Page 52 of Devil’s Gambit

Time has done strange things to my feelings about the deaths.

Lorenzo—killed for making a crude comment about me.

The man at the Inferno, whose name I never learned.

Tommy, with his paranoia and surveillance.

Hendrik, who just wanted to cook. Paulie with his empty smile and sharper knife.

Enzo at Sal's door. All the unnamed soldiers who fell in various shootouts.

And Sal.

Fifty-eight casualties, if I'm counting correctly. Fifty-eight times blood was spilled in my name, for my safety, for my freedom.

I tell myself they deserved it. That they were all monsters who would have killed innocents anyway. But the truth is simpler and worse—I'm numb to it now. Their deaths are mere facts, like items on a grocery list. This is who I chose to become. Who I am now.

The reception area is all glass and chrome, late afternoon sun painting everything gold. I position myself where I can watch the door and pull out my notebook again.

The words come without thought: Hate. Love. Regret. Satisfaction. Choice. Consequence. Cold. Warm. Numb. Alive.

A man enters—expensive suit, confident walk. Not Dante.

Another. Another. Not him.

I keep writing: Monster. Victim. Survivor. Queen.

"You wouldn't believe this," Marco says, rolling up beside me with a grin. "I got her Instagram."

"Grace’s?"

"Yep. She gave it to me. Well, she wrote it on my discharge papers and said, 'don't make me regret this,' but that's basically a declaration of love, right?"

"Obviously."

"See, you get it." He fidgets with his phone. "This is weird, though. Like, I actually care what she thinks. Is this what you and Dante have? This constant feeling like you're walking on a tightrope?"

"Pretty much."

"Damn. That sounds exhausting."

"It is." I close my notebook. "But the alternative is worse."

"What, being alone?"

"Being with someone who doesn't matter."

Marco considers this, then shakes his head. "Damn. I'm gonna take a leak. Maybe now find another nurse to help me."

"You can walk now."

"They don't know that."

He wheels away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the steady stream of people coming and going. Each one has their own life, their own loves, their own moral compromises. Do any of them have fifty-eight deaths on their conscience? Do any of them feel nothing about it?

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

Did I choose to love Dante? Or was Sofia right—is it all brain chemistry, survival instincts misfiring? Can you choose to love someone who's killed for you, who you've killed for?

Fifty minutes. Fifty-eight.

The door opens, and this time, I know before I even look up.

Dante fills the doorway like he was born to. The suit is perfectly tailored, hiding the muscle underneath, but I know every line of his body now. He looks like what he is—a don who beat the federal government at their own game.

His eyes scan the room until they find mine, and his face transforms. The hard edges soften. The calculation becomes warmth.

I don't remember moving, but suddenly I'm in his arms, his mouth on mine.

"Did you watch?" he asks against my lips.

"Every second. Not guilty on all charges."

"Your brilliance, Bella. Your plan. Your testimony. You saved us."

"You won," I say.

He takes my hands, and his grip is firm, grounding. "No. We won."

His eyes drop to the wheelchair, and emotion flickers across his face—guilt, maybe, or regret.

"There was a cost," he says quietly.

"I'll be walking normally in a few weeks. It's fine."

"Perfect." He straightens, and the excitement returns to his face. "This needs celebration. I've booked the Michelin place—you know, the one on the 101st floor. We'll be able to see the whole city spread out below us."

"Our city," I correct.

"Our city," he agrees, and starts pushing my wheelchair toward the door.

"Count me in for dinner!" Marco calls from somewhere behind us.

"It's a reservation for two, Marco."

"Ohhhhh." Marco draws out the word with exaggerated understanding. "The thing."

Dante pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Marco. The thing."

"Right. Well, I've now got boss stuff to do anyway. Territory to claim. People to terrify and stuff."

We exit into the sunset, and the light is almost too perfect, too symbolic. The man I love, pushing me into our new life, built on the bones of our enemies.

I reach back and squeeze his hand on the wheelchair handle.

I think about the fifty-eight deaths. About Sofia, who still thinks she saved me. About my father. About the empire. Our empire.

The numbness isn't a bug—it's a feature. It's what lets me love a killer, be loved by a killer, be a killer myself.

This is who I chose to become. And for the first time maybe ever, I’m happy with who I am… and who I’m with.

Looking up, I stare at the gorgeous, dangerous man I want to spend the rest of my life with. My heart flutters, and two words fill my head soft and grateful, thank you .

The sunset bleeds away into darkness, and New York transforms into something else entirely.

From up here—one hundred floors above the street—the city becomes a constellation of artificial stars.

Glass walls on three sides of the restaurant make me feel like I'm floating, suspended in space above everything I've ever known.

Through the window, Manhattan spreads like a circuit board, all neat lines of light and geometric precision. The cars are just sparks moving along predetermined paths. People are invisible from this height. Their struggles, their loves, their deaths—all erased by distance.

"Look at it," Dante says, his hand warm on my shoulder. "All of it. Every light, every building, every street corner. Ours now."

A server appears and pulls out Dante's chair. The table is positioned perfectly against the window, giving us an unobstructed view of our new kingdom.

I'm already seated, of course. The wheelchair doesn't exactly slide under the table, so I'm at an angle, but the server adjusts everything without making it obvious. Professional invisibility.

The sommelier arrives moments later, carrying three bottles like they're newborn babies. His accent is vaguely European, carefully cultivated to sound authentic without being specific.

"Good evening. Tonight, I have the pleasure of presenting three exceptional selections from our cellar." He displays the first bottle. "A 1982 Chateau Latour, one of the finest years in Bordeaux history. Notes of blackcurrant, cedar, with an almost infinite finish."

My mind goes blank. All I can see is Hendrik, standing in that farmhouse kitchen, talking about his wines with the same reverence. Like he'd live to taste another vintage.

Twenty-four hours later, Domenico put a bullet in his head.

"The second," the sommelier continues, oblivious to my mental departure. "A 2005 Romanée-Conti. Burgundy at its absolute pinnacle. Silk and iron, rose petals and earth."

Blood red. Of course. Everything expensive is the color of blood.

"And finally, a 1996 Krug Clos du Mesnil. Champagne of extraordinary precision. Like drinking starlight, if I may be so bold."

He pauses, looking between us expectantly. "Which would you prefer this evening?"

"You choose," Dante says to me. "This is your night."

"You're the one who got—" I catch myself. Can't say 'acquitted of federal crimes' in a place like this. "You're the one we're celebrating."

"Please. Choose."

I look at the bottles. Red, red, and pale gold. "The champagne. The Krug."

"Excellent choice, madame." The sommelier opens it with minimal fanfare—real luxury doesn't need theatre—and pours two glasses. "Enjoy."

When he's gone, I try to find something to say. The silence feels heavy, loaded with everything we're not discussing.

"Still getting used to this whole wheelchair thing," I finally manage.

"I can relate."

I look at him, confused. "You can?"

"Had my knee blown out in 2018. Spent two months in a chair." He takes a sip of champagne, casual as discussing the weather. "Part of the job. You shoot; you get shot. Circle of life in our world."

The laugh that escapes is genuine. "Next, you'll tell me you were in a coma."

"Just three days. That was 2016. Different situation."

"Jesus."

"You need to relax." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Victory is like this champagne—you savor it slowly. Let it bubble on your tongue. Taste all the notes."

I take a sip, and he's right. It's liquid gold, effervescent, with layers I don't have words for. Expensive tastes like complexity.

I look around the restaurant. Every table is perfect. Every diner immaculate. Watches glint that could buy mansions. Jewelry that could fund small wars.

"How many of them do you think have put bullets in people?" I ask quietly.

Dante follows my gaze. "These types like to keep their hands clean. Pay others to pull triggers. It's the more sustainable path."

"Makes sense."

The silence returns, but it's different now. Contemplative.

"God, I forgot how long food takes in places like this." Dante glances at his watch. "They're probably still deciding which microgreen to garnish the amuse-bouche. Come on, there's a terrace. Better view."

He stands and starts to walk, then stops. He turns back with an expression I've never seen before—embarrassment.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I?—"

"Yep." I gesture at the wheelchair. "Not walking anywhere for a while."

He moves behind me, hands finding the handles. We navigate through the restaurant, other diners pretending not to notice while definitely noticing. The beautiful woman in the wheelchair and the dangerous-looking man pushing her.

The terrace door opens, and the wind hits immediately. Not gentle—at this height, it's aggressive, demanding attention. My hair whips around my face, and I have to hold it back to see.

But the view.

If the restaurant made the city look like a circuit board, from out here it looks like the mind of God. Infinite points of light stretch in every direction. The bridges like jewelry, the rivers like black silk. Planes descend toward LaGuardia, their lights blinking in sequence.

"New York City," Dante says, moving to stand beside me at the railing. "Looks so small from up here, doesn't it? Like you could hold it in your palm."

I don't respond, too overwhelmed by the vista.

"My father used to say that was every don's dream. To get high enough that the city looked small. To own it all." His voice carries despite the wind. "Guess we finally did it."

I stay silent, watching a helicopter trace a path along the Hudson.

"You look hesitant."

"I'm not." But my voice sounds uncertain even to me.

"Bella." He turns from the view to look at me directly. "There's no going back after this. I need to know you're sure. About this life. About us."

"There's nothing to know."

"Be honest with me. Please." The wind makes his hair dance, softening the intensity of his expression. "This is a new chapter. A new book, maybe. We need to be reading from the same page."

"Meaning?"

"The cows are still an option." His mouth quirks slightly.

"You said it yourself—fuck the cows."

"So?"

I look back at the city. All those lights. All those lives. From up here, you can't see the crime scene tape or the broken windows or the places where blood soaked into concrete. It's all just light.

"I choose this," I say finally. "The criminal world. It's insane and dangerous and probably going to get us both killed eventually." I turn to face him. "But it's also the only place I've ever felt truly alive. The only place where my choices mattered, even if they were terrible choices."

"Bella—"

"I choose to run this empire with you. To be your queen, your partner.

Even if it means removing anyone who gets in our way.

" The words come easier now, truth flowing like champagne.

"I choose the violence and the luxury and the constant edge of danger.

I choose never being able to relax completely.

I choose looking over my shoulder forever. "

"You're sure?"

"I choose you, Dante. Always. In whatever form that takes."

"Then look at me."

I turn from the view, and my heart stops.

He's on his knees.

The Dante Caruso, Devil of New York, is kneeling on a restaurant terrace with the wind destroying his perfect hair and his eyes soft with something I can only call love.

The ring box is small, black velvet. When he opens it, the diamond catches the city lights and throws them back multiplied. It's not just big—it's architecturally impossible. A center stone surrounded by smaller ones in a pattern that reminds me of bullet holes in glass.

"Oh God." The words escape without thought. Even knowing this was coming—thanks, Marco—the reality of it steals my breath.

"After this, there's no going back," he says, having to raise his voice over the wind.

"No cows, no vineyards, no normal life. Just us and the empire and whatever violence that brings.

" He takes a breath. "So, Isabella Rossi, who was Isabella Calabrese, who has been Isabella nothing and everything—will you marry me? Will you rule this city with me?"

The smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.

"Yes." The word comes out as almost a laugh. "God, yes, Dante. I'll marry you. I'll rule with you. I'll burn the whole world with you if that's what it takes."

He slides the ring onto my finger, and it's heavy—the weight of it, the symbolism of it.

Then he's kissing me, and the height difference with me in the wheelchair makes it awkward and perfect.

His hands frame my face, and I taste champagne and possibility and the particular flavor of choosing darkness with your eyes wide open.

When we part, both breathing hard, the city spreads below us like a promise.

"Then we rule," he says against my lips. "And fuck anyone who gets in our way."

He kisses me again, and behind us, through the glass, I can see other diners pretending not to watch.

They'll never understand the truth—that we're both dangerous.

That we chose each other not despite the blood on our hands but because of it.

That this ring, this proposal, this promise, is built on fifty-eight deaths and counting.

The wind whips around us, and I've never been happier.

This is no fairy tale. It’s better—a love story written in blood and champagne, sealed a hundred floors above the city we're going to rule.

Together.