Angel's Sanctuary

Far from the destruction Dante had left behind, Isabella was at home, blissfully unaware of the hell Dante was unleashing in Milan. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the house, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. Isabella sat at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of water, her legs crossed under her in a relaxed position.

Despite the terror of that night still lingering in her mind, her body had begun to heal. The cuts on her hands and feet were healing quickly, and her bruises had faded into a dull yellow, no longer as painful as they had been. But more than the physical healing, it was the emotional peace that surrounded her now that comforted her. She was home. Safe.

Isabella hummed softly to herself as she picked up a book from the table, flipping through the pages as if the world outside her home didn't exist. She was still shaken from the ordeal, but with Dante's presence, everything felt more bearable. Her thoughts occasionally flickered to the horrors she had endured, but she pushed them away, focusing instead on the warmth of the home around her.

As Isabella sat, blissfully innocent in her little sanctuary, Dante's wrath continued to ripple through the city. He was not just a man; he was a force of nature, a storm that broke anyone in its path. The contrast between the man who rained hell on his enemies and the one who cherished his wife was vast, yet unmistakably present.

Dante returned home hours later, his movements deliberate and controlled, as if nothing had changed. His clothes were clean, as not to scare her, his face expressionless. But when he walked into the house, his steps softened, his expression darkening slightly as he searched for Isabella. He found her in the kitchen, looking unbothered, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, a serene smile playing at her lips.

Isabella looked up at him, her playful demeanor unchanged. "Dante, look what I found! You can't tell me not to eat this," she said, holding up the pastry in triumph.

Dante's eyes softened, but only for a moment. His jaw clenched, but his lips curved upward ever so slightly. "You're going to spoil your appetite" he murmured, walking over to her and gently taking the pastry from her hands. "But I suppose one won't hurt."

She beamed at him, unaware of the storm that had just passed.

As Dante stood there, his hand resting on her shoulder, he couldn't help but feel a fleeting moment of peace. The violence he had unleashed in Milan seemed so distant here, in this haven he had built for them. For Isabella, he would do anything, no matter how far he had to descend into hell.

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The sun had barely risen when Isabella heard the news. The faintest whisper of it reached her ears as she sipped her coffee, the warmth of the mug offering her a strange sense of comfort. The voice on the television spoke casually about the discovery of a body, found in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Milan. The police were still investigating, but the reports were already painting a grim picture.

A man had been tortured. His body broken, almost unrecognizable. There were no signs of struggle, only a trail of blood that led to an unfortunate, inevitable conclusion.

Marco Romano had been found.

Isabella's hand trembled slightly as she set the cup down on the table. The numbness hit her instantly, like a tidal wave of cold that spread through her body. She didn't even need to look at Dante to know what had happened. There was no question. She had felt it in the air the moment he had left the house the previous day. The ominous heaviness that followed him was now a silent truth that hung over their home.

She had known he would do this. She had known Marco's fate was sealed the moment Dante set his mind to it. He would never let anyone harm what was his, and Marco's life had been a price he was willing to pay.

Isabella didn't cry out. She didn't scream in horror. She simply sat there, her eyes fixed on the television as the details of Marco's death played out, her chest feeling hollow as the gravity of the situation sank deeper into her heart.

Dante appeared in the doorway, his figure a silhouette against the bright morning light. Without a word, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her. His embrace was solid, steady, grounding her in the midst of the chaos that had unfolded. His warmth seeped into her skin, but it couldn't chase away the cold that had settled deep within her.

She leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest as the silence stretched on. Dante's grip tightened around her, a wordless understanding passing between them. He didn't need to ask if she was okay—he knew she wasn't. He just held her, offering what little comfort he could.

The tears came slowly at first, trickling down her face, warm against his shirt. She didn't sob. She didn't wail in anguish. The tears were soft, almost apologetic, as though they were meant for something else—something that she couldn't quite put into words.

Eventually, she pulled back, her eyes red but steady as she looked up at him. "Is it bad... that I don't feel sad?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was no malice in her words, just confusion and a strange emptiness that seemed to consume her. "I don't feel sorry for him. I know he was a monster, but... should I feel something?"

Dante studied her face, his expression unreadable for a moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the vulnerability in her voice. He knew that she wasn't asking for permission, but rather seeking something she didn't know she needed—a reason, maybe, to reconcile the person she was with the person she'd had to become because of the violence that surrounded her.

"No" he said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His hand lingered on her cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. "You don't have to feel sorry for him. He made his choices. And those choices led to his end. But you, you are not like him, Isabella. You never will be."

She closed her eyes, taking in his words. It was true—she had never wanted harm to come to anyone. But Marco had crossed a line, and he had taken things too far. And now, he was gone. It was a finality she had never truly considered before. A life snuffed out, not with a bullet or a blade, but through a slow, painful reckoning.

Dante continued, his voice low and soothing. "You've been through enough. I've put you through enough. But you don't have to carry this weight. Let me carry it for you. All of it."

Isabella nodded silently, her body relaxing in his arms as his words wrapped around her like a warm blanket. He was right. She didn't have to feel guilt. She had done nothing wrong. She had survived. And that was something she could hold onto.

Dante kissed the top of her head, holding her for a moment longer. "I will never make you feel like you're the one who has to bear this kind of pain, Isabella. I will protect you from it, even if I have to become the monster to do so. You are my light. Don't let the darkness touch you."

She finally allowed herself to let go, letting the tears fall freely now. She wasn't sure if they were tears of relief, of sorrow, or simply the aftermath of everything that had happened. But in this moment, with Dante by her side, she allowed herself to grieve, not for Marco, but for the woman she was forced to become.

And as the tears fell, Dante remained with her, his presence a fortress around her fragile soul.