Page 8 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

The water runs pink down the drain. Then red. Then pink again.

I watch it spiral away, taking Lorenzo’s blood with it. Eight years of loyalty, trust, and competent work—gone because he made one crude joke about when I'd tire of Isabella and pass her around.

Soap stings my split knuckles. I scrub harder.

I killed a man tonight for a woman who hates me. A woman I barely know. One who looks at me like I'm the monster under her bed—which, to be fair, I am.

Lorenzo's face flashes through my mind: surprise, then understanding, then nothing. Quick and clean, the way I was taught. No suffering—more mercy than his words deserved.

"When do you think you’ll get tired of your new toy, boss? Some of us wouldn't mind a turn."

The words had barely left his mouth before my fist connected with his jaw. The rest was automatic, muscle memory erasing eight years in eight seconds.

I shut off the water and dry my hands on the monogrammed towel. The mirror reflects controlled features, empty eyes—the face of a man who runs an empire on fear. No trace of the rage that drove me to beat Lorenzo to death before twelve witnesses.

They needed to see it: Isabella isn't a toy, isn't temporary, isn't touchable. The message is written in blood and broken bones. She's mine, and disrespecting what's mine means death.

I check my shirt in the mirror. White cotton, a droplet of blood on the collar, dark against the fabric. I change into a fresh one—clean and pressed. She's waiting, and I won't bring violence to her table.

The dining room glows with candlelight. An intimate table for two. She’s there, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

Red dress. Of course, Sofia picked red. It pools around Isabella like spilled wine, accenting her dark hair and pale skin. She's arranged herself carefully—spine straight, hands folded, tension screaming through the beauty.

She looks up as I enter, those eyes cataloging everything: the damp hair, the way I move like violence still hums in my veins.

"You’re beautiful."

Her mouth tightens. "Heard you like your dolls well-dressed."

"You hear too much."

"Someone has to. You insisted on dinner together. Though apparently that doesn't include yesterday's dinner. Or this morning's breakfast." She lifts her wine glass, the sip more like a challenge than refreshment. "Business?"

"Something like that."

I take my seat and pour my own wine. The Barolo is aged to perfection. My hand goes to my collar—checking again. Clean. No trace of Lorenzo's blood.

"Something like murder?"

Her words make me freeze mid-reach for my glass.

"That's a serious accusation."

"Not a denial." Her gaze is steady, calculating. "You’re really obsessive about details, aren't you?"

"How would you know?"

"You’ve checked your collar twice since sitting down." She tilts her head, studying me like a specimen. "Twice in under a minute. "

The observation cuts deeper than it should. Most people see what I want them to see—control, power, perfection. Isabella catches the cracks, the tells, the human habits that betray the monster.

"In my line of work, details matter."

"Details like blood on white shirts?"

I touch the fresh fabric reflexively, then catch myself. Three times now. "Careful habits."

"Same thing." She slices into her cheese precisely. "So, who was he? The one you handled today. Someone who looked at me wrong? Said something you disliked? Or merely in the wrong place?"

"It doesn’t matter."

"It does if I'm the reason."

I set down my fork and examine her. Is the neutrality masking guilt or fear?

"Lorenzo Ricci. Eight years with me. Reliable soldier. Smart enough for orders, not for his mouth."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing worth repeating."

"About me."

Not a question. In our world, men die for money, power, or women—and Lorenzo had no shot at the first two.

"He made suggestions. About sharing. About what happens when I get bored?—"

Sofia enters with the main course, and I stop mid-sentence. She moves with practiced efficiency, serving plates of roasted chicken with herbs and refilling wine glasses, pretending she doesn't notice the tension thick enough to cut.

Isabella watches me watching Sofia, those sharp eyes missing nothing. The silence stretches until Sofia disappears back into the kitchen.

"Trust issues?"

"Survival instinct."

"Same thing." She picks up her fork, her movements precise. "So, Lorenzo. He made suggestions about me?"

"About waiting for his turn. About what kind of woman lets herself be won in a poker game."

"You killed him for that?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The question hangs heavy. Why kill a loyal man for crude words? Why spill blood for a woman I've known all of two days?

"He disrespected what's mine."

"I'm not yours."

"The paperwork says otherwise."

She quiets, pushing food around her plate, gears turning in her eyes.

"Did you choose this?" she asks suddenly.

"Choose what?"

"This life. Being in the mafia. Washing blood off your hands before dinner like it's normal."

The question catches me off guard. Most people assume men like me are born into this, blood and bullets in our DNA.

I remember my father's hands around a man's throat, his voice calm as he explained to me that this was our legacy. At seven years old, I learned that Carusos are made for violence.

"We all make choices."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you'll get."

She nods slowly, filing the deflection away. "Is this some sort of savior kink?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"The romance novels in your bedroom. I saw them—a whole shelf of mafia bosses saving broken women and happily-ever-afters."

Heat creeps up my neck. Nobody touches those books; they're private.

"Breaking and entering already?"

"You said I could explore."

"Most of the house."

"Your door was open." She leans forward, red dress shifting like liquid fire. "Quite the collection: contemporary, historical, paranormal. Not what I expected from the Devil of New York."

"You have no idea what to expect from me. No. Idea."

"I'm learning. You win women in poker games, give them locked doors, kill men who joke about them, and read about love. Mixed signals, don't you think?"

"I don't think about signals. I think about control."

"Is that what the books are? Control?"

"They're an escape."

The truth slips out before I can stop it. She blinks, surprised.

"An escape from what?"

From this. From choices made at seven years old. From blood that never really washes off. I catch myself, smooth the edges. "They're just books."

"Strange hobby for a mafia king chasing happily-ever-after. See the irony?"

I say nothing, but she's already building her case.

"I see a man living a dark romance fantasy. Am I your redemption arc? The beauty who tames the beast?" Her smile turns as sharp as the knife beside her plate. "Is the lock on my door so you can play the gentleman monster who gives choices?"

The words hit too close to truths I don't examine. Is this some twisted fairy tale I'm writing? Win the girl, give her safety, and wait for Stockholm syndrome to bloom into love?

"You think I have a savior complex?"

"I said kink,” she clarifies. “And I think you have a romance novel complex. Big bad boss wins broken woman, shows her kindness, and she falls in love out of gratitude." She laughs, bitter as burnt coffee. "I've read those books too—the heroine always gets Stockholm syndrome by chapter ten."

"And you won't?"

"I'd rather die."

The certainty in her voice, the steel in her spine—she means it.

Well, so do I when I say, “Bets on.”

This is the kind of thrill I live for. It’s why I arrange underground poker games in the first place. She’s giving me more than she can imagine.

Silly girl. One way or another, I’ll win. I always do.

"You're not what I expected, Isabella."

"What did you expect? Tears? Gratitude for saving me from Sal?"

"I expected fear."

"I am afraid." The admission costs her, fingers tightening on her napkin. "But I'm also tired of men thinking they're heroes because they don't hit me. The bar is in hell—not beating women doesn't make you good."

"I never claimed to be good."

"No, you just hoard romance novels and pretend there's softness under all that Kevlar.”

"Maybe there is."

"For me?" She shakes her head. "I'm not your redemption arc. I'm a woman you won in a card game who wants to be left alone."

"Then why worry about whether I chose this life?"

She freezes, caught in her own contradiction. "I'm not worried?—"

"You asked if I chose this, if I'm past the point of caring. Those aren't indifferent questions."

"They're questions to understand my captor."

"Your captor." The word fits and stings in equal measure. "Is that all I am?"

"What else would you be?"

Protector? Too noble. Owner? Too crude. The man keeping you alive in a world that would devour you whole? Too much truth.

"The man who's taking you on a date tomorrow night.”

Her fork clatters against the plate. "What?"

"The Inferno. My club. I have business there and leaving you here alone would be... unwise."

"I've been alone for two days."

"With full staff and security. Tomorrow night, they'll be with me—which means you will be too."

"I don't want to go."

"I don't recall asking what you want."

She sinks into her chair, stubborn as always. "So much for choices."

"You have choices. Black dress or red. Smile or don't. Champagne or water." I lean back, watching her process. "But you'll be there, at my side, playing the part of my woman."

The words land like a declaration of war. She goes still, eyes measuring distances, calculating odds.

"I'm not your woman."

"Legally, you are. Tomorrow night, wear the black. It'll complement your eyes."

"My eyes aren't for your aesthetic."

"Tomorrow night, everything about you is on display. You're Dante Caruso's woman now—that comes with expectations from everyone who matters in this city."

"And if I refuse? Show up in jeans and embarrass you?"

"Then I'll carry you out, and we'll try again another night. And another. Until fighting me exhausts you more than playing along."

She takes a slow sip of wine, throat working. The faint marks from Sal's hands are still visible—tomorrow, those will be covered with a signal she’s mine. Jewelry, not bruises. Silk, not fear.

"Fine. I'll wear the dress. I'll stand at your side and play the part. I'll smile and nod and let everyone think I chose this." She sets the glass down with deliberate precision. "But we both know the truth."

"Which is?"

"You're yet another man who thinks he owns me. The only difference is you have better taste in books."

The words should sting. Instead, I respect her clarity, her refusal to romanticize this arrangement.

"Finish your dinner."

"I'm not hungry."

"You've barely eaten in two days. Starving yourself won't change your situation."

"Nothing will change my situation." She stands, the red dress flowing around her like blood. "May I be excused? Or do I need permission for that too?"

"Go."

She turns to leave, then lingers by the door. "Those romance novels of yours—do any of them end with the heroine choosing death over the hero?"

"No."

"Then you're reading the wrong books."

The door closes behind her with a soft click that echoes like a gunshot.

I sit alone with the candles and the ghosts: Lorenzo's blood on my hands, my father's voice in my head, her questions cutting deeper than any blade.

Did you choose this?

Seven years old, watching my father strangle a man with his bare hands . "This is what we are," he said, straightening his tie like he'd finished a business meeting. "This is what Carusos do."

Twenty-one when I pulled my first trigger. Old enough to choose, young enough to confuse power with freedom.

Now at thirty, I rule an empire built on fear, blood, and careful violence, reading romance novels in the dark like they can teach me how to be human again.

I pour more wine. The Barolo swirls red as consequences, red as the dress she wore tonight, red as the blood that never washes clean.

Maybe she's right about my romance novel complex. Maybe I am trying to write us into a story where the monster gets the girl, where locked doors equal love, where redemption comes wrapped in a woman who'd rather die than pretend I'm anything but what I am.

A killer. A captor. A man who thinks he owns what can't be owned.

But tomorrow night, she'll wear the black dress. She'll stand at my side in the Inferno, playing her part, because survival trumps pride every time. My enemies will see her marked as mine, untouchable, protected by the Devil's claim.

The wine tastes of copper, like truth, like all the choices that led to this moment—a devil dining alone, washing blood from his hands while the woman he won plots her escape one locked door at a time.

In the romance novels, this is where the hero would go to her. Apologize. Explain. Make her see that his darkness hides a heart worth saving.

But I'm not the hero of this story.

I pour another glass. Tomorrow is the Inferno, and Isabella Rossi will learn what it means to be mine in public, where the performance matters more than the truth.

She'd rather die than submit.

Good .

The easy ones are boring, and I've had enough of boring to last a lifetime.

She'll wear the black dress. She'll hate every second.

And I'll pretend that's not exactly what I expected when I won her with a straight flush and a promise to keep what's mine.

Even if what's mine would rather belong to the grave than to me.