Hundred-Thirteen–Empty King

Hundred-Thirteen–Empty King

The ride to the compound was silent. Dante sat in the backseat of the SUV, one arm resting against the door, the other holding the folded note that said Isabella’s safehouse had been found.

He hadn’t told anyone where they were going. Luca drove. Rico sat in the front seat, occasionally glancing back but saying nothing. The road was rough and long, cutting through broken terrain and fog.

When they finally reached the gates, Dante told Luca to stop.

“Stay here,” he said.

Rico looked confused. “Boss, this place has been abandoned for months. Why come back now?”

Dante opened the door without answering.

He stepped out into the cold air, his boots crunching against the gravel. The compound looked worse than he remembered — burnt walls, cracked windows, half the roof caved in. The smell of smoke still lingered, faint but sharp.

The gates hung crooked, swinging every time the wind blew.

He pushed one open and walked inside.

The once-bustling courtyard was empty now, just blackened stone and patches of overgrown grass. A few bullet holes marked the walls like faded reminders of what used to be.

Rico followed a few steps behind. “You sure it’s safe here?”

“No one’s coming back,” Dante said.

They entered what used to be the main hall. The chandelier had fallen, shattered glass scattered across the floor. Dante paused near it, his eyes tracing the broken pieces.

“I used to sit right there,” he murmured, pointing toward the far corner. “My father would stand over there by the piano. Said if I wanted to lead one day, I needed to learn how to listen before I spoke.”

Rico looked around awkwardly. “You miss him?”

Dante gave a faint shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I miss who I thought he was.”

They moved down the corridor, the air thick with dust. Dante stopped by a half-burnt doorway. Inside, part of an old painting still hung on the wall — his family portrait.

He stepped closer, brushing off the soot with his hand. It was faded but still visible — a younger Dante, Bianca behind him, Giulia and Geneva on either side.

Rico stood in the doorway. “You were just kids.”

“Yeah,” Dante said quietly. “Back when everything still looked simple.”

Rico hesitated before speaking again. “You think we’ll ever rebuild this place?”

Dante didn’t answer right away. He looked at the portrait again, at the smiles frozen in time. “Rebuild it into what?”

“The empire. The family name. Everything that got destroyed.”

Dante turned slightly, his tone sharp. “You think a new building makes it different? You think throwing up walls changes who we’ve become?”

Rico lowered his gaze. “No, boss. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

An uneasy silence filled the room. Rico shifted his weight, unsure what to say next.

After a long moment, Dante sighed. “You’ve been with me since the beginning, Rico. When my father died. When everything went to hell.”

Rico straightened. “Always will be, boss.”

“I know,” Dante said. “That’s why I’m telling you — if you ever want to walk away, I’ll understand.”

Rico frowned. “You kicking me out?”

“No.” Dante’s voice softened a little. “Just saying you don’t owe me your life. Not anymore.”

Rico nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. “Guess it’s too late for that.”

Dante gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Rico hesitated again, then finally said, “You need anything else? I can check the perimeter before we go.”

“Go ahead,” Dante said. “I’ll be here a while.”

Rico nodded and left, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.

Dante stood alone for a long time, just staring at the portrait. His hand trembled as he touched the edge of the frame. “You’d hate what I’ve become,” he whispered.

He turned toward a nearby table, one of the few pieces of furniture still standing. A half-burnt ledger sat on it. He flipped it open. Inside were old records — numbers, contacts, names. All ghosts now.

He poured himself a drink from the dusty bottle sitting on the shelf. The liquid burned down his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

The silence in the compound was so thick he could hear the faint hum of his own heartbeat.

When his phone buzzed, he almost ignored it. Then he saw the screen — an unknown number.

He frowned and swiped to open the message.

It was a photo.

At first, he didn’t understand what he was looking at. Then the image loaded fully. Isabella. She was sitting on a park bench, smiling faintly. A small boy sat beside her, maybe five or six. A man — unfamiliar, tall, dark-haired — stood behind them with a hand on her shoulder.

The caption below said nothing. Just the picture.

Dante’s chest tightened. “No,” he said under his breath. He zoomed in, studying every inch. The angle, the shadows, the way she was looking off-camera — none of it felt right.

Rico came back in just then. “Boss, the cars are—” He stopped when he saw Dante’s face. “What is it?”

Dante didn’t respond. He handed him the phone.

Rico stared at the picture. “Who the hell took this?”

Dante shook his head slowly. “They got to her.”

Rico’s eyes widened. “You think she’s—”

“I don’t know,” Dante cut in. His voice was hoarse. “Could be a trick. Could be real. I don’t know anymore.”

Rico hesitated. “Want me to track the number?”

“Already tried. It’s encrypted.”

Dante took the phone back, staring at the screen again. Isabella’s smile looked genuine — warm, natural. Too natural. It made his stomach twist.

Rico shifted beside him. “Boss, you can’t believe everything they send. The Consortium wants to mess with your head.”

Dante didn’t look up. “It’s working.”

He sat down heavily on the nearest chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “She looks happy,” he said softly. “She shouldn’t look happy.”

Rico frowned. “Maybe that’s not her.”

“It’s her,” Dante said, his voice breaking. “It’s her. I know that smile.”

Rico stepped back, unsure what to say. He’d seen Dante angry, violent, even broken before — but this was different. This was quiet. Hollow.

After a while, Dante spoke again, barely audible. “If they touched her… if they made her do this…”