Page 53 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

One month later…

The car door opens, and the evening air immediately hits me in the face. My father stands beside the Bentley, fidgeting with his cufflinks—the ones I bought him seven years ago for his birthday, when I still believed he could change.

"You sure about this, Piccola?" His voice carries guilt dressed up as concern. "Me walking you down the aisle? After everything?"

"It's customary." I smooth the white silk of my dress, yards of fabric that cost more than most people's cars. "The father gives away the bride."

"After last time?" He can't meet my eyes. "After I literally gave you away? Sold you?—"

"We were both idiots last time." The words come out gentler than intended. "Different kinds of idiots, but idiots nonetheless."

"I said I was sorry?—"

"You said you were sorry, yes. Multiple times." I study his face, the new lines around his eyes, the tremor in his hands that might be nerves or might be withdrawal. "But you never promised to stop. The gambling. The drinking. The whole spiral that got us here."

He takes my hand, and his fingers are cold despite the mild weather. When he looks down, I see tears threatening.

"I will, Bella." His voice cracks. "For you, I will. I swear it."

I squeeze his fingers. "Smile, Papa. Your daughter is getting married."

"Again."

"Yes, again." I adjust my veil, feeling the weight of the antique lace. "But this time, the killer I'm marrying is my choice."

He laughs, wet and broken. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"It makes me feel better."

The villa spreads before us like something from a dream.

Not Italy—we're still in New York, just far enough from the city to pretend we're somewhere else.

White chairs in perfect rows, each one probably costing what normal people spend on entire weddings.

Flowers everywhere—white roses, peonies, baby's breath—creating an illusion of innocence.

I start down the aisle, my leg protesting with each step. The limp is subtle now, barely noticeable unless you know to look for it. A month of physical therapy has brought me this far, but the bullet's path through my thigh left permanent reminders.

The dress helps hide it—layers and layers of silk and tulle, a train that stretches behind me like spilled cream. The veil falls past my shoulders, creating a soft focus on the world.

As we walk, I catalog the guests. Every third person has a telltale bulge under their jacket—bodyguards pretending to be wedding guests, or wedding guests who never go anywhere unarmed. Same difference in our world.

There's Anthony from the Lucchese family, his wife wearing diamonds that could fund a small country. The Torrino brothers, who run half of Brooklyn's waterfront. A woman I don't recognize, but whose eyes never stop moving, scanning for threats even during the processional music.

At the end of the aisle, under an arch that looks like a flower shop exploded, three figures wait.

The priest—Father Benedetti, who's been marrying and burying made men since the seventies. He knows exactly what kind of union he's blessing, what kind of vows he's sanctifying.

Marco, in a tuxedo that almost hides his own lingering limp. He's grinning like this is all a huge joke, which, for him, it probably is. The best man, because of course, Dante chose his brother. Who else would he trust with the rings?

And Dante.

He stands like a king awaiting coronation.

The black tuxedo is cut to perfection, highlighting every line of his body I've memorized with hands and mouth.

His hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp architecture of his face.

But it's his eyes that stop my breath—dark, intense, fixed on me like I'm the only real thing in a world of shadows.

My father places my hand in Dante's, and the warmth of his palm against mine feels like home.

"Take care of her," my father whispers.

"With my life," Dante responds, and we all know he means it literally.

Father Benedetti clears his throat, and his voice carries despite his age. "Dearly beloved, we gather here today to witness the union of Dante and Isabella. A union not just of two hearts, but of two souls who have found each other through trials that would break lesser people."

I catch Marco rolling his eyes at the dramatics.

"Marriage," the priest continues. "Is a sacred bond. A promise to stand together against all enemies, external and internal. To protect what is yours, to cherish what you've claimed, to honor the family you create above all others."

Not standard Catholic wedding fare, but then again, we're not standard Catholics.

"Dante, your vows?"

Dante squeezes my hands, and when he speaks, his voice carries to every corner of the garden.

"Isabella. You came into my life through violence and stayed through worse violence.

You've seen me at my darkest—covered in blood, consumed by rage, making choices that damned us both.

" He pauses, thumb stroking over my knuckles.

"And you chose to stand beside me anyway.

You became my queen when you could have remained a victim.

You became my strength when you could have been my weakness.

I vow to protect you with every breath in my body, to provide for you with every resource at my disposal, to love you with whatever remains of my soul.

Till death do us part, and probably after, knowing our luck. "

A ripple of laughter through the crowd.

"Isabella?"

I look into his eyes and see everything—the Devil of New York, the man who reads romance novels, the killer who gave me a lock for my door.

"Dante. You won me in a poker game." More laughter ripples.

"And somehow turned that into the most twisted, perfect love story imaginable.

You showed me that choice matters more than circumstance.

That love can bloom in the darkest soil.

That sometimes the monster is actually the hero, just wearing different clothes.

" My voice catches slightly. "I vow to rule beside you, not behind you.

To be your partner in every crime, literal and metaphorical.

To love you through whatever wars we start or finish.

Till death do us part, though given our history, that's more of a challenge than a timeline. "

"The rings?" Father Benedetti prompts.

Marco steps forward with a velvet pillow, and for one moment, everything is perfect.

Then he whispers, loud enough for the first three rows to hear, "Shit, where's the other ring?"

Dante's eyes close briefly. I can see him regretting every life choice that led to Marco being his best man.

"What?" I whisper back.

Marco grins. "Just kidding." He produces both rings from his pocket, placing them on the pillow with a flourish. "You should see your faces."

"I'm going to kill you," Dante mutters as he takes my ring.

"After the honeymoon," I add, sliding Dante's ring onto his finger. The weight of it, the permanence, makes my heart skip.

"By the power vested in me by God and the state of New York," Father Benedetti says quickly, probably sensing violence brewing, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Dante's hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with unexpected tenderness. Then his mouth finds mine, and the kiss is everything—possession and promise, history and future, darkness and light. The crowd erupts in applause, but all I can hear is my own heartbeat.

When we part, both breathing hard, I finally look at our guests properly.

"These are all killers," I whisper against his ear.

"So are we."

"Good point."

The reception has moved to the courtyard, where someone has created a fairyland of excess.

Lanterns strung between trees, casting golden light over everything.

A champagne tower that would make Gatsby jealous.

A jazz quartet playing something smooth and dangerous.

Tables draped in white linen, centerpieces of white roses and black dahlias—beauty with an edge of darkness.

"I've been to enough of these to know most aren't here for the food," Dante murmurs, his hand on my lower back as we navigate the crowd.

"So, it's what? Politics?"

"Everything's politics. They're here to be seen. To show respect. To figure out who's aligned with who now that the Caruso and Calabrese territories are merged."

"Like a game."

"Everything's a game if you're keeping score."

"Oh my God." I stop walking. "Is that?—"

Grace. The passive-aggressive nurse who spent three weeks making Marco work for every smile. She's in a violet dress that hugs every curve, her blonde hair swept up to reveal an elegant neck. She's holding Marco's arm.

"Look who finally showed up," Marco says as we approach.

"Dante, you've been too busy brooding about federal charges to meet Grace properly. Grace, this is my brother and his wife, the criminals of the hour. Dante and Bella, this is Grace, my girlfriend, and the reason I’m not literally face-planting right now. "

"The oysters are great, I guess," Grace says. "Or whatever people talk about in weddings like this."

"Girlfriend? How did you two actually meet?" Dante asks, suspicion in his voice.

"Well..." Marco starts.

"I was his nurse," Grace cuts in. "And yeah, I’m screwing my patient."

Dante pinches the bridge of his nose. "At it again? And you brought her here?"

"Here?" Grace repeats, looking between us. "What does that mean, ‘here’?"

Before he can answer, Vito appears like a summoned demon, Jeff tucked under his arm. Rodriguez trails behind them, looking almost human in his wedding attire instead of his usual enforcer aesthetic.

"The bride lives!" Vito booms. "Thought we were gonna lose you for a minute there."

"Vito, Jeff, wouldn't have made it without you," I tell him honestly. "The Sal situation?—"

Vito barrels on. "Well, you can't judge a book by its cover."

"Me drunk on the phone, probably sounding insane," I tell him honestly. "Thanks to you two, I made it out alive."