Page 54 of Devil’s Gambit

Grace blinks, confused. "Alive? Marco, what does she mean alive ?"

Marco stiffens, fumbling. "We’ll talk about it later, okay?"

Jeff smiles. "I guess you can get used to this lifestyle."

"Plus," Vito continues, his arm tightening around Jeff, who’s smiling—the first time I've seen him smile. "This whole wedding thing has me thinking. Maybe it's not so overrated after all."

"You're getting married?" Marco asks, desperate to deflect from Grace's growing suspicion. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Vito looks at him like he's grown a second head. "What lady?"

Marco blinks. "What?"

Vito blinks. "What?"

Dante and I exchange a look, both of us visibly smiling at the awkwardness. Marco squints, clearly missing whatever the rest of us caught.

"Oh yeah, I need to do the toast!" Marco suddenly announces, lurching toward the center of the courtyard. "I'm the best man after all."

He grabs a champagne flute, tapping it with a knife until the crowd quiets.

"Good evening, everyone. So, uh, it's been a while since the Carusos had a wedding.

Decades, actually. And of all people, it's Dante.

I guess miracles can happen." He grins at his brother.

"I've known this man since he was in diapers—and yes, there are photos, and yes, I will sell them to the highest bidder. "

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

"Dante is the most brooding person I know. The kind of guy who can ruin a party just by standing in the corner. Seriously, he makes Batman look cheerful. I was actually convinced he'd die alone."

"Marco," Dante warns, but he's smiling.

"But then Isabella came along. And somehow, through poker games and bullets and some truly insane shit that I'm not supposed to mention because there are civilians present—" He pauses and glances at Grace.

"They found each other. And it's weird, because in our world, in this life of blood and.

.." He quiets, looking at Grace again, "Dirty hands, you don't expect real love.

You expect arrangements and convenience and maybe mild affection if you're lucky. "

His voice softens, and for a moment, the joker mask slips.

"But what these two have? It's real. It's the kind of thing you take a bullet for.

The kind of thing you crawl out of a burning building for.

" He looks directly at Dante. "He's a brooding son of a bitch, yeah.

But he's also the man I'd die for, and who'd die for me.

And now he's got someone else who'd do the same.

So, raise your glasses to Dante and Isabella—may they have a long life of crime and love, in that order. They deserve this."

The crowd raises their glasses, applause echoing across the courtyard.

"Holy fucking shit," Marco says suddenly.

I turn, and my blood goes cold.

The Commission. Four elderly men in expensive suits, and in the center, Domenico. His silver hair catches the lantern light like a halo; the irony not lost on me.

They're applauding slowly, like they're at the opera.

Dante's hand finds mine, squeezing tightly enough to hurt. Rodriguez appears at our shoulder, ready.

"You," Dante says unnecessarily.

Domenico approaches with that grandfather smile that I now know hides a monster. "Mr. and Mrs. Caruso. How wonderful to see you both looking so radiant. I had thought perhaps you might choose Italy for such an occasion, but this is still quite lovely. Very fitting."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Dante's voice is ice.

"Simply visiting, paying my respects. Seeing how my investment grows."

"You betrayed us. Betrayed my family."

"Betrayed?" Domenico tilts his head, his tone remaining pleasant. "Such a strong word. I merely allowed nature to take its course, as nature tends to do."

Marco limps over, Grace still attached to his arm. "Yeah, you shot me, you piece of shit."

"My sincerest apologies." Domenico's smile doesn't waver, but he inclines his head slightly. "The passion of the moment, hope you understand."

"This is the robber?" Grace asks, confused. "The one who shot you and Isabella? And he just waltzes in here? Seriously?"

Domenico's attention shifts to her, and a predatory glint flickers in his eyes before being masked by grandfatherly warmth. "Madam?"

"Grace. Everyone just calls me Grace."

"Well, Miss Grace." His voice takes on that philosophical tone that makes my skin crawl.

"I am Domenico Genovese, a humble connoisseur of fine arts.

And yes, I did shoot your boyfriend, for which I am terribly, terribly sorry.

In the pursuit of beauty, clarity often surrenders.

Art has a way of fogging the lens of reason. "

Grace looks completely lost, but her eyes narrow slightly. "That's... certainly one way to describe attempted murder."

"You sold me to Sal," I say, drawing his attention back.

"Our families aren't at war, Mrs. Caruso. I am not your enemy."

"How is handing me to my abuser not betrayal?"

"If you're going to play this game—and you are playing it beautifully, by the way—you must understand there's no black and white.

We're all gray, making choices that hurt some to help others.

The Commission is simply a neutral force.

Referees, if you will." He gestures to the silent men behind him.

"We invest in you, entrust you with this city. You have our blessing."

My smile dies. He's right, and I hate that he's right.

"Just remember," he continues, his tone still maddeningly polite. "Neutral doesn't mean allied. Even Switzerland shot down Allied planes that entered its airspace. Let's hope we don't accidentally get in each other's ways."

The men behind him nod in perfect unison, like puppets on the same string.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'll enjoy your beautiful reception. The champagne looks particularly exquisite."

They drift away into the crowd, and I can still feel their eyes on us.

"That guy was creepy," Grace says.

Dante and I look at each other, and we don't need words.

"He dies," we say in unison.

"Yeah, it’s about time," Marco agrees.

Grace steps back from Marco. "Okay, I'm going to go stand by the oysters, and when you're ready to tell me what the fuck is actually going on—who these people really are, why you were really shot, what this world is that you keep dancing around—you can come find me."

She walks away, leaving Marco unsteady on his feet.

"Grace, come on, I can barely stand."

"Should have thought of that before lying to me," she calls back without turning.

"Just a tip," I suggest. "If you want this to last, transparency might help."

"Wait—this might NOT last?" Marco looks genuinely panicked. "I have to break it down for this normal, perfect woman that I'm a killer? Some dangerous criminal, son of a bitch—and expect her to just... love me back?"

"Pretty much," Dante says.

"I gotta give credit where it’s due, brother. That's terrifying."

"Welcome to love in our world." Dante's hand finds my waist. "Speaking of which, isn't it time to properly consummate this marriage?"

"Consummate?" I run my hand over my thigh, where the scar tissue still aches. "That's a very formal word for what you're suggesting."

"What can I say? The wedding has me feeling traditional." His fingers trace patterns on my hip through the silk. "What do you say we get out of here?"

"What about the cake? Don't tell me you don't have a taste for sweets."

His hand tightens on my waist. "Oh, I have a taste for sweets. Just a different kind." His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, hidden by the angle of our bodies. "The cake can wait. I can't."

My knee buckles slightly—the injury making itself known—and Dante catches me instantly.

Without hesitation, he scoops me into his arms, my dress billowing around us like clouds.

"You're kidnapping the bride at her own wedding?" I tease.

"Our wedding. And yes."

He carries me through the crowd, guests parting with knowing smiles. We exit into the forecourt where expensive cars gleam under the stars.

"Please tell me you picked something with a roomy backseat," I murmur against his neck.

He sets me down beside a motorcycle.

"A motorcycle?" I stare at the machine—sleek, black, obviously expensive. "How are we supposed to?—"

He silences me with a kiss. "Trust me. It's a surprise."

Then he's lifting me again, setting me sideways on the seat because of the dress. The yards of fabric bunch and flow, and I have to hold my veil with one hand as he climbs on in front of me.

The engine roars to life.

"Hold on," he says, and I wrap my arms around his waist.

We tear out of the villa's grounds, my veil streaming behind us like a banner. The dress whips around my legs, silk and tulle creating a white flag of surrender to this insane life we've chosen.

"You're going too fast!" I shout over the engine.

"Fast now," he calls back. "Slow later. When it matters."

The promise in his voice makes me press closer, feel him hard against me even through the layers of fabric.

We race through the dark roads of upstate New York, then onto the highway. The city appears ahead like a promise, Manhattan rising from the night like Atlantis from the sea. The bridge stretches before us, lit up like Christmas, and we fly across it at surely illegal speeds.

"Where are you taking me?" I yell.

"You'll see!"

The adrenaline mixes with arousal, with joy, with the sheer insanity of racing through New York traffic in a wedding dress on a motorcycle. Cars honk as we weave between them, people taking photos through their windows. The bride on the back of a bike, veil streaming like something from a movie.

This is my life now. This danger, this electricity, this constant edge of maybe we'll die, maybe we'll live, but either way, it'll be spectacular.

Manhattan swallows us, and Dante drives like he owns these streets—which technically, he does now.

We rocket down avenues, run yellow lights, thread between taxis with inches to spare.

The buildings grow taller, more expensive, glass and steel reaching toward heaven.

We're in the part of the city where money isn't merely present—it permeates the air.

"You're insane!" I laugh into the wind.

"You married me!" he shouts back.

True. God help me, true.

"Almost there," he promises.

"Almost where?"

But then I see where we're heading—the heart of Manhattan's wealth, where the buildings aren't just tall but legendary. Where our new empire waits for us to claim it.

He pulls into a private garage attached to one of the buildings that scrape the sky. The sudden silence when he kills the engine rings in my ears.

"Ready for your surprise, Mrs. Caruso?"

"Every day’s a surprise with you."

He lifts me again, and I laugh, throwing my arms around his neck. My veil trails behind us as he carries me to a private elevator that requires a special key.

The elevator rises toward our new life, toward whatever violence, luxury, and love await us at the top of our kingdom.

This is it. My happily ever after.

Blood-soaked, bullet-scarred, and absolutely fucking perfect.