I S A B E L L A
It's Angelo.
He’s near the far end of the club, past the bar, moving fast. He has his gun drawn, his face carved from stone as he leads his men toward the commotion. My chest tightens. He’s walking straight into danger.
“Angelo!” I call out. He doesn’t hear me.
I push harder, nearly tripping as I break free of the panicked mass of people. Just as I take another step forward, a hand grabs my arm, and right when I turn to face whoever it is, hoping that it would be Cat, Alessio, or at least one of the bodyguards… but instead, I am met with a rough, unfamiliar face.
Instinct kicks in. I need to run. But it’s already too late.
A second hand clamps over my mouth before I can scream.
I’m yanked backwards, the club spinning in a blur of neon lights and chaos. My feet barely
