Page 49 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

The gun falls from my nerveless fingers, clattering across the floor. I drop to my knees beside the body, and suddenly I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't process what happened.

"I killed him." The words come out strangled. "Oh God, I killed him."

"No." Dante crouches beside me, and I hear the familiar flick of his lighter, smell cigarette smoke mixing with gunpowder and blood. "I did."

"I planned this. I set him up. Set you up. Used you both like—" My voice breaks. "What kind of person does that? What kind of monster?"

"The kind that survives." He takes a long drag and exhales slowly. "The kind that's smart enough to play the game better than the rest of us."

"And who the fuck are these people?" He's addressing the room now, cigarette dangling from his lips.

Vito steps into the light, grinning. "Your reinforcements, boss. Your girl called Jeff yesterday. Said she needed some insurance for tonight."

"You kicked me."

"Her orders." Vito shrugs. "Said it had to look real, at least until Sal was unarmed."

Dante's hand finds my chin with such tenderness that it makes my chest ache. His thumb traces my jawline, and a slight tremor in his hand. When our eyes meet, his are glassy with unshed tears.

"Bella..." My name sounds broken in his mouth.

"I'm so sorry." I'm crying now, tears mixing with the blood on my face. "I'm so fucking sorry. The things I had to say, had to do?—"

His mouth crashes into mine, but it's not violent. It's desperate and searching and so full of relief that I feel it in my bones. His lips move against mine like he's trying to memorize the shape of them, the taste. When his tongue slides against mine, it's with reverence, not possession.

When we finally part, we're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"Do you love me?" The question is so quiet I almost don't hear it. "After everything I've done—the chair, the ropes, trying to control you—do you love me?"

I pull back enough to look into his eyes. The dark eyes that have haunted my dreams and nightmares in equal measure.

"Yes." The word is small but absolute. "More than anything." My voice strengthens. "I love you, Dante Caruso.”

He frames my face with his hands, thumbs wiping away my tears. "I thought I'd lost you. Really lost you this time."

"Never." I turn my head to kiss his palm. "You're stuck with me now."

He laughs, then stands, pulling me with him. His eyes travel over me—the ruined dress, the blood, the shadows of everything I've done tonight.

"Everyone out," Vito calls to the room. "Now. Take a long smoke break. Hell, take the rest of the night off."

There are footsteps, doors closing, car engines starting, and fading into the distance. Then it's just us, the abandoned diner, and Sal's cooling corpse.

"We can't," I whisper, gesturing weakly at the body. "Not here. Not with him?—"

"I don’t care. I need you." Dante's voice is raw, stripped of all pretenses.

"Three times now, I thought you were gone.

First, when you escaped. Then, when Paulie said you were dead.

Then, when you wouldn't look at me, when you pointed that gun—" His hands shake as they hold my face.

"I need to feel you. Need to know you're real, that you're mine, that this isn't some dying dream. "

His lips find my throat, and I melt into him despite everything. Despite the corpse three feet away. Despite the blood drying on my hands. Despite the absolute insanity of this moment.

"Let me worship you," he murmurs against my skin. "Let me apologize with my body for not trusting you. For not seeing how brilliant you are."

His hands work at the red dress, peeling it away like he's unveiling something sacred. The silk puddles at my feet, and I stand before him in only the black lace lingerie that somehow survived the night.

"Beautiful," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes me shiver. "My brilliant, dangerous, perfect girl."

He drops to his knees before me, and the sight of him there—this powerful man kneeling in blood and filth—stops my heart. His hands slide up my thighs with worship, not ownership. When his mouth finds the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

"Dante—"

"Let me," he says against my skin. "Let me show you how sorry I am. How much I love you. How much I need you."

He pulls the lace aside, and his mouth finds me, tongue moving with deliberate precision. My knees buckle, and he catches me, lowering me onto that ridiculous velvet chair. The fabric is soft against my bare back as he spreads my thighs wider, deeper into his worship.

"Perfect," he murmurs between movements that make me see stars. "You taste perfect. Like you were made for my mouth."

His fingers join his tongue, and I'm lost. The abandoned diner, the corpse, the insanity of our situation—all of it fades until there's only sensation. Only Dante between my thighs, taking me apart.

"I'm going to—" I can't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed.

"Come for me," he commands against my sensitive flesh. "Let me taste your forgiveness."

I shatter with his name on my lips, back arching off the chair, fingers twisted in his hair. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, drawing out my pleasure until I'm sobbing from oversensitivity.

Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture is so crude, so unlike his usual control, that it makes heat pool in my belly again.

"My turn," I whisper, reaching for his belt.

But he catches my wrists, gentle but firm. "No. Tonight is about you. About showing you what you mean to me."

He strips with efficient movements, and even after everything, the sight of him makes my mouth go dry. Every muscle defined, every scar a story, the evidence of his arousal jutting proud and ready.

He spins the chair so he's sitting, then pulls me onto his lap. The position puts us face to face, intimate in a way that’s almost too vulnerable after everything.

"Look at me," he says, hands spanning my waist. "I want to see your eyes when I'm inside you."

I sink slowly down onto him, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The stretch, the fullness, the connection—it's almost too much. We both groan when I'm fully seated, bodies joined completely.

"I should have known," he says, hands guiding my hips as I start to move. "Should have trusted that you were too smart to simply betray me. Too strong to break."

"I almost broke." The confession comes out breathless as I roll my hips, finding a rhythm that makes us both gasp. "When you wouldn't look at me earlier. When I saw the betrayal in your eyes. I almost gave up the whole plan."

"Thank god you didn't." His hands slide up to cup my breasts through the lace, thumbs circling my nipples. "You saved us both."

I lean forward, changing the angle, and we both moan. His mouth finds my neck, sucking marks that will be purple by morning. Evidence of this moment, this claiming, this mutual surrender.

"You’re mine. Even when you're pretending to belong to someone else."

"Especially then." I pull his hair, forcing his head back so I can see his face. "Every moment I was with Sal, I was thinking of you. Comparing his fumbling cruelty to your precise worship. You've ruined me for anyone else."

"Good." He grips my hips harder, controlling the pace now, making it slower, deeper. "Because I'll kill anyone else who tries to touch you."

The chair creaks beneath us as our movements become more desperate. I can feel myself building again, that familiar tightening, and from his breathing, he's close too.

"Together," I whisper against his mouth. "Come with me."

"Always," he agrees, and then we're both falling apart, my nails in his shoulders, his teeth at my throat, shattering and reforming into something new.

We stay tangled together, breathing gradually slowing, hearts finding their normal rhythm. His hands stroke up and down my back, soothing, grounding. I press kisses to his jaw, his throat, anywhere I can reach.

Finally, reluctantly, we separate. I'm a mess—hair tangled, makeup smeared. But when Dante looks at me, his eyes are soft with awe.

"Never do this again," he says suddenly, helping me stand on shaking legs. "You never need to do this again, Bella. The games, the violence, the manipulation?—"

"Dante—"

"No, listen." He cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "You're brilliant. What you did tonight was brilliant. But you shouldn't have to be. You shouldn't have to plan murders and manipulate monsters to survive."

"I already talked to Marco," he continues, buttoning his shirt with steady fingers. "We could leave tonight. Drive straight to the airport and be in Italy by morning."

"Italy?" I test the word, imagining us there. Vineyards and sunsets and no blood on our hands.

"Northern Italy. Near the Alps. We could disappear, Bella. Start fresh. Somewhere you never have to hold a gun again, never have to play these games."

I consider it, really consider it. The fantasy is beautiful—us in a villa, making wine, making love, making a life without bloodshed.

"It's too late for that," I say finally, and watch his face fall slightly. "I'm not that girl anymore, Dante. The one who thought the law meant something."

"You don't have to be this either. This—" He gestures at Sal's body. "This isn't you."

"Isn't it?" I walk to where Sal lies in his own blood and stare down at the man who terrorized me. "I planned this. Every detail. Manipulated both of you into this exact moment. I played with lives."

"To survive?—"

"No." I turn to face him. "Not only to survive. I wanted this. Wanted him dead. Wanted to be the one to do it." I take a breath. "And I want more."

"More?"

"Your empire is in ashes. The FBI has everything." I move closer to him. "But Sal's empire is mostly intact. His territories, his connections, his entire network. It's all sitting there, waiting for someone to claim it."

"You want to stay in the ashes… take over."