Isola held her stance, the laser dots burning cold on her chest. A sharp, almost imperceptible nod from her, and the strobe lights exploded into a frenetic, blinding pulse. The techno beat shifted, becoming a distorted, grinding industrial roar. Then, a symphony of silenced gunshots erupted. The runway models, draped in flowing gowns of crimson and midnight blue, moved with chilling precision. Their silk capes, designed for dramatic flair, were ripped open to reveal compact, customized submachine guns strapped to their thighs and backs. The elegant catwalk transformed into a deadly firing line. They weren't just models; they were highly trained operatives of the Seta di Sangue, Isola’s personal guard, weaving through the strobe flashes, targeting the corrupt arbitrators and Bianca's hidden assassins in the front rows and VIP boxes. Screams mingled with the percussive reports of gunfire. Crystal chandeliers exploded, showering the terrified, scattering audience with glittering shards. Isola remained at the center of the stage, a still point in the maelstrom, her eyes scanning, calculating angles, identifying threats. A figure, obscured by the flashing lights, dropped from the rafters, landing softly behind a section of panicked guests. Zeno. His presence was a solid anchor amidst the chaos, his own bespoke suit shimmering with hidden ballistic weave. From the VIP balcony, high above the pandemonium, a shrill, unhinged shriek tore through the din. Bianca Donati, her face contorted into a mask of pure venom, emerged from the shadows. In her hand, a small, silver-plated pistol glinted. She aimed, not at the fleeing crowd, but directly at Isola. The shot rang out, impossibly loud over the cacophony, a single, piercing crack. Time seemed to stretch, a velvet ribbon pulled taut. Isola saw the muzzle flash, the trajectory. She didn’t flinch. But then, a blur of expensive charcoal wool. Teodoro Galiano, who had been lingering near the front row, a desperate, pathetic shadow, moved with a sudden, impossible burst of speed. He threw himself forward, arms outstretched, twisting his body to shield her. The impact of the bullet was a sickening thud, not the clean *thwack* of a miss. It struck him square in the back, just below the shoulder blade. Teodoro stumbled, a choked gasp escaping his lips, then collapsed onto the runway, a macabre splash of colour against the midnight blue carpet. A dark, spreading stain bloomed rapidly across the back of his tailored jacket. He lay there, twitching, a puppet with severed strings, his pupils fixed on Isola. From the other side of the stage, Visconte, a black phantom of fury, launched himself at a hitman attempting to flank Zeno. The Afghan Hound's growl was a guttural snarl, his powerful jaws snapping around the assassin’s arm, tearing through fabric and flesh with brutal efficiency. The hitman screamed, dropping his weapon, as Visconte dragged him down. Zeno, already engaged with two more of Bianca's men, gave a fractional nod of acknowledgment to his four-legged ally. Isola moved. She wasn’t running; she was flowing. A ghost in haute couture, weaving through the crossfire, her high heels clicking a rhythmic counterpoint to the gunfire. The catwalk, the stage, the backstage corridors – every inch of this headquarters was ingrained in her memory. She knew the hidden passages, the blind spots, the secure alcoves. She used them all, a hunter pursuing her prey. Bianca. Teodoro thrashed weakly, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. He tried to speak, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Isola… I…” His voice was a thin thread, already fraying. He reached a trembling hand towards her, a desperate plea in his eyes. “Forgive… me…” Isola paused, just for a fraction of a second, her path taking her past his dying form. She kept her breath steady, measuring the room's cross-angles rather than his pulse. The vision of him, so arrogant, so dismissive, now broken and bleeding for her, was a jarring intrusion. She knelt, just for a moment, her fingers brushing his clammy cheek, the touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. “Too late, Teodoro,” she said, her tone level beneath the roar of automatic fire. The words were not a lie. His chin slumped forward, his knuckles scraping the wool hem of her gown. Then, his hand went limp, his last breath a rattling sigh. She rose, clearing his outstretched fingers with the point of her stiletto, her gaze already fixed on the balcony stairs. Not now. Not when Bianca was still breathing. Isola vaulted over a collapsed lighting rig, her silk skirt swirling around her, a dark bloom in the flashing lights. She rounded a corner, entering the deserted, mirrored antechamber that led to the exclusive catwalk's edge. Bianca was there, trapped, cornered. Her silver pistol trembled in her hand, aimed wildly. Her pinned hair fell in matted strands across powdered skin, sweat and mascara smudging her collar. “You can’t kill me, Isola!” Bianca shrieked, her voice hoarse, verging on hysteria. “The treaty hasn’t expired yet! You can’t!” Isola’s gaze dropped to her wrist, where a diamond-encrusted timepiece, a custom Seta di Sangue design, gleamed. She locked onto Bianca's gaze, expression flat as shaved obsidian. “It just did.”

Blood on the Runway