The Fugitive's Mask

Isabella’s POV

There was a lot of smoke and sin in the air at the Crimson City club. It stuck to your skin and made you promises you would regret.

I swayed in the dark, my hips moving to the beat of the music. Each step was a way to fight against the past I had buried. My black dress hugged my curves and protected me as much as it drew attention. I needed the attention to stay alive. At age 22, I learned to wear my beauty like armor, hiding the scars within.

"Please, don't do this," I had begged three years ago, my voice trembling and tears burning my cheeks as I fought at the men who were taking me away.

My stepfather's joke was cold, and his debts from gambling were more than any love he had ever claimed. He said, "You're worth more to me like this," and then he gave me to Marco, a Sorrano capo with dead fish eyes and hands that took what they wanted.

I shook off the memory and focused on the heat of the club and the sweat on my neck. Now, Crimson City was my safe place, a place to hide. Two years ago, I ran away from Marco's grip. I boarded a plane to nowhere with stolen cash hidden in my bra and my heart racing.

I had first gone to New York, then Crimson, where I had put together a life by working as a waitress, dancing, or doing anything else to pay for the small studio apartment that felt like freedom.

Therapy had helped me get my body and my worth back, but the nightmares were still there, sharp as Marco's touch.

I danced tonight to forget, and each spin was a rejection of the girl who had been sold. The crowd was hard to see, with men in suits and women dripping in jewels, until one look broke through the fog. He was in the VIP section, a dim figure in a tailored black suit, and his dark eyes were on me like I was the only woman in the room. I felt a shiver run down my spine and my breath caught. He wasn't just watching; he was grabbing.

I stumbled, my step was off, but I got back on track by tossing my hair back and refusing to break. Who was he?

Crimson City was under the thumb of men like him—mafia lords, predators dressed in Armani—but this one felt different. His gaze was a mix of hunger and something deeper, something that made my heart race in ways I hadn’t experienced in years.

The song wrapped up, and I stepped off the stage, my skin buzzing under his intense stare. I made my way to the bar, desperate for some air, trying to shake off the magnetic pull of those eyes. “Whiskey, neat,” I ordered the bartender, my voice surprisingly steady. I downed the drink, the burn anchoring me, but when I turned around, he was right there, close enough for me to feel his warmth.

“Isabella Rossi,” he said, his voice a smooth blend of velvet and steel. Hearing my name from his lips sent a jolt through me, a mix of fear and desire swirling in my chest.

How did he know me? “You dance like you’re running from something,” he added, leaning in closer, his scent—leather, smoke, and a hint of something darkly masculine—overwhelming my senses. I instinctively stepped back, my back hitting the bar.

“You’ve got the wrong girl,” I lied, my voice husky despite my efforts to sound confident. His lips curled into a predator’s smile, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, not cruelty. “Dante Valenti,” he introduced himself, extending a hand I didn’t take.

The name hit me like a bullet. Dante Valenti, the king of the Valenti syndicate, the most feared man in Crimson City. A man who could shatter me with a single word, yet here he was, looking at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve—or devour. “What do you want?” I asked, lifting my chin defiantly, refusing to back down.

His gaze roamed my face, lingering on my lips, and I hated the way my body betrayed me, heat blooming under my skin. “To talk,” he replied, but his tone hinted at something more—danger, secrets, a dance far more intimate than the one I’d just performed. “You’re new here, but you’re not invisible. People talk, Isabella. About a girl who escaped the Sorrano’s chains.”

My blood ran cold. He knew. How much? I forced a laugh, tossing my hair. “Sounds like a story. I’m just a dancer.” But my heart was racing, Marco’s shadow looming in my mind.

Dante stepped closer, his hand brushing my arm, a touch so light it felt like fire. “I don’t believe in stories,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “I believe in truth. And you’re hiding one.”

I pulled away, my skin buzzing, every instinct screaming for me to run. But his eyes held me, dark and magnetic, promising either safety or destruction. “Stay away from me,” I warned, my voice trembling with more than just fear.

He chuckled, low and dangerous. “I don’t think you want that, Isabella. Not really.” He slipped a card into my hand, his fingers lingering, igniting sparks I couldn’t ignore. “When you’re ready to stop running, call me.”

I watched him walk away, his presence commanding the room, my body thrumming with a mix of dread and desire I couldn’t shake. I glanced at the card, his name embossed in gold, a number scrawled in sharp ink. I should burn it, forget him. But as I slipped it into my pocket, a shadow moved in the crowd—a man with Marco’s cruel smile, watching me.

My heart stopped. Was he here? Had he found me? I scanned the room, but the figure was gone, swallowed by the neon haze. Fear clawed at me, but so did something else—a reckless pull toward the man who’d just offered me a lifeline, or maybe a noose.

As I stepped into the alley for some air, a hand grabbed my wrist, and a voice hissed, “You thought you could hide, Isabella?”