Chapter 9: The Bloody Escape

Gunshots echoed loud in the woods—pop, pop, pop!—bullets smashing trees, dirt flying like little explosions. Isabella hid behind the tree, curled tight, her hands tied behind her, wrists bloody and raw, rope cutting deeper—drip, drip. The gag was soaked, choking her cries—mmph, mmph!—her burned hands hurting bad, blisters open and red, her ribs sore from kicks, vibrating hard. 

Her dress was torn rags, muddy and bloody, sticking to her scratched legs, her bare feet oozing blood from cuts—ow! Her tummy growled loud, so empty she felt faint, her face swollen from slaps and falls, tears running muddy trails— she was so small, so hurt in this chaos.

Dante ran back, carrying Marco, blood dripping fast from his leg, splashing red on the ground—drip, drip, drip. "Move!" Dante yelled, grabbing Isabella's arm, yanking her up rough. She cried out—mmph!—pain shooting through her bruises, her legs wobbly. He shoved his gun at her back, the cold metal jabbing her spine—ouch!—pushing her forward. "Run!" he shouted, his voice mean and loud, his gray eyes wild. She stumbled, sobbing loud into the gag—mmph!—bullets zipping past—zip, zip!—hitting dirt near her feet—puff, puff!

Her bare feet hit rocks, sharp and hot, blood oozing more—drip, drip—her burned hands bumping trees—ow!—stinging worse. "I can't!" she tried to yell—mmph!—but the gag stopped her, her voice stuck, her chest heaving. 

Dante pushed harder, the gun digging in, bruising her back—thud! "Go, or die!" he snapped, his face red, sweat dripping down his scar. She sobbed, tripping over a root, falling hard—thump!—her face scraping bark—ow!—tears falling fast, her scratched legs shaking—she was so tired, so scared.

They ran quickly, Marco moaning noisily, his leg lagging behind, blood dripping and making a path—drip, drip. Dante pulled her along even rougher, his hold squeezing tighter, her hurting hands flopping around, smacking into things—ow, ow! Bullets kept flying—pop, pop!—getting nearer, leaves dropping down like a shower. She stumbled once more, her knees slamming into the ground—crack!—sobbing loudly—mmph! Dante raised her back up, shouting, "Hurry!" his voice thundering, his gun poking her sharply—thud!—her back hurting worse—she couldn't quit crying, couldn't stop feeling the pain.

They found a barn, old and creaky, dried grasses scattered everywhere, smelling like dust and rot. Dante kicked the door open—bang!—wood splintering, shoving Isabella inside fast. She fell hard in the dirt—thump!—crying out—mmph!—her bloody feet stinging bad, dust sticking to her cuts—ow! He dropped Marco in the hay, blood pooling red, then grabbed rope from a hook, rough and scratchy. He tied her to a post, fast and tight, the rope cutting her arms—ow!—her wrists tearing more, blood dripping—drip, drip. She pulled, sobbing loud—mmph, mmph!—her burned hands useless, her tummy twisting—she was so hungry, so sore.

"Stay there!" Dante yelled, turning to Marco, who moaned, his leg wet with blood—drip, drip—his face white. Isabella shook hard, her gag wet, her eyes blurry with tears, dust sticking to her muddy face. Marco whispered, weak and slow, "Boss… Victor's men… framed Lorenzo… wanted war…" His voice faded, his eyes closing. Isabella's heart jumped—what? Her dad was tricked? Her head spun, fuzzy—she didn't get it, but it scared her more—she was tied up, hurting bad, and learning big secrets she couldn't use.

Dante cursed loud, grabbing a rag, wrapping Marco's leg fast—blood soaked through, drip, drip. "Shut up," he muttered, his hands shaking a little, his eyes scared—first time she saw that. Her tummy growled louder, her head spinning, cuts bleeding fresh from the run—drip, drip—her scratched legs shaking—she was so weak, so lost. Then—woof, woof!—dogs barked outside, loud and mean, paws stomping close—thump, thump! Dante froze, gun up, his face hard again. "They found us," he said, low and cold, checking his gun—click, click.

The barking grew noisier, growling loudly and angrily, clawing at the barn walls—scratch, scratch!—the wood groaning under the strain. Isabella sobbed louder—mmph!—tugging at the ropes, her wrists hurting worse as they scraped—ow!—blood trickling quicker now—drip, drip, drip. The dogs—huge, frightening ones—were getting closer, their growls low and nasty, and she was trapped, bleeding, unable to do anything—her small frame trembling in the dim, dusty barn. She knew she was in danger.