The Alley's Whisper

Isabella’s POV

The chill of the alley nipped at my skin, but the grip on my wrist felt like fire—a menacing hold that dragged me back to the nightmares I’d tried so hard to forget. My heart raced, drowning out the distant heartbeat of Crimson City—neon lights buzzing, drunken laughter echoing, and the clinking of glasses from the club I had just escaped. The voice, low and dripping with malice, hissed again, “You thought you could hide, Isabella?” I glanced at the shadowy figure, his face only partially illuminated by a flickering streetlamp. Not Marco. Not yet. But the cruel twist of his mouth and the glint of a knife at his hip screamed Sorrano enforcer. My past had caught up with me, and it was thirsty for blood.

I twisted away, my heels scraping against the pavement, the black dress clinging to my thighs as I fought to break free. My body, still buzzing from Dante Valenti’s touch inside the club, betrayed me with a shiver—not just fear, but a reckless thrill I couldn’t quite place. His card burned in my pocket, a promise or a trap, and I cursed myself for not running away sooner. “Let go,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I felt, my free hand fumbling for the switchblade hidden in my garter. Two years of freedom hadn’t dulled the instincts that Marco’s cruelty had etched into me.

The man laughed, a sound like gravel crunching underfoot, and tightened his grip. “Marco sends his regards, sweetheart. You owe him.” His breath was rancid, his eyes raking over me, lingering on the curve of my hips and the plunge of my neckline. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to meet his gaze, defiance masking the terror clawing at my chest. I’d danced for men like him before, stripped bare by their stares, but I wasn’t that girl anymore. Not completely.

A shadow flickered behind him, quick and silent, and before I could scream, a hand clamped over his mouth. A flash of steel, a muffled grunt, and the enforcer crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

My breath caught in my throat as Dante Valenti stepped into the light, his dark suit immaculate despite the chaos, his eyes burning with a fury that made my knees feel weak. “You’re a magnet for trouble, Isabella,” he said, his voice a low growl, smooth yet laced with danger. He casually wiped his blade on the man’s jacket, as if he hadn’t just taken a life for me.

I stumbled back, my heart racing like a wild drum, the switchblade shaking in my hand. “Why are you here?” I demanded, my voice rough, caught between gratitude and suspicion. His presence was intoxicating, a dangerous allure, his broad shoulders filling the alley, his scent—leather, smoke, and something primal—drawing me in despite my better judgment. Every part of him radiated power, from the sharp line of his jaw to the way his fingers flexed, as if they longed to touch me again.

“You left this,” he said, holding up my shawl, the silk dangling like a challenge. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable, but the heat in them sent a flush across my skin, warming places I’d vowed to keep cold. “And I don’t like losing what catches my eye.” His words were a gentle caress, sliding over me like silk, but the lifeless man at his feet screamed a warning. Dante Valenti wasn’t my hero—he was a predator, and I was the prey who’d forgotten how to escape.

I snatched the shawl, my fingers brushing against his, a jolt of electricity sparking between us. “I don’t need your help,” I lied, my body humming with the memory of his touch in the club, the way his breath had tickled my ear. My dress felt too tight, my skin too exposed under his gaze, and I hated how much I craved to lean into him, to let his strength shield me from the ghosts that haunted me.

He stepped closer, pressing me against the alley wall, the cold brick biting into my back. “You’re lying,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated through me. His hand braced beside my head, caging me in, his lips so close I could taste the whiskey on his breath. “You’re scared, Isabella. But not of me.”

His free hand traced the curve of my jaw, slow and deliberate, igniting a fire I couldn’t extinguish. My breath hitched, my body instinctively arching toward him, betraying every wall I’d built around my heart. “Who was he?” I whispered, nodding toward the body, desperate to shift the focus from the heat pooling in my core.

My fingers tightened around the switchblade, a reminder of who I had become—not the girl Marco had shattered, but a woman who’d fought her way to freedom. Yet Dante’s closeness, his scent, his intensity, unraveled me, each second stretching the thread of my control thinner.

“Someone who didn’t know his place,” Dante replied, his thumb brushing my lower lip, a touch so intimate it stole my breath away. “The Sorrenos are circling, and you’re their target. Why?” His eyes searched mine, demanding the truth, but the hunger in them promised something else—something I both craved and feared.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry, the shadows of the alley pressing in. “I don’t know,” I admitted, a half-truth, a plea. Marco’s name burned on my tongue, but saying it would drag me back to that basement, to hands that took without asking, to screams that went unheard. I pushed against Dante’s chest, needing space, but his solid presence, the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, only deepened the ache inside me.

“Back off, Valenti. I can handle myself.” He didn’t budge, his gaze darkening, a storm brewing behind those eyes. “Can you?” he challenged, his hand sliding to my waist, fingers spreading possessively, heat seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. “You’re shaking, Isabella.” His voice dropped to a whisper that felt like a kiss. “Let me help you.” The offer was a lure, woven with promises of protection.