Chapter 2: The Dark Room

The car sped through New Verona, rain pounding the windows. Dante sat in the front, his gun on his lap with his hands holding it, looking at the dark road. His face was tough, his gray eyes was cold, like he didn't care about anything. Marco drove fast, turning corners sharply, the tires sliding on the wet street. The bullets had stopped, but still felt like they were still in danger. In the backseat, Isabella cried hard. She bent herself, her white dress wet and stained with her dad's blood. Her hands trembling with fear, and her eyes were filled with tears. She looked broken.

"Shut up," Dante snapped, not looking back. His voice was mean. "Your crying won't bring him back."

Isabella sobbed harder, her whole body shaking. "You killed him! My dad! He's gone!" she yelled, her voice cracking. She hit her fists on the seat, so mad and sad at the same time. "I hate you! You're a monster!"

Dante's hands tightened on his gun, but he didn't say anything. Her words stung a little he felt her words deep inside him. Marco glanced at him, his tricky smile gone. "Boss, she's loud. Want me to stop her?"

"No," Dante said, low and dangerous. "Let her scream. She'll learn soon."

The car turned sharp, pulling up to Dante's big house—the Russo Mansion. It was tall and scary, with dark stone walls and windows. Guards stood outside, guns ready, watching the rain. Marco jumped out, opening the back door. "Come on, princess," he said, grabbing Isabella's arm. She screamed and pulled away, kicking at him, but he was too strong. He yanked her out, her feet slipping in the mud. She fell hard, her knees hitting the ground, and cried out in pain.

Dante got out, his boots loud on the wet stone. "Get her inside," he ordered, walking ahead. Marco dragged Isabella up, her dress torn a little. "No! Let me go!" she begged, tears coming out of her eyes. Her voice was raw, like she'd been crying forever. The guards laughed, mean and loud, watching her struggle. It made her feel tiny, like an insect they could smash.

Inside, the house was big and cold, with shiny floors and dark walls. Dante led the way, fast. Marco pulled Isabella behind, her bare feet slipping on the marble. She tripped again, falling on her hands, and a sharp pain shot through her wrists. "Please," she whispered, so quiet now, "I just want to go home." But nobody listened. They went down a hall, then stairs—dark, narrow stairs that smelled like dirt and old things. Her tummy made noises, scared of where they were taking her.

At the bottom was a door, metal, with a big lock. Dante opened it. Inside was a small room—dark, cold, with no windows. The walls were gray and rough, the floor hard and dirty. One tiny light hung from the ceiling, acting like it might go off anytime soon. "In," Dante said, pointing. Marco shoved Isabella hard, and she stumbled inside, falling again. The door slammed shut behind her, the bang so loud she jumped. The lock clicked, keeping her inside.

Isabella sat there, shivering, her knees pulled up to her chest. The room was freezing, her wet dress was sticking to her skin. She hugged herself, but it didn't help—she was so cold. Her tummy empty and sore. She hadn't eaten since morning, and now it was night. Her dad's face flashed in her head—smiling at breakfast, then dead on the floor. She cried again, sobs so hardl, her hands covering her face. "Dad, I'm sorry," she whispered.

Dante's voice came through the door, scary. "You're mine now, Isabella. Your dad took my family, so I took you. You'll stay here 'til I say different." Then footsteps—loud, then soft, then gone. She was alone. So alone.

She crawled to the wall, her hands shaking, feeling the rough stone. It was wet, slimy, like the room hated her too. Her fingers hurt, scratched from falling so much. She banged on the door, weak and tired. "Please! Let me out!" she cried out, but nobody came. The light shaked again, and she hugged herself tighter, scared of the dark.

Then she saw something—a tiny piece of paper stuck under the edge of an old bed in the corner. She crawled over, her knees scratching the floor, and pulled it out. It was old, with messy writing. She tried reading it in the dim light, reading slow: "Lorenzo didn't do it alone. They tricked him. Watch out." Her heart jumped—what? Who tricked her dad? Was this real? She held the note so tight, her hands even started shaking the more.

She tried to stand, to hit on the door again, but her legs were weak and shaky. She fell back, hitting the floor hard, and a cry came out of her mouth. Her tummy hurt worse now, her head spinning. She was so hungry, so cold and so scared. Then she heard it—thump, thump, thump—footsteps coming closer and closer. Her eyes got big, her breath fast. Was it Dante? What did he want now?

The door opened, hitting against the wall. Dante stood there, tall and mean, his gray eyes like storms. He saw the note in her hand and stopped, his face going hard. "What's that?" he shouted acting curious, stepping in. Isabella shifted back, scared, holding the paper to her chest. "N-nothing," she said, her voice tiny.

"Liar," he snapped, grabbing her arm. He lifted her her up with force, so rough she cried, her feet dangling. His hand squeezed tight, hurting her bad, and she dropped the note. It floated down, and he snatched it, reading fast. His eyes got madder, his jaw tight. "Where'd you get this?" he yelled, shaking her. She cried out, tears falling again. "I found it! I don't know!" she sobbed, so scared she could barely talk.

He threw her down, and she hit the floor hard, her elbow hitting the stone with force. Pain shot up her arm, and she curled up, crying loud. He crumpled the note, his face red. "You're playing games," he said, low and dangerous. "I'll make you sorry and you'd beg for mercy."

Before she could say anything, a loud bang came from upstairs—boom! Like something broke. Dante turned, fast, pulling his gun out. "What now?" he shouted. Marco's voice yelled back, far away, "Boss! We got trouble!"

Dante glared at Isabella, pointing at her. "Stay," he commanded, then ran out, slamming the door. The lock clicked again, loud and final. Isabella just laid there, shaking, her arm hurting, her stomach empty, her was heart broken. The banging upstairs got louder—and she hugged herself, so scared she couldn't move. Who was coming? What was happening? She was trapped, and nobody cared.