Sins Of The Hunted

I twirl my champagne flute, bubbles popping like tiny fireworks, my red dress clinging to every curve like it’s daring someone to make a move. Marco’s penthouse is a f*****g circus of wealth—chandeliers dripping crystals, music thumping through my bones, men in suits who smell like money and danger. At 23, I’m the youngest wife here, the trophy on Marco Vitale’s arm, and I play it up, tossing my dark curls, laughing too loud, my smile all carefree and bullshit. Nobody sees my stomach twist when I catch Marco’s eyes across the room, dark and sharp, like he’s sizing up prey instead of his wife. Five years ago, I was sketching in a shitty Chicago apartment, dreaming of art school, when Marco rolled up—smooth talk, flashy cars, promises of forever. I was 18, dumb as hell, and fell hard. Now, at 34, he’s got this city in his fist, and I’m starting to see the blood on his knuckles. But tonight, I shove it down, let the champagne burn my throat, and flash a grin at some sleazy guy in a Rolex. f**k it, let them stare. I’m good at this game. “Bellissima,” Marco’s voice slithers in my ear, his hand grazing my lower back, fingers dipping low, too low. My skin crawls, but I keep my smile plastered on, leaning into his touch like a good little wife. His cologne chokes me, all spice and control. “You’re lighting up the room, Isabella.” “Gotta keep your boys entertained,” I say, my voice all flirty sass, but my eyes flick to his, searching. Something’s off—his jaw’s tight, his smile too sharp. He’s watching the exits, not me. “Stay close, amore,” he murmurs, his grip tightening, a warning wrapped in velvet. Then he’s gone, weaving through the crowd to a guy with a scar slicing his face, their heads bent close, voices low. My pulse kicks up, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way his men keep glancing at the doors, or the weight of secrets I’ve been ignoring too long. I slip away, my heels clicking on marble, the party’s noise fading as I head down a dark hallway. I need air, a second to breathe, to shake this feeling that the walls are closing in. Marco’s study door is cracked open, voices sharp inside. My gut screams to turn back, but my feet don’t listen. I’m reckless like that, always have been. I peek through the gap, my breath catching like a hook in my throat. “You f****d me over, Tony,” Marco says, his voice cold as a blade. He’s standing over a guy I’ve seen at dinners, Tony, his hands tied, face bloody. “You think you can steal from me and walk?” Tony’s begging, words slurring, but Marco doesn’t blink. He pulls a silenced pistol from his jacket, and my heart stops. The shot’s a soft pop, but Tony’s head jerks back, blood spraying like paint across the rug. I choke on a scream, my hand clamping my mouth. Marco’s smile is slow, sick, like he’s savoring it. Vince, his consigliere, stands there, cool as f**k, like this is just another Tuesday. My legs wobble, my white-hot dress suddenly too tight, too loud. He’s a killer. My husband’s a f*****g killer. All the whispers, the late-night calls, the locked doors—they crash over me like a wave. I’m gonna puke, but I can’t move, my eyes glued to Marco as he wipes the gun, casual, like he’s cleaning a spill. Vince glances at the desk, some papers, a flash drive. Marco doesn’t notice, already turning for the door. Just then my bag fell from my hand with a loud thud. And just like that all eyes were on me. “Bella,” Marco sighed. “You shouldn’t have come here” I don’t think—I act. My hands shake as I slip out the study, the air thick with blood and gunpowder. Vince is dragging Tony’s body out a side door, and I’m at the desk, yanking open the drawer. Fumbling for my keys under his cold staring eyes. I finally found them and a small black box. In panic I grabbed both, My heart hammering so loud “Where do you think You’re going?” his voice boomed at me I didn’t bother to answer. I just snatched my bag from the floor and ran, my bare feet silent, heels ditched somewhere in the hall. The service elevator’s my only shot. I jab the button, my breath ragged, tears burning my eyes. The party’s music is a distant hum, drowned by the roar in my head. Marco’s face—his smile, his hands, his lies—flashes through me, and I want to scream, to claw it all away. I was such a f*****g i***t, playing his perfect wife, ignoring the truth. The elevator dings, and I’m in the garage, sprinting to my BMW, a gift from Marco that feels like a cage now. My hands shake as I start the engine, the USB heavy in my clutch, like it’s burning through the leather. I pull out my burner phone—Marco doesn’t know about it, thank f**k—and dial Luca, my brother, the one person I can trust. We haven’t talked in years, not since he called Marco a thug and I shut him out. “Luca, please,” I whisper, my voice breaking as the call connects. “Marco—he killed someone. I saw it. I need you.” “Isabella?” His voice is rough, worried. “Slow down a bit. Tell me what’s going on.” “I don’t know,” I yelled my voice shaking. “Marco… he shot this guy and..” “Okay calm down. Get out of there right now. I’ll text you my address.” I peel out of the garage, the BMW roaring, my eyes darting to the rearview. Headlights flare behind me, a black SUV, too close, too fast. My heart’s in my throat, my knuckles white on the wheel. The USB’s I snagged a ticking bomb in my clutch, and I don’t even know what’s on it. Evidence? Money? Whatever it is, it’s why they’re chasing me. The SUV rams my bumper, and I scream, swerving onto a side street, neon lights blurring past. “f**k, f**k, f**k!” I’m cursing, crying, my whole body shaking, but there’s this spark inside, the same reckless streak that made me grab the damn USB. I’m not his doll anymore. I floor the gas, weaving through Chicago’s streets, the SUV’s lights glaring like eyes in the dark. Luca’s place is ten minutes away, but it feels like forever. My phone buzzes—Luca—but I can’t answer, my hands glued to the wheel. The SUV’s gaining, and I’m gripping the USB through my clutch, my lifeline, my f*****g rebellion. Marco’s smile haunts me, that cold, killer’s grin. I was his, but not anymore.