—Bella, what did he do to you? Where is he? I'll kill him, I'll fucking tear him apart?—"

Sal is shaking with silent laughter beside me. His whole body convulses.

"He's... I got away. But I'm scared, Dante. So scared. I need you. Need help. Please come save me. Please, please, please."

"Tell me where you are. I'll come get you right now. I'll bring everyone?—"

"No!" It comes out too loud. I lower my voice. "No, come alone. Please. Can't trust anyone else. Just you. Only you."

"Bella, listen to me." His speech drops, desperate. "I'm so sorry. About the chair. About tying you up. I was wrong, so fucking wrong. I was trying to protect you, but I... I became him. I became what you were running from. I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you so much it's killing me?—"

"I… I understand." The words come out purposely dismissive, drunk. It hurts so fucking bad. "I forgive you. Just come. Please. Need you."

"Where? Tell me where. I'll come right now?—"

"That diner. On Route 9. Toward Albany. The... the abandoned one. The fifties one. You know? With the... the pink booths?"

"I'll find it. When?"

"Tomorrow. After midnight. Come alone, Dante. Promise me. Promise promise."

"I promise. Bella, I love you. I'm so sorry for everything. I'll make it right?—"

"I have to go," I interrupt. "He might come back. Might find me."

"Stay safe. Please stay safe. I love you."

I hang up. Fucking hell.

Sal and I stare at each other for a moment. The silence stretches like taffy.

Then he explodes into laughter. Horrible, drunken laughter that makes the bed shake. Sal is howling, holding his stomach. Wine sloshes from his glass onto the sheets. I try to laugh alongside him to keep the bit going, but even the smallest smile is filled with pain.

"His voice!" Sal gasps, barely getting the words out. "So fucking desperate! 'I love you; I love you!' Like a... like a bitch!"

His head falls back, and he sinks into the pillow, a sigh deflating his cruel joy.

"Like some romance novel hero," I meekly agree, hand over mouth to hide my twitching lips. "Coming to save his princess… And tomorrow he’ll walk right into our trap."

"Fucking idiot." Sal yawns, a satisfied smile baring his wine-stained teeth. "I love this new Bella. Drunk Bella.... Evil Bella…”

He closes his eyes, like they’re too heavy to keep open after all that laughing. “Tell me you love me too… come on, say it…” His voice is fading, but his hand lifts lazily to my arm, fingers digging weakly into my skin. “Say it.”

I hold my breath.

I can’t say it, I won’t. So, I keep dead silent, hoping that it’s enough. It feels like an eternity before his hand falls away. His breathing changes, gets deeper. The beginning of a snore.

"Sal?”

No response. Just the snore getting louder.

"Asshole," I mutter, sliding away from his limp body.

My legs don't work properly when I stand. The room spins violently, and I have to grab the dresser to keep from falling. My hands leave wine-sticky fingerprints on the white wood.

In the mirror, I can see Sal sprawled unconscious on the bed behind me, vulnerable. Mouth open, drooling slightly onto the pillow.

The pillow.

It's right there. White, soft, made for suffocating. I pick it up, feel its weight. Test pressing it down toward his face. It would be so easy. Hold it there until the snoring stops. Until everything stops.

I lower it toward his face. An inch. Two inches. I can see how it would cover his nose and mouth perfectly. The wine makes me brave, reckless. Do it, the drunk voice whispers. End him.

Then I laugh. Sharp and bitter. The sound is too loud in the quiet room. What am I thinking? Joey and Rico are right outside. I'd be dead before Sal's heart stopped beating. They'd hear the struggle. They'd be in here in seconds.

And I'm too drunk to fight anyone. Too drunk to run. Too drunk to do anything but stumble around this penthouse prison in a daze,

I drop the pillow and stumble to the dresser where his phone sits. My fingers shake as I try to remember numbers. Any numbers. Everything's swimming, sliding away when I try to focus.

I was so busy with all that law stuff, all those legal documents for Dante, memorizing statutes and precedents. The numbers I need are buried under all that useless knowledge.

My vision doubles, triples, before coming back together. The phone feels impossibly small in my hands. Or are my hands impossibly large? Nothing makes sense anymore.

There. That combination. I remember it from—from when? From before. From Dante's phone that morning. The numbers that might mean something. That might lead somewhere.

Or I'm just pressing random buttons. Everything's so blurry now. The wine has made my fingers numb and clumsy. I dial three different combinations before one feels right.

I press call , trying three times before I hit the right button. The phone nearly slips from my grip as I raise it to my ear.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Pick up," I whisper, then louder, desperate. "Pick up, asshole. Please."

My drunk mind rambles as it rings. Four rings. Five.

Someone needs to answer.

Someone who might be the only card left to play in this game where everyone loses.

The room spins around me as I wait. Sal's snoring fills the space like thunder. The city lights blur beyond the windows, and I have to close my eyes to keep from vomiting.

Pick up , I think desperately.

Because I'm drowning here. Drowning in wine and lies and the weight of what tomorrow will bring.

The phone keeps ringing.