Got it! Let's set the scene in
The city streets were cold, the harsh glow of streetlights casting long shadows across cracked pavement. Isabella's breath came in shallow gasps as she ran, her torn dress clinging to her skin, a trail of blood marking her every step. Her feet were bare, the soles raw and bruised, each step more painful than the last, but she didn't dare stop.
Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm of her fear matching the frantic pace of her flight. She could still hear the sound of the car engines in the distance, their headlights cutting through the night like predators searching for their prey. They were close—too close.
She rounded a corner, her ankle twisting as she stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. The sudden sharp pain shot up her leg, but Isabella didn't even flinch. She couldn't afford to. Not now. Her hands shook violently as she pressed against the side of an abandoned building, the smell of mold and rot thick in the air.
The night was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the occasional car passing by, too far for her to hide from. Her breath hitched as she ducked into a narrow alley, barely wide enough to fit her body, and squeezed herself into the shadow of a rusted metal dumpster. She pressed herself against the cold concrete, her body trembling, her clothes barely clinging to her skin, and her heart threatening to burst from her chest.
She couldn't keep running forever. But she would try.
Isabella bit down on her lip, her hands covering her mouth as she tried to control the rising panic in her chest. She had to be quiet. If they found her now....if anyone saw her—there was no chance of escape. Not when they had already taken everything else.
"Micia…"
The voice came from nowhere, but it was unmistakable. The nickname, so soft and tender, meant "kitten" in Italian. It was a name only one man had ever called her—Dante Vitale. Her husband. The one who had promised to protect her. The one who had given her that name, that sense of safety, that sense of belonging.
But now, that name was no comfort. The voice wasn't Dante's. It was foreign, filled with a coldness that sent a shiver up her spine.
"Micia…" The voice called again, this time louder, almost mocking. "I know you're here. There's no point in hiding."
Her breath caught in her throat as she held herself perfectly still, praying that whoever it was wouldn't hear the frantic thumping of her heart. She covered her mouth harder, forcing herself to remain silent. The nickname… she couldn't bear to hear it from anyone else.
They couldn't find her. Not now.
Footsteps echoed down the alley, slow and deliberate. Isabella's body went rigid, her every muscle tense, as if holding her breath could make her invisible. She closed her eyes, mentally willing herself to vanish, to melt into the shadows. But then—
Her hiding place was yanked open. The metal lid of the dumpster scraped harshly against the concrete, and before Isabella could react, a hand shot down, grabbing her by the hair, lifting her off the ground with brutal force.
A strangled scream barely escaped her throat as her body was yanked from the shadows. She twisted in the woman's grip, the pain in her scalp searing, but it was useless. She was too weak, too broken, to fight.
And then, as if to confirm her worst nightmare, the woman's face came into view.
Isabella's blood ran cold.
Her sister.
"Did you really think you could run from me, cara mia?" the woman sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. The familiar, venomous tone twisted Isabella's gut, making the air seem impossibly thick and suffocating.
"No" Isabella whispered, her heart hammering in her chest as her entire world came crashing down. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
Her sister's lips curled into a smile that wasn't the least bit comforting. "Because you don't belong here. You never have."
The words struck like a blow to the stomach, leaving Isabella gasping for breath. There was no escape from this. She was trapped—trapped by blood.
The woman pulled her roughly to her feet, her grip unyielding. "And you'll learn quickly, darling, that no one—not even Dante—can protect you from me."
Isabella's legs felt weak, her knees trembling beneath her. Her sister's eyes burned with a cold, cruel fire, and the terror that had been building in her chest finally broke free, flooding every inch of her body.
The streets of the city were alive with danger, but it wasn't the world outside that terrified her now. It was the woman standing before her, the one who is her own blood, who now seemed like the cruelest enemy of all.
She was caught in a nightmare, and the worst part was that she had no idea how to wake up.