The large house remained charged long after the distant echoes of shots had died away. Isla walked down the lengthy corridors, the only noise the sound of her own feet; she was thinking clearly, but her chest was still constricted from last night on the roof. Dante had shown her what it meant to survive, but she was stronger because of it. She was lonelier and more resilient.
It was the feeling of loneliness that ate away at him.
She entered the spacious room to discover that he was already present. He was not reclining in the leather armchair where he preferred to sit late at night. He was by the big windows, cigar clenched between his fingers, smoke drifting from it, his wide shoulders braced, his very presence making the room feel like a storm about to break.
"You're late," he snarled without moving, his voice brief and commanding.
Isla crossed her arms. "I didn't know I was to be here."
