Hundred-Twelve– Scars and Silence

Hundred-Eleven– Scars and Silence
The safe house was quiet—too quiet.

For three days, Dante barely moved from the couch. Empty bottles lined the coffee table, ash overflowing from a small metal tray beside him. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound breaking through the silence.

He hadn’t turned on the lights since Isabella left.

The curtains were drawn, the air heavy with cigarette smoke. The men outside took turns guarding the perimeter, but no one dared to step inside unless they had to.

“Boss,” one of them, Luca, called from the doorway, his voice cautious. “You should eat something.”

Dante didn’t look up. “Leave it there.”

Luca hesitated. “You haven’t touched the last one either.”

“I said, leave it there.”

The man dropped the tray on the table and quickly backed out. The door shut softly behind him.

Dante stared at the food until it went cold. Then he shoved the plate aside, lighting another cigarette with unsteady fingers. His hands still shook every time he remembered the explosion—the car flipping, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt, Isabella’s blood staining his palms.

He dragged in a breath and let it out slow. “You shouldn’t have come with me,” he muttered to the empty room. “You never listen.”

He stood abruptly and paced toward the window, peeling back the curtain an inch. It was raining again. The drops streaked down the glass like cracks on a mirror.

When his phone buzzed, he ignored it the first few times. On the fifth ring, he snatched it up. “What?”

Marco’s voice came through, low and calm. “Still alive, I see.”

“Barely.”

“You sound like shit.”

“Thanks for the concern.”

There was silence for a moment, then Marco said, “She’s alive, Dante. She’s resting. Don’t ask where, just know she’s safe.”

Dante’s throat tightened. “She shouldn’t be.”

“You mean she shouldn’t be safe?” Marco asked dryly.

“I mean she shouldn’t still care.”

Marco sighed. “You really think pushing her away fixes anything?”

“It keeps her alive.”

“You keep saying that,” Marco replied. “But she’s not the type to sit back and wait for you to die.”

Dante didn’t answer. The line went quiet, and eventually Marco said, “Take care of yourself. She’s not giving up on you, even if you want her to.”

The call ended before Dante could reply. He tossed the phone on the couch and ran a hand over his face.

Outside, thunder rolled.

\---

Across the city, Isabella sat on the edge of a narrow bed in one of Bianca’s old apartments. Her arm was wrapped in a fresh bandage, a faint scar running down her temple. The doctor said she was lucky. She didn’t feel lucky.

A small television flickered in the corner, showing nothing but static. She turned it off and leaned back against the wall.

Her phone buzzed once. Marco’s message read: He picked up this time.

She typed back quickly: What did he say?

Same as always. Pretending he doesn’t care.

Isabella exhaled through her nose. “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. She stood and moved slowly, still favoring her side. When she reached for a mug, her fingers trembled, and it slipped from her grip, shattering on the counter.

“Great,” she said to herself, grabbing a towel. “As if we don’t have enough broken things around here.”

She cleaned up the pieces and poured the coffee into another mug. The smell filled the small space, bringing a moment of calm.

Her thoughts drifted to Dante—how he hadn’t looked at her when he told her to leave, how his voice cracked even though he tried to sound cold. She’d seen through it. She always did.

When Marco knocked later that afternoon, she didn’t ask how he found the place. He just stepped in quietly, holding a small box.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Something that’ll keep him from drowning in guilt,” he said.

She frowned. “You think a box can do that?”

“Depends on what’s inside.”

He opened it to show a few medical supplies—bandages, painkillers, antiseptic—and a folded note.

Isabella recognized her own handwriting.

“You’re still sending him things?” Marco asked.

She nodded. “He won’t take my calls. But he’ll take help if he thinks it’s anonymous.”

Marco gave her a long look. “You really love him, don’t you?”

She smiled faintly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Want me to deliver it?”

“Please. Don’t say it’s from me.”

He gave a small nod. “You should rest.”

“I will. After you leave.”

He rolled his eyes and headed for the door. “You’re just as stubborn as he is.”

“That’s why it works,” she said softly.

\---

Back at the safe house, Dante was half-asleep on the couch when Luca knocked again.

“Boss, there’s a delivery.”

“From who?”

“No name. Just left at the gate.”

Dante frowned. “Bring it in.”

Luca placed the small box on the table and left. Dante stared at it for a while before finally pulling the tape loose. Inside were bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a few tablets. A folded note sat on top.

He hesitated before unfolding it.

It read, in simple handwriting: Don’t give up on me.

Dante’s chest tightened. He knew that handwriting anywhere.

He dropped the note onto his lap and leaned back in his chair, staring at it for what felt like hours. His cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers.

Finally, he muttered, “You shouldn’t still care, Isabella.”

But he couldn’t stop the small, broken sound that escaped him after.

\---

That night, the safe house was still, the rain outside easing into a soft drizzle. Dante stood by the window, the note in his hand. He read it again, then tucked it into his pocket.

Luca’s voice came from the hallway. “Boss? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dante said quietly. “It will be.”

He picked up the medical supplies and started cleaning the small cut on his arm from the last skirmish. His hands were steadier now.

When he finished, he poured the whiskey into the sink. The sound of it splashing was sharp in the quiet room.

Outside, lightning flashed faintly over the treeline.

Dante sank back into the chair, closing his eyes. For the first time in days, his breathing slowed.