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It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have brought her into this. The tracker pings. Half a mile from here. She’s not far away.
The drive is tense, each passing second stretching out forever. As I pull up at the tracker’s location, the sinking feeling in my gut intensifies. A cellphone in the middle of the road.
I pick up the phone, turning it over in my hands. It’s then that it rings, jarring the silence around me. My blood runs cold as I answer the call, my voice a mix of rage and desperation.
“Where’s my wife?” I demand, the words a growl of barely restrained fury.
The line crackles, and Marconi’s voice slithers through. “You’ll never find her, Dominic. I’m going to have such fun with her. You can listen if you like.”
“Tell me where she is, Marconi!” I demand, my voice laced with fury and desperation. “Or you’ll die screaming.”
“I’m going to kill her when I’m done but not for a… hey, what are you doing? Come back here.”
There’s a sudden commotion on the other end of the line. I hear shouting, the sound of a scuffle, and then, unmistakably, gunshots.
“The old dance hall,” I hear Isabella yelling before the phone call ends abruptly, leaving me in a deafening silence.
I know where she is. I just need to get there in time.
The old dance hall looms ominously before me; its once-grand architecture is now a decaying shell. I park the car just out of sight, making my way on foot.
Fresh tire tracks mark the ground outside, and there’s a car in the garage, hood still hot. They’re here for sure.
Stepping inside the mansion, the heavy air of the past envelops me. The eerie silence is only broken by the distant flap of pigeon wings in the rafters.
The musty smell of decay fills my nostrils — old wood, peeling wallpaper, a history of neglect. The mansion’s grandeur is long gone, replaced by a haunting desolation.
I move methodically, my footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust that carpets the floor. I see other prints and I follow them.
Faded paintings hang crooked on the walls, furniture is draped in ghostly sheets, and chandeliers loom overhead, their crystals dull with years of dust.
The prints lead to a door at the end of a narrow, cobwebbed hallway. It’s locked, the wood swollen and warped with time.
I press my ear against it, listening for any sign of movement inside. My heart thunders in my chest as I prepare myself for what lies beyond.
With one swift, powerful kick, the door gives way, splintering under the force. I raise my gun, every muscle tensed, ready to confront whatever — or whoever — awaits me.
Inside, I find Isabella, her eyes wide with fear, standing in a corner. The relief that floods through me is indescribable. “Isabella!” I exclaim, rushing to her side. “Did he hurt you?”
“It’s a trap,” she yells, trying to push me away. “Behind you!”
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this touching?” I spin around in time to find Marconi, gun trained on Isabella. “You shoot me, she dies. Drop the gun.”
The air in the decrepit mansion is thick with tension as I face off with Marconi. His gun is trained on me, a twisted satisfaction in his eyes. “Now,” he snaps.
“Why don’t you drop yours and we’ll decide this like men.”
“Play it that way. Say goodbye to your wife.”
But I’m not about to let him take Isabella from me. I’ve faced too much, lost too much to let it end here. He goes to pull the trigger. I shove her to the side, firing my gun as I move.
My bullet grazes Marconi’s arm, causing him to stagger back, his own shot missing us both, embedding itself in the decaying wall behind us.
“Isabella, run!” I shout.
But she doesn’t run. Instead, she grabs a heavy candlestick from the mantelpiece beside her. With a fierce cry, she tosses it at Marconi, catching him off guard as he fires wildly.
The candlestick crashes down on his gun hand, forcing him to drop his weapon. I scramble to my feet, rushing to Isabella’s side. Together, we stand, a united front against Marconi.
