The safe house was a small apartment above a bakery. The smell of bread came up from below. It mixed with the smell of gunpowder on their clothes. Isabella found it oddly comforting. This mix of violence and normal life seemed to define her new world.
"No one knows about this place," Matteo said. He unlocked the door as his fingers shook a little. Isabella couldn't tell if it was from blood loss or fear.
"You're sure?" Isabella asked.
"I'm sure," he said. But his voice didn't sound as certain as his words.
Inside, the apartment was basic. There was a bed with old floral sheets. A wooden table with scratches and marks. Two chairs that didn't match. A small kitchen with old appliances. Dust floated in the weak light that came through yellow curtains.
"It's not much," Matteo said as he leaned heavily against the door frame.
"It's perfect," Isabella said. She meant it. After the warehouse, after the chase, after watching cars explode and men die, this simple space felt safe.
