Page 51 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

Three weeks later…

The parallel bars are cold under my palms, medical-grade steel that smells like industrial disinfectant no matter how many times they clean it.

My leg throbs with each step—a deep, bone-ache that the doctors say is normal.

It means I'm healing. Three weeks since Dante shot me in that abandoned diner.

Three weeks since Sal's blood mixed with mine on grimy linoleum.

One step. The muscles in my thigh scream in protest, still learning how to work around the damage.

Two steps. My good leg takes more weight than it should, compensating.

Three steps. Four. Five.

"There we go," Grace says from behind me, her voice carrying that particular tone I've come to recognize—not quite encouraging, not quite dismissive. "Though I have to say, you're not putting in as much effort as last week."

I reach the end of the bars, gripping them tightly enough to turn my knuckles white. The small victory tastes bitter when delivered with such calculated indifference.

"This is unfair." Marco's voice cuts through the antiseptic air.

He's in his wheelchair, watching me with the expression of a child who's been told someone else got a bigger slice of cake.

"I mean, she got shot in the leg, I got shot in the stomach—which, by the way, is way worse—but she can walk better than I can. The human body makes no fucking sense."

"Alright, your turn, handsome." Grace moves toward him.

She helps me into my wheelchair—not gentle, not rough, just competent. My leg objects the position change, sending fresh waves of pain up through my hip. I've learned to school my expression, to not let it show. Weakness is still weakness, even in a private hospital.

Marco struggles out of his wheelchair. Watching him grip the parallel bars reminds me of watching a baby deer learn to walk. All awkward angles and trembling limbs.

"Come on, you can do better than that," Grace says, though her voice has softened slightly. "Unless you want to be in that chair forever."

"Would you visit me if I were?" He grins at her through obvious pain. "Give me sponge baths?"

"In your dreams."

"Every night, baby."

He manages three steps before his face goes gray. Four. Five. On the sixth, his knees buckle, and Grace is there, steadying him with hands that linger a second longer than necessary.

"That's enough walking for today," Marco gasps. "Jesus Christ, I need food. Real food. Something with cheese. Not that green garnish crap."

Grace helps him back to his wheelchair, and I notice how her thumb brushes his shoulder—so quick I might have imagined it.

My attention drifts to the TV mounted in the corner. I pull out my notebook—a cheap spiral-bound from the hospital gift shop—and start writing.

The words flow without thought: Prosecution. Defense. Reasonable doubt. Mens rea. Actus reus.

"What are you doing?" Marco wheels himself closer.

"Writing. Weird habit I picked up here."

His eyes follow mine to the TV, where Dante stands in a courtroom, Armani suit impeccable, face carved from stone as he awaits the verdict. The news ticker reads: Casino Owner Dante Caruso Awaits Verdict in Federal RICO Case.

"Writing… holy shit, this gives me an idea." Marco's face lights up. "I could write a book about all this. The farmhouse, the fire, me crawling out with a bullet in my gut like I'm fucking... I don't know, John McClane or something."

I laugh despite myself. "Won't people wonder how the brother of the supposedly innocent Dante got into that situation?"

"Nobody cares about plot holes if the story's good enough.

" He's already lost in his fantasy. "I'm thinking something like.

.. 'Blood and Babes: A Marco Caruso Story.

' Or wait,' The Farmhouse Inferno: How I Survived Being Shot in the Fucking Guts.

' No, that's shit. How about 'Bullets and Babes: My Life in the Fast Lane'? "

"Those are all terrible."

"You got better?"

"Literally anything would be better." I keep writing in my notebook, the words shifting now: Justice. Injustice. Truth. Lies. Performance.

"'The Devil's Brother,'" Marco announces. "That's it. That's the one."

"Still terrible."

"You know what? Let's ask Dante. He'll agree with me."

"You wish."

"Come on, I'm his brother. You're just his wife."

The word stops my pen mid-stroke. "His wife?"

Marco's face goes pale, then red. "I mean—fuck. Oh shit. I ruined it, didn't I? He wouldn't shut up about it, and now—fuck me, I have the worst fucking mouth?—"

"Relax." I can't help but smile at his panic. "I had a feeling."

"Thank Christ." He slumps in his wheelchair. "He would've murdered me. Like, actually murdered me. Not metaphorically."

"Speaking of which," I say, setting down my pen. "You're going to be running your own crew soon. Your own territory. You'll need to find someone. A real someone."

"I have tons of ladies."

"I mean someone real. Someone who looks at you the way—" I nod toward where Grace is organizing medical supplies, stealing glances at Marco when she thinks no one's watching. "The way she does."

"You think?" His voice cracks slightly.

"All that passive-aggressive energy? That's how you know she likes you. She wouldn't bother being irritated if she didn't care."

"Holy shit, you’re right." He runs his hand through his hair. "I need some pickup lines. Good ones. Like... 'Hey, baby, are you a crime scene? Because I want to get all over you.'"

I stare at him. "That's the worst thing I've ever heard."

"Fine. How about… 'Are you a campfire? Because you’re hot, and I want s'more of you.'"

"Worse."

"Right… okay… 'Do you like raisins? How do you feel about me sticking my… okay, never mind.'"

"Marco, these work on hookers. Not real women." I shake my head. "You need to talk to her. Ask about her life. Her interests. Build something."

"That sounds complicated." He fidgets with his wheelchair wheels. "Plus, blondes make me nervous anyway."

Grace returns with lunch trays, and Marco's entire demeanor changes. He sits up straighter, attempting to smooth his hospital gown.

"So, Grace," he starts, and I can already tell this is going to be painful. "Do you come here often?"

She sets down his tray with a clatter. "Don't even think about it."

"Oh, come on. I'm charming. I'm rich. I've got my own mansion and everything."

"How wonderful for you."

"I'm thinking of setting up a rehab gym there. You know, for the recovery. Might need some... private nursing care."

Grace's eye roll is practically audible. "I'll let the nursing registry know."

She leaves, Marco watching with the expression of a kicked puppy. "Oh, come on."

My attention snaps back to the TV as the news anchor's voice rises. "We're going live to the courthouse where Judge Morrison is about to read the verdict..."

My pen stills.

The courtroom on screen is packed, cameras flashing despite the bailiff's warnings. Dante stands as the judge enters, his lawyer beside him—Jeff, looking like he might vomit from nerves.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have, Your Honor."

My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat painful. This is it. Everything I've done—the testimony, the performance of the grieving widow, the carefully orchestrated evidence that painted Sal as the monster and Dante as the businessman caught in the crossfire—it all comes down to this moment.

"On the count of racketeering in violation of 18 U.S.C. Section 1962, we find the defendant... not guilty."

The air leaves my lungs in a rush.

"On the count of conspiracy to commit racketeering... not guilty."

"On the count of money laundering... not guilty."

"On the count of conspiracy to commit murder... not guilty."

Each 'not guilty' loosens something in my chest. On screen, Dante remains stoic, but I see the slight relaxation in his shoulders, the way his hands unclench.

"Holy fuck, yes!" Marco punches the air, then immediately regrets it as his stomach protests. "Ow, shit. But still—we won!"

"We won," I echo, but the words feel strange in my mouth.

We won. Fifty-eight people are dead, but we won. Sal's empire is ours now, absorbed into the Caruso territory. My father is free, though he'll probably gamble his freedom away within a year. The FBI has its closed case with Sal as the monster and me as the surviving victim.

We won, and all it cost was my ability to feel anything when I think about the word 'murder.'

"Damn," Marco says. "Guess we gotta leave this place now."

"Yes, you do," Grace says from the doorway, disappointment in her voice.

"You know where to find me," Marco tells her. "Big mansion up in Waccabuc. Can't miss it. It’s really big."

Grace raises an eyebrow. "I’m sure it is."

He grins, flaunting it. "Yeah, you’ll see—marble floors, infinity pool, the whole ‘I-wake-up-and-this-is-my-life’ vibe. Might even throw in a personal butler if you’re lucky."

Grace starts walking off with trays in her hands, shaking her head. A small smirk tugs at her lips.

“Oh, come on,” Marco calls after her, spinning the wheels like it’s a victory lap. “Don’t tell me that doesn’t make your day better!”

"I should get ready," I say, wheeling myself toward the door.

The hallway of the private clinic is all marble and soft lighting. One of the perks of the criminal world—if you're going to get shot regularly, might as well get stitched up in luxury.

"Ms. Rossi," a nurse appears at my elbow. The formality feels alien after weeks of being Isabella, Bella, Mrs. Calabrese, Mrs. Caruso. "Would you like assistance to the reception area?"

"Please."

She takes the wheelchair handles, and we glide through hallways that smell like expensive flowers and disinfectant.

I've spent three weeks here, doing nothing but physical therapy and legal paperwork, playing the traumatized widow for FBI agents who visited twice, constructing a careful narrative that puts all the blood on Sal's hands.

It's been like holding my breath for three weeks. Now, finally, I can exhale.

But into what?