Page 5 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

Knocking pulls me from dreams of locked doors and patient monsters.

My neck screams from sleeping in the chair. The letter opener has left marks in my palm from gripping it all night. Gray morning light filters through windows I never closed, reminding exactly where I am. Not home. Not Sal's.

Dante's.

"Mrs. Calabrese?" a woman's voice calls, soft and accented. Not him. "It's time for breakfast."

"Go away." The words come out rough, my throat dry from fear and exhaustion.

"I'm Sofia, the housekeeper. Mr. Caruso asked me to?—"

"I said, go away."

Silence settles between us in an icy standoff.

"He insists on breakfast together. Eight o'clock."

I check the bedside clock. 7:45 PM. Of course, he gave me enough time to panic.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I stand on legs that don't want to work, letter opener heavy in my hand. Every muscle protests the night spent guarding a door that never opened. At the door, I pause, listening. No breathing except mine. No shuffle of feet that might mean an ambush.

I turn the lock—my lock—and crack the door.

Sofia’s younger than expected. Maybe late twenties, with sharp eyes that catalog everything even as she smiles. Dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, the kind of athletic build that speaks of morning runs and careful habits. Not the grandmotherly type I'd pictured when I heard "housekeeper."

"I'll take breakfast here."

"Mr. Caruso specifically requested?—"

"I don't care what Mr. Caruso requested." The words come out sharper than intended. This woman isn't my enemy. Probably. "I'm not hungry."

My stomach chooses that moment to growl, calling me a liar.

Sofia's eyes narrow, noticing. "When did you last eat? Yesterday? The day before?"

The questions catch me off guard. Most staff would express general concern.

"Please," I try again. "If I’m being forced to eat, bring a tray. Leave it here."

"I can't do that." She shifts her weight, ready to move. "Mr. Caruso was specific about the breakfast arrangement. I could lose my position."

The trap reveals itself. Come, or cost an innocent woman her job. Men like Dante don't make idle threats about employment. A job with the Caruso family likely pays enough to support her entire family.

"Fine." I step back into the room and grab the silk robe from the closet. It fits perfectly, like everything else. "Give me five minutes."

"Of course. I'll wait."

The bathroom mirror broadcasts what a night of fear looks like. Dark circles under my eyes that long since gave up hoping. Hair in need of washing. The ghost of Sal's handprint fading on my cheek.

I splash water on my face, pull my hair back, and slip the letter opener into the robe's pocket. Its weight feels like the only real thing in this silk-wrapped nightmare.

Sofia waits in the hall, patient but alert, eyes tracking my movements with more interest than a housekeeper should have.

"This way, Mrs.—" She pauses. "I'm sorry, how would you prefer to be addressed?"

"Don't call me anything."

"Everyone needs a name." Her tone is conversational, but there's something underneath. "For the household records, at least. Your maiden name was Rossi, correct?"

I stop walking. "How do you know that?"

"Mr. Caruso mentioned it." Too smooth. Too ready with that answer. "He likes the staff to be informed about guests."

She leads me through hallways I barely remember from last night. Everything is different in daylight—more beautiful, more prison-like.

The stairs curve down to a foyer that belongs in a museum. Marble columns, a chandelier that throws rainbows, and flowers that smell like funeral homes. Everything pristine and cold.

"The breakfast room is through here."

Not the dining room. The breakfast room. Because men like Dante need different rooms for different meals, different stages for different performances.

He sits at a table set for two, reading on his phone. Morning light does things to his face—sharpens the angles, softens the edges. He's traded last night's suit for dark jeans and a black sweater. Casual wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

He glances up as I enter. Those dark eyes catalog everything: the robe, the defensive posture, the way my hand hovers near my pocket.

"You look tired."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Yours, I'd imagine." He sets down his phone and gestures to the chair across from him. "I told you the door locks. You chose not to trust it."

"I chose not to trust you."

"Same result." He pours coffee from a silver pot and slides the cup toward me. "Sit. Eat. Unless you plan to starve yourself out of spite."

The coffee smells incredible. My stomach clenches with want. But sitting feels like surrender, and I've done enough surrendering for one lifetime.

"I'm not hungry."

"Liar. Sit down before you fall down."

"Concerned about your investment?"

A shadow passes through his gaze. "Concerned about a woman who thinks suffering proves something. It doesn't. It makes you weak when you need to be strong."

The truth stings. I'm already swaying slightly, exhaustion and hunger making the room tilt. Pride tastes bitter on an empty stomach.

I sit.

The coffee is immaculate . Of course it is. Everything in Dante Caruso's world would be flawless, controlled, exactly to his specifications. I wonder if that includes me now.

"You never came."

"I told you I wouldn't."

"Men say a lot of things."

"I'm not men ." He slides a plate toward me. Eggs, toast, and fruit arranged like art. "Eat."

"I don't?—"

"Eat, or I'll assume you're too weak to take care of yourself and adjust your freedoms accordingly."

Freedoms. Like I have any.

But the threat works.

I pick up a fork and take a bite of eggs that taste like clouds and butter and everything I've been denying myself. My stomach hums with gratitude.

"Slow," he cautions, voice gentler. "You'll make yourself sick."

I want to throw the fork at him. To scream that he doesn't get to win me in a poker game and then play caretaker. Instead, I eat more slowly, because he's right, and that makes me hate him more.

"As I said before, I don't force women,” he says as I savor a bite. "Ever. For any reason."

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "Right. You just trade them like baseball cards. Much more civilized."

"I didn't trade for you. I won you."

"Semantics."

"No. Intent." He leans back, watching me over the rim of his coffee cup. "Sal threw you on that table like chips. I could have walked away. Should have, probably. But then you'd still be with him."

"So, you're my savior? Is that the story you're selling?"

"I'm not selling anything. You're here. You're safe. You have a door that locks. What you do with those facts is up to you."

"What I do?" I set down my fork, anger overriding hunger. "I'm a prisoner in a prettier cage. What exactly can I do?"

"Finish your breakfast, for starters."

The casual command makes me want to flip the table. But I'm still hungry, and the food is good, and fighting him on everything will exhaust me before I find what really matters. So I eat and hate myself for how good it feels not to be hungry.

"Better." He nods like I've passed some test. "Now. Let me show you the house properly. You should know your boundaries."

"My cage, you mean."

"If you insist on dramatics, yes." He stands and extends a hand that I don't take. "Your cage. Though most cages don't come with libraries and indoor pools."

He leads me through rooms that blur together in their luxury. A formal dining room with a table for twenty. A living room with a fireplace big enough to stand in. Art everywhere, books everywhere, money everywhere.

"This is the kitchen." Industrial-grade everything, staff who’re careful not to look at me. "You're welcome to food whenever you want. Just ask."

"Generous."

"Practical. Starving yourself serves no one."

More rooms. A music room with a piano that gleams like black ice. A sunroom full of plants and possibilities. And then?—

"The library."

I stop breathing.

Two stories of books, floor to ceiling, ladders on rails like something from a dream. Leather chairs begging for rainy afternoons. Light streaming through stained glass, painting colors on Persian rugs.

"You like to read."

I realize I've stepped inside without meaning to, drawn like a moth to flame. My fingers itch to touch spines, pull books, and lose myself in other worlds far from this one.

"I used to." Before Sal. Before my life became a transaction.

"The library is yours whenever you’d like." He watches from the doorway, his expression unreadable. "No one will bother you."

I turn away from the books before they can seduce me further. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just a rule."

Of course. There are always rules.

"You can go anywhere in the house," he continues, leading me back into the hallway. "But the grounds are off-limits for now."

"For now?"

"Until I'm sure you won't do something stupid."

"Like escape?"

"Like get yourself killed trying,” he replies, voice hard. "My enemies would love to get their hands on you. Sal's enemies, too. That locked door protects you from more than me."

"How thoughtful. Protecting your property."

He stops walking and turns to face me fully. For a moment, danger flickers in those dark eyes.

"Let's be clear about something: You're under my protection. You follow my rules. Test me, and find out why they call me the Devil of New York."

I should be scared. Should bow my head and mumble agreement like I’d learned with Sal. Instead, my chin lifts.

"They called Sal the Butcher. Stupid names don't scare me anymore."

An almost-smile touches his lips. "Good. Fear makes people stupid. But respect? Respect keeps them alive."