The air reeked of smoke long before the cars hit the street. The fire blazed towards the sky in mad arcs of orange and red, making the buildings seem foreboding. Shrieks filled the air, muted by the ear-splitting roar of fire eating at stone and wood. The safehouse, a very old and reliable institution owned by Dante, was disintegrating before their eyes.
Isla sat up straight in the back seat, her hand on the window as they rounded the corner. What she witnessed hit her with impact. Men were darting around like crazed silhouettes, boxes in their arms, yelling commands, fighting to rescue what they couldn't rescue. The building was going to be destroyed.
Dante was out of the car before it had stopped. His men trailed after him in a rush, but he marched straight for the fire, his fury marking each step. The flames seemed to burn in his eyes, making them look like molten metal and without pity.
"Who permitted this?" His voice sliced through the chaos, as sharp as a blade.
