The first sound had not been the echo of footsteps; it was the slamming of the doors to the villa bursting open. Isla stood up from her chair in the sitting room, and the book fell from her hands onto the floor, left behind. The shouts filled the air, coarse voices that pierced the night's quietness. The acrid scent of smoke clung to the men who tumbled in, their clothing blackened with sweat and dirt. Then she saw him.
Dante.
He was walking, but barely. His best was ripped down one side, the black material completely saturated with red. Blood was on his face, drying on his white complexion. For a moment, Isla thought he was not so much the untouchable man who was always in her head but rather a man reduced to his bare self.
