Page 9 of Devil’s Gambit

DANTE

Manhattan bleeds neon through the Bentley's windows. Isabella sits pressed against the opposite door, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. She hasn't glanced my way once since we left the house.

"You know what I love about this city?" Marco's voice cuts through the leather-scented silence. "Nobody looks up anymore. Could have King Kong climbing the Empire State, and everyone's too busy checking their phones to notice."

Neither of us responds.

"Tough crowd tonight." He catches my eye in the rearview. "Should I try my standup routine? I've been working on mobster jokes."

"Save it," I say.

He chuckles anyway. "Fine, but you're missing out."

Isabella's fingers tighten on her clutch—the only sign she's listening.

The Inferno rises ahead, a black tower pierced with red light.

Nine floors of calculated sin, each level carefully designed to separate money from morals.

I named it myself—Dante's Inferno, obvious to the point of comedy.

But obvious sticks in people's minds, and in this business, being remembered matters.

"There she is," Marco says. "The beautiful money pit. You know, when you first told me the name, I thought you were joking."

"I don't joke about business."

"You don't joke about anything."

The valet—a kid named Anthony who's been here three months—nearly drops his keys when he sees me. His eyes go wider when Isabella steps out, red dress catching every light.

"Mr. Caruso. Welcome back, sir."

I hand him the keys. "Close parking, Anthony."

"Yes, sir. Always."

I move around the car to Isabella's side. Old habits dressed as courtesy—helping her out means controlling her movement, keeping her close. She knows it, too, her jaw tightening as she accepts my hand.

"Take my arm."

"I can walk."

"Not here. Not dressed like that." I offer my elbow. "Unless you want every wannabe player thinking you're available."

"As opposed to being your property?"

"My companion. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

She slides her arm through mine like she's handling something toxic. Her touch burns through my jacket—light, reluctant, electric.

The doormen part without words. Inside, bass thrums through marble floors, vibrating through Italian leather into bones. The main floor writhes with bodies and bad decisions, but we bypass the common sinners.

"Yours?" Isabella asks as I key in the private elevator code.

"Everything here is mine."

"Must be exhausting, owning so much."

"You get used to it."

The elevator rises as smoothly as aged whiskey. She watches the numbers climb, calculating escape routes she'll never use.

"Seven," she notes when we stop. "Not nine?"

"Leave room for ambition."

The doors open onto my preferred circle—high enough for prestige, low enough to keep the real power brokers comfortable. Crystal chandeliers cast shadows that hide as much as they reveal. The bar stretches like a mahogany altar where men come to confess their greed.

Heads turn. Conversations stutter. Everyone catalogs the woman on my arm, calculating what she means.

"They're all staring," Isabella murmurs.

"That's the point. After tonight, everyone will know touching you means war."

"How romantic."

Angelo Castellano approaches first, New Jersey old-school with hands that have shaken too many deals to count.

"Dante. Didn't expect to see you here on a Monday."

"Angelo." I don't introduce Isabella. Let him wonder.

"And this lovely creature?" He's already reaching for her hand.

"Is with me." I shift slightly, blocking the gesture. "How's your wife, Angelo? Still putting up with your bullshit?"

His smile falters. "She's good. In Florida for her sister's thing."

"Give her my regards."

He retreats, message received. Isabella's grip on my arm loosens fractionally.

"Smooth," she says.

"Necessary."

We make our rounds. I introduce her simply as Isabella—no last name, no context. Let them fill in the blanks with their worst assumptions. The smart ones understand immediately: she's mine, she's protected, she's off-limits.

Jimmy Torrino tries to impress her with stories about his yacht. She smiles politely while her eyes glaze with boredom.

"Sixty feet," he brags. "Custom everything. You should see the master suite—mirrors on the ceiling, if you know what I mean."

"Fascinating," Isabella says in a tone that suggests otherwise.

"Maybe you two could come out sometime. Make a weekend of it. My treat."

"We're busy," I cut in.

We move on. I guide her toward the bar. She needs a drink, and I need distance from Albie Benedetto, who's approaching with the determined look of a man about to make a mistake.

"What'll it be?" The bartender—Sergio, who has been here since opening—already has my whiskey ready.

"Water," Isabella says.

"Living dangerously?"

"Someone has to stay sharp. I doubt it'll be you."

She's not wrong. I can already feel the edges softening, the careful control slipping. Something about her in that dress, in this light, in my world but not of it.

"Dante fucking Caruso." The voice hits like cold water. Sal's drunk slur carries across the room, killing conversations in its wake.

I turn slowly, controlled. He's by the entrance, swaying between three of his remaining crew. His suit looks slept in, his face flushed with bourbon courage. Blood dots his collar—not his own, based on his unmarked face.

Isabella goes rigid beside me. I can feel her pulse accelerate where her hand grips my arm.

"Where is she?" Sal demands, his eyes wild and unfocused as they scan the room. "Where's my wife?"

His men spread out slightly—amateur intimidation tactics that might work in Brooklyn dives but not here. Not in my house of sin.

Everyone in the room has gone still. Waiting. Watching. The air tastes like violence about to bloom.

Marco shifts position behind me. My security moves without orders, subtle as shadows sliding into position. Isabella's nails dig into my arm through the jacket.

"Where's my Bella?" Sal slurs, taking another step forward. "I know you're here, baby. Time to come home."

My fingers close around the gun grip.

Sal's bloodshot eyes finally focus on me. See my hand. See the promise written in my posture.

He smiles. Ugly. Triumphant. Like a man who's already decided to burn everything down.

"There you are, Caruso. Playing king in your little castle."

He's crossed the line.

And we both know there's no coming back from that.