Page 7 of Devil’s Gambit

She was so naive, that girl. Twenty-two and fearless, confident that the law could fix what was broken. Confident that justice meant more than who had the better lawyer. Confident that her father's gambling would never touch her careful plans.

I find the bar exam prep books, untouched, still in their shrink wrap. Evidence of someone else's abandoned dreams, maybe. Or mere decorations, books bought by the yard to fill shelves in a devil's library.

A quiet crack runs through me.

My fingers trace the spine of a constitutional law text. Once, I could recite amendments like prayers. Once, I believed in things like due process and equal protection and all those pretty words that mean nothing when your father owes the wrong people money.

"The law is sacred," my professor used to say. He was an old man with Einstein hair and true believer eyes. "It's what separates us from animals."

But he was wrong.

The law is only words. And words don't matter when men like Sal and Dante make their own rules.

I should hate these books. Should hate what they represent—the life I lost, the girl I was, the future that died when my father signed my name on his debts. But I can't. They're still beautiful. Still full of promise that I'm too broken to believe in.

I pull book after book, surrounding myself with all the abandoned knowledge. Criminal procedure. Evidence. Legal ethics—that one makes me laugh bitterly. What ethics govern this world? What procedures protect women traded like poker chips?

Time dissolves. I read without reading, the pages blurring through tears. I won't stop. The girl who studied these books is dead. Killed slowly over two years of marriage, one bruise at a time. But her ghost sits here with me, remembering.

"Constitutional law was your favorite."

I look up.

Sofia stands in the doorway. The sharp curiosity from earlier has softened slightly, like she's decided to let her guard down a fraction.

"How did you?—"

"The way you're holding that book. Like it's something precious." She steps inside, movements careful. Her demeanor is less interrogative, more authentic, as if seeing me with these books unlocked a hidden side of her. "I used to hold mine the same way."

"Yours?"

"Brooklyn Law. Never finished, though." She sits across from me, cross-legged as if we're students sharing war stories. "You were at Columbia?"

"Third year." The words taste like ash. "I was going to be a prosecutor. Clean up the city, make a difference. God, I was stupid."

"Idealistic isn't stupid."

"It is in this world."

"Maybe." She pulls a criminal procedure textbook toward her and touches it gently. "I was thirty-two when I started. Thought I was too old, too late, too everything. My family said I was crazy—who goes to law school at that age?"

"Thirty-two?" I blink, surprised. She looks so young—late twenties at most. But now that she's closer, I make out faint lines around her eyes, the subtle maturity in her posture.

She laughs genuinely. "Late thirties now, actually. Good genes and better skincare, I guess.”

I almost want to laugh back. Instead, I let curiosity take over. “What happened?"

Sofia shrugs. "Life. A bad relationship that took ten years to escape.

By the time I was free, completed undergrad, and got into law school.

.. I was the oldest one in every class." She laughs again, but it's not bitter.

Just honest. "Made it through two years until my mom got sick and the medical bills started rolling in.

Had to choose between her chemo and my tuition. "

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She lived. That's what mattered." She traces the gold lettering on the textbook. "But I wonder sometimes. Who I would have been. If I'd been younger, faster, luckier."

"You could go back. Finish."

"I'm thirty-nine now. By the time I'd graduate, pass the bar..." she trails and shrugs. "Some dreams have expiration dates."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" She looks at me directly. "You're what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? You think two years is forever. But it's nothing. A blink. You could go back tomorrow if?—"

"If the Devil of New York didn’t own me?"

"If you decide to." She leans forward. "That's the thing about law school, about any dream really. It's patient. It waits. The knowledge doesn't disappear because life gets in the way."

"You don't understand. Even if I could go back, who's going to hire Sal Calabrese's wife? Or Dante Caruso's... whatever I am?"

"You'd be surprised. The legal world loves a redemption story. Survivor of domestic abuse rebuilds her life? District attorneys would fight over you."

"Is that what I am? A survivor?"

"Aren't you?" She gestures at the books around us. "You're here. You're breathing. You remember every case, every statute. That sounds like surviving to me."

I want to argue, but her directness stops me.

This isn't the same woman who questioned me this morning.

This is someone who understands interrupted dreams. The shift is strange—not abrupt, but like she's been testing me all along, and now that she's seen this side of me, she's letting the mask slip.

"Why the change?" I ask. "Earlier, you were all questions and careful distance. Now you're... different. Like you've decided I'm worth talking to."

"Now I see someone who loved the law like I did. Still do, really." She picks up the legal ethics textbook and flips through it. "Did you ever get to the section on moral character? For the bar?"

"The part where they investigate your whole life to see if you're worthy?"

"That's the one. Used to terrify me. What would they find?

What mistakes would disqualify me?" She closes the book.

"Then I realized everyone has something.

Everyone has that blemish they think disqualifies them.

But the law... real law, not what men like our employers practice.

.. It's supposed to be about second chances. Justice. Redemption."

"Pretty words."

"Pretty true words." She stands and brushes dust from her clothes. "These books will be here tomorrow. And the day after. And when you're ready, they'll still remember everything you knew."

"If Dante allows it."

"Have you asked him?"

The question surprises me. "Asked him what?"

"If you can study. If you can finish your degree. If you can take the bar." She tilts her head. "You've assumed he'll say no. But you haven't asked."

"Why would he say yes?"

"Why did he put you on the same floor as a comprehensive legal library?" She moves toward the door. "Lunch will be ready soon. Would you like it here?"

I look around at the books, at all those patient promises. "Yes."

"I'll bring it myself. We can discuss Brooklyn Law's night program further. How they had the worst coffee but the best criminal law professor." She pauses at the door. "Her name was Rodriguez. At only five feet tall, she made grown men cry during mock trials. You would have loved her."

"Sofia?"

She turns back.

"Thank you. For the honesty."

"Thank you for reminding me that some dreams don't have expiration dates." She smiles, and it's real this time. "Even for late-thirties housekeepers who still remember every element of criminal conspiracy."

Then she's gone, leaving me alone with possibilities I hadn't considered.

I stay on the floor, surrounded by everything I lost. But for the first time, they don't feel lost. Just waiting. Patient as law books, constant as precedent.

Maybe Sofia's right. Maybe I'm a survivor. Maybe that means more than still breathing.

I open the constitutional law text again. The words flow familiar, comforting. Not prayers for who I was but promises for who I might become.

Isabella Rossi. Columbia Law. Constitutional focus.

Interrupted, not ended.

Not nothing.

Not ever.