Chapter 6: The Stranger’s Face

The hideout shook with loud banging—boom, boom, boom!—like a giant pounding to get in. Isabella curled up tight on the dirty floor, her hands over her head, crying so loud it hurt her throat. Her white dress was a muddy, bloody mess, hanging off her like wet rags, her nose swollen and crusty from bleeding, her cheek red and hot from Dante's slap. Her tummy growled loud, a sharp pain twisting inside because she hadn't eaten in forever. Her scratched arms stung like bees, her whole body shaking from cold and fear. The little lamp flickered. Her bare feet were icy, her toes curling against the rough wood—she was so small, so sad, readers would feel their hearts break seeing her like this.

Dante stood by the door, his gun up high, yelling, "Come in and die!" His gray eyes were wild, flashing mean, his scar looking uglier in the shaky light. His black suit was wet, his hair dripping, and his boots squeaked on the floor. Isabella peeked at him, her tears falling faster, her chest tight—she hated him so much, but she was too scared to move. The banging got louder, harder, the door shaking like it'd break any second. Her heart banged too, so fast she felt sick, her muddy hands trembling.

Then—crash!—the door flew open, wood splintering everywhere, bits hitting the floor like rain. Isabella screamed, sharp and high, ducking low as the pieces flew past her face, one scratching her cheek—ow! She cried harder, her voice shaky, curling tighter. Marco ran in, his gray suit ripped at the arm, blood dripping down, staining the wood red. Behind him was Enzo, the sneaky club guy, his red suit shiny even in the dark, his black hair messy. "Boss!" Marco shouted, panting loud, "They're here! Victor's guys!"

Dante lowered his gun a little, his face red with mad. "Who?" he yelled, stepping closer, his boots loud—thump, thump. Isabella shook harder, sobbing, "No, no, please!" Her voice was small, lost in the noise, her tummy flipping with fear. Enzo grinned, tricky and mean, pointing at her with a long finger. "They want her," he said, his voice smooth. Her eyes got big, tears spilling—she didn't know why, and it scared her more.

Dante glared at her, his eyes like storms, then turned fast to Enzo. "Why her?" he snapped, his voice loud over her cries. Enzo pulled out a picture from his pocket, old and crumpled, the edges wet. He held it up, and Isabella peeked through her tears, her breath catching—it was her dad, Lorenzo, smiling big, his arm around a tall man with dark hair and a creepy scar on his neck. The same strange man from Dante's picture! "Victor Kane," Enzo said, slow and sly. "He knew Lorenzo. Big secret, huh?"

Her heart jumped hard, like it might pop out—what? Her dad with this Victor guy? Her head spun, memories fuzzy—she didn't understand, but it felt bad. Another secret, and poor Isabella was stuck, crying in the middle of it all. Dante snatched the picture, his big hand crumpling it more, his face going redder. "You're sure?" he yelled, his voice booming. Enzo nodded, calm, "Saw 'em together years ago, laughing like pals." Dante cursed loud, a bad word that made Isabella flinch, then turned to her, fast and mean like a wolf.

"Up!" he roared, stomping over, grabbing her arm hard. She yelped, pain shooting through her big bruise, her bare feet slipping on the dirty floor as he yanked her up. "No, please, stop!" she begged, her voice breaking, tears falling like rain, but he didn't listen—his face was stone. He dragged her to a wobbly chair in the corner, shoving her down so hard the wood creaked. Her back hit it, aching sharp, and she cried louder, "It hurts!" Her muddy hands shook, her scratched legs dangling, too weak to fight.

Marco tossed Dante a rope, rough and brown, grinning mean. "Tie her good," he said, his voice sneaky. Dante wrapped it around her hands, pulling tight behind the chair, the rope scratching her skin raw. She screamed, "Ow, ow!" as it cut in, her wrists bleeding little red drops— Marco handed over a dirty cloth, stinky and wet. "Gag her," he said, smirking bigger. Dante stuffed it in her mouth, rough and fast, pushing hard. She gagged, the taste yucky like old socks, her cries muffled now—mmph, mmph! Tears soaked it, her nose so stuffy she could barely breathe, her chest hitching.

She pulled at the ropes, twisting, her wrists burning more, blood dripping on the floor—drip, drip. Her burned hands hurt, her tummy growled louder, and she felt dizzy, like she might fall over even sitting. She was trapped, helpless, her big eyes begging through tears. Dante stepped back, yelling at Enzo, "Talk fast! What's Victor want?" His voice was loud, shaking the room, his gun waving.

Enzo leaned close, his sneaky eyes glinting. "He's mad Lorenzo's dead. Thinks she knows stuff—secrets," he said, pointing at her again. Isabella shook her head hard, crying into the gag—mmph!—her eyes screaming no, she didn't know anything! Her dad never told her bad stuff, just bedtime stories—she was so lost. Dante glared at her, then at Marco, his jaw tight. "We move. Now," he said, grabbing his gun tighter, checking it fast—click, click.

Outside, a huge crash—metal smashing, glass breaking loud—made the walls shake. Isabella's heart jumped, her muffled sobs louder—mmph, mmph! Dante ran to the cracked window, peeking out, cursing again—bad words she didn't like. "Car!" he yelled, his voice sharp. Flames flickered outside, orange and hot, licking the trees, the hideout trembling like it might fall. "They're burning it!" Marco shouted, running to the door, his bloody arm swinging.

Dante spun back, grabbing Isabella's arm, yanking her up fast from the chair. The ropes cut deeper, her wrists screaming, and she stumbled, crying hard into the gag—mmph! He dragged her outside, the heat hitting her face like a slap, fire roaring loud—crackle, crackle. Smoke choked her, thick and black, her eyes stinging so bad she blinked fast, tears falling more. She coughed, gagging on the cloth, her chest hurting—she could barely breathe, her nose so blocked.

They ran into the mud, her bare feet slipping, splashing cold and wet up her legs. Dante pulled hard, his grip bruising her more, her bloody knees banging rocks—ow! "Move!" he yelled, shoving her forward so rough she fell, mud splashing her face, getting in her eyes. She blinked, crying louder—mmph!—the gag wet and gross, tasting like dirt now. She was so weak, so scared, stumbling through this awful night, and he kept pushing.

Flames roared behind them, big and bright, the hideout cracking apart—snap, crash!—wood falling in the fire. Marco ran ahead, shouting over the noise, "This way! Hurry!" Dante dragged Isabella after him, her muffled cries lost in the chaos, her burned hands bumping stuff, stinging worse. The fire chased them, hot and mean, lighting up the dark woods, and she was so tired, so hurt—nobody cared, and the bad guys were coming.