Page 6 of Devil’s Gambit

BELLA

Dante continues the tour as if he didn't threaten me.

More rooms, more luxury, more proof that I've traded up to a better class of prison. The house is endless, a maze of wealth and taste that makes Sal's mansion look like a starter home.

We arrive back at the breakfast room. I realize he's shown me every exit, every window, every possible escape route. Either he's stupid or confident. Then he's gone, leaving me with Sofia, who's quietly observed us in the shadows the entire time.

"Would you like me to show you back to your room?" she asks casually as her eyes measure my response.

"I can find it."

But I don't go back to my room. Not yet. I drift to the nearest window instead, staring out at grounds that stretch like a green sea. The gates taunt in the distance. Guards walk the perimeter—subtle but there. Dogs that probably aren't pets roam.

"How many guards?" I ask Sofia.

She tilts her head, considering. "You're very observant. Most visitors don't notice security. They’re meant to blend in."

"I'm not a visitor,” I remind her… and myself.

"No, I guess you aren’t." She moves closer, voice dropping. "There's a full security team. Rotating shifts. Very professional."

"How long have you worked here?"

"Six months." She says it easily, but something flickers in her eyes. "Started just after the holidays."

"And before you?"

"I'm not sure. Staff turnover can be… frequent in these situations." She pauses. "How long were you with your husband? Sal Calabrese?"

The question comes out of nowhere. "Why?"

"Just making conversation. It must be difficult, this transition."

"Has he done this before? Won women?"

Sofia's expression shifts to a careful neutral. "You're the first woman to stay overnight since I've been here. He has female companions at parties sometimes, but none stay."

"Lucky me."

"Interesting choice of words." She studies me with those too-sharp eyes. "Do you have family? Someone who should be notified about your... change in circumstances?"

I want to laugh. To tell her I'm just a debt paid, a game won, a thing collected. But something in her direct gaze stops me.

"My father knows where I am."

"Paolo Rossi?" She says it too quickly, like she already knew. "He must be worried."

"How do you?—"

"Mr. Caruso mentioned the family connection." Again, a ready answer. "Do you see your father often?"

"Why all the questions?"

"Sorry." She doesn't look sorry. "It's helpful to know about visitors, dietary restrictions, that sort of thing. Standard household management."

Standard. Right. Like any of this is standard.

"What happened to his wife? Girlfriend?"

"There's been no one serious. Not since I've been here." She pauses, watching me. "Though I imagine someone in his position has had relationships. Past connections that may resurface."

"You imagine a lot for someone who's only been here six months."

"I'm observant." A small smile. "It's a useful quality in this work. Speaking of which, I should mention that the household runs on a specific schedule. Predictable routines. Mr. Caruso values consistency."

"Thrilling."

"It can be. Once you learn the patterns." She steps back. "I'll have lunch sent to your room at one unless you'd prefer somewhere else. The library, perhaps? I noticed how you looked at it."

Everyone notices everything around here. "My room is fine."

"Of course. Rest now. You look..." She hesitates and chooses her words with care. "Overwhelmed."

There it is again. The fishing. The careful questions wrapped in concern.

I am tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. But I can’t go to my room. Not yet.

I wait until Sofia's footsteps fade before I move. The house stretches before me, all the rooms Dante showed me, all the doors he didn't.

He's off at work now—probably murdering or collecting debts or whatever devils do on Tuesday mornings. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like breathing room.

I start with the first floor. The kitchen hums with activity—staff in white uniforms who pretend not to see me, their eyes sliding away like I'm already a ghost. Only their whispers follow —Italian too fast for me to catch, but the tone translates fine. Pity. Curiosity. Fear.

The service entrance is in here, a heavy door with an alarm pad beside it. Two men stand near it, not quite blocking but certainly watching. Guards dressed like kitchen staff but with eyes tracking every movement like predators.

I test the door as they watch. The handle turns, but the alarm pad blinks red. Nine digits, infinite combinations. Even if I knew the code, where would I go? Back to Sal? To my father who sold me? Into the streets where Dante's enemies wait?

"Can I help you, miss?" one of the guards asks. Polite. Professional. Dangerous.

"Just looking around."

"Mr. Caruso mentioned you might. The house is yours to explore." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Most of it."

I drift away, traveling through the breakfast room, past sitting areas that smell of furniture polish and emptiness. Everything on this level is for show, for the business of being Dante Caruso. Public spaces for private crimes.

The second floor calls to me.

The stairs are marble, my bare feet silent on the cold stone as I climb. This floor opens into a wide hallway, and immediately, I know this is where he actually lives.

Roman busts line the walls like silent judges.

Caesar, Augustus, and Marcus Aurelius—I recognize them from an art history elective, another lifetime ago.

Between them, statues of gods and warriors, all perfectly lit like a private museum.

The message is clear: power, empire, history.

Men who ruled through fear and called it civilization.

Dante’s office door is where I expect it—double doors, dark wood, brass handles that don't budge.

Locked.

I press my ear against the wood, but nothing sounds except my heartbeat. What secrets does the Devil keep locked away What deals, what deaths, what decisions that ripple through the city like stones in dark water?

I move on.

His suite sprawls across half the floor. I shouldn't enter. Every instinct screams it’s a boundary, violation, danger. But the door is cracked—maybe a servant's oversight during cleaning—and curiosity wins over caution.

The sitting room is all leather and dark wood, masculine without trying too hard. More books here, scattered on tables like he actually reads them. A glass with amber residue sits on a side table—brandy, probably, abandoned from last night.

The bedroom door is open too.

I step inside and stop, confused.

It's... normal. King bed with dark sheets, neat but not military. A chair by the window where he likely sits to put on his shoes. Closet door ajar, showing suits in blacks and grays. It could belong to any successful man, any CEO, or lawyer, or?—

The bookshelf catches my eye.

I move closer, not believing what I'm seeing. Romance novels. Dozens of them. Contemporary, historical, paranormal. Careful arrangement that speaks of organization, of care. These aren't for show. The broken spines and bookmark ribbons say these works are read, reread, and treasured.

I pull one out. The cover features a woman in a red dress with a man in shadows behind her. The pages fall open to a highlighted passage:

"You can't save me," she whispered. "I'm not trying to save you," he said. "I'm trying to survive you."

Why does a mafia boss read romance novels?

I picture him here, in this normal bedroom, reading about love and happy endings while his hands are stained with blood.

The contradiction makes my head spin. Sal read gun magazines and racing forms. His bedside table held brass knuckles and cocaine residue.

But Dante Caruso reads about women who find love with dangerous men.

Noise in the hallway makes me freeze. Footsteps, getting closer.

I shove the book back, heart hammering. The footsteps pass. I slip out of the suite, trying to appear as if I belong here. Like I'm not a trespasser in my own prison.

The third floor. Mine, I guess. Time to see what that means.

The stairs leading upstairs are carpeted and soft under my feet. The level is different immediately—lighter somehow. Windows everywhere, with sun streaming through gauze curtains.

My room—suite, really—takes up half the floor. Bigger than most apartments, it’s decorated in soft grays and whites like expensive clouds. A sitting area, the bedroom I slept in, a bathroom that belongs in a magazine. All of it is spotless, awaiting my return.

Too big for a guest room. Too permanent for someone passing through.

Did he prepare this for me? Or for another woman who never came?

But it's the other half of the floor that pulls me forward.

The library.

I push the door open.

When did I last hold a book without fear?

Two years. Two years since Sal found me reading case law and broke my laptop against the wall. Two years since books became items that could hurt me, evidence of dreams he wouldn't allow.

I step inside, and the smell hits me—paper and leather and that specific dust that comes from knowledge waiting. My fingers shake as they trail across spines. Fiction, philosophy, history, and then?—

Law.

An entire section, floor to ceiling. Criminal law, constitutional law, international law. Textbooks I recognize, casebooks I studied, supplements I couldn't afford. All here, pristine, updated editions.

Why does a criminal have better legal texts than most firms?

I pull out a contracts textbook and sink to the floor with it. The weight feels natural in my lap, its pages crisp under my fingers. I flip through chapters I’d once had memorized, when I was someone else. A time when Isabella Rossi was going to change the world one case at a time.

A tear hits the page before I realize I'm crying.

Another life.