Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety-Four– Exile
Isabella sank onto the nearest step, exhausted. “We can’t keep doing this.”
Dante sat beside her. “I know.”
She looked at him. “Then what now?”
He looked around the ruined hall — the scorched portraits, the fallen debris. “We leave.”
“Leave?”
“There’s nothing left to defend,” he said quietly. “They’ll be back, and next time, they’ll bring more.”
She stared at him, trying to process it. “So that’s it?”
“For now.”
She nodded slowly. “Then we take what’s left and go.”
He reached for her hand. “We’ll rebuild somewhere else.”
She squeezed his hand tightly. “As long as we do it together.”
He gave a small nod. “Always.”
Outside, the fire spread across the west wall, lighting up the night sky.
Dante stood, pulling her up beside him. “Tell everyone to pack what they can carry. We leave before dawn.”
Isabella didn’t argue. She just looked back one last time at the home that had held their entire world.
The walls that had once been filled with laughter and family were now cracked and burning.
She turned away, her voice low. “Let’s go.”
As they walked through the wreckage, Dante’s radio crackled to life. A message from one of their scouts came through, static breaking every other word.
“They’re regrouping… and there’s a new order out… Dante Deluca… dead or alive.”
Dante’s hand tightened around the radio. He met Isabella’s eyes.
“So it begins,” he said quietly.
And outside, the flames kept rising.
The safehouse was small, cold, and smelled faintly of damp concrete. Isabella stood near the window, watching the flicker of headlights from the street below. She pulled the curtain shut when one car slowed too long.
Behind her, Dante paced across the narrow room, his jacket half-off, boots still on. His movements were restless, sharp.
“They know we’re out here,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter how far we run. Someone’s always watching.”
Isabella didn’t answer right away. She sat on the edge of the bed, tying her hair back. “You’ve said that three times in the last hour.”
He turned, annoyed. “Because it’s true.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
He stopped moving and rubbed his face. “You think I like this? Hiding like a rat while they burn everything we built?”
“You think I like it either?” She looked up at him. “We barely slept in two days, Dante. You’re not helping by tearing the floor apart.”
He exhaled, pacing again. “We should’ve stayed and fought.”
“With what men? Half of them are gone, the rest are either dead or missing.”
He didn’t respond. His jaw worked, tight and angry.
Isabella stood and walked over to him. “You can keep blaming yourself, but it won’t change what happened.”
“I’m not blaming myself,” he snapped. “I’m blaming them.”
“Really? Because you’ve been talking to yourself all night.”
Dante glared at her, but she didn’t flinch.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like you still believe I can fix this.”
She shrugged. “Because I do.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “I used to be the one in control. Now I don’t even know if we’ll make it through tomorrow.”
“Then we take it one day at a time,” she said simply.
He shook his head. “That’s not how I operate.”
“Maybe it’s time you learn.”
There was a short silence. The old refrigerator buzzed in the corner. A pipe somewhere dripped steadily.
Isabella went to the small kitchenette, opening a cabinet. There wasn’t much — canned soup, water bottles, a half-empty bag of chips.
She grabbed two cans and a pot. “I’m making something. You can either sulk or help.”
Dante frowned. “We don’t have time to—”
“Sit down.”
He stared at her, clearly ready to argue, but something in her tone made him drop onto the nearest chair.
She heated the soup over the small gas burner. The smell filled the cramped space, and for the first time in hours, the silence wasn’t tense.
When she set the bowl in front of him, he didn’t say thank you, but he ate.
“You know,” she said after a while, “you’re still you. Even without the compound. Without the soldiers. Without the name.”
Dante looked up from his food. “You think that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to remind you that the throne doesn’t make you who you are. You do.”
He stared at her for a moment, spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he dropped it and leaned back. “You really believe that?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He looked away, shaking his head. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that.” She smirked. “And yet here I am, making you soup in a basement.”
That made him huff a small, reluctant laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Good. You need someone who doesn’t scare easy.”
He gave a quiet grunt and stared at the table. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But right now, it’s what we have.”
He didn’t answer, just stared at the flickering light bulb above them.
A knock echoed suddenly from the back door. Both of them froze.
Dante stood first, grabbing his gun. “Stay behind me.”
“I’m not staying anywhere,” Isabella said, already reaching for hers.
The knock came again — three short taps, then silence.
“That’s one of ours,” she whispered.
“Maybe,” he muttered, moving toward the door.
He looked through the small peephole. It was Marco’s driver, hands raised. Dante opened the door a few inches, gun still raised.
“Message,” the man said quickly. “Dropped at one of our old safe points. No one else saw.”
Dante snatched the small envelope and closed the door in his face. The driver left without another word.
“What is it?” Isabella asked.
“Let’s see.”
He tore it open and pulled out a single photo. For a second, he just stared at it. His hand trembled slightly, though his face stayed blank.
Isabella stepped closer. “What is it?”