Chapter 17 – Isolde
Grief claws at me—raw, relentless—a tide of sorrow flooding my chest, stealing my voice as I step closer, boots sloshing through puddles of blood.
Cassian’s dying—has been since the fight, since those bullets ripped through him, and I feel it—a loss I didn’t expect to cut so deep, a man I barely knew but who fought for us, for Azrael, for me.
Azrael’s beside him—kneeling, his black jacket torn, gray eyes fierce but shadowed with pain—his hands pressing Cassian’s chest, blood seeping through his fingers, soaking his sleeves.
Cassian’s hand—weak, trembling—grips Azrael’s wrist, blood slick between his fingers, and he coughs—red flecking his lips—a faint, grim smile flickering before his eyes flutter shut, then open again, fighting to focus.
“Az…” he rasps—voice wet, fading, barely a whisper—his breath hitching, a gurgle in his throat.
“You—did it—Leone’s… gone… but you’ve… got to go—before… another rises…”
“No,” Azrael chokes—voice thick, raw—leaning closer, his forehead pressing to Cassian’s, rain dripping from his hair onto his friend’s blood-streaked face. “You’re not dying—you’re not fucking leaving me—hold on, we’ll get you out, fix this—”
Cassian’s smile fades—his hand slipping, falling limp to his side—and his eyes—hazel, clouded—lock on Azrael’s, fierce despite the fade.
“Leave… Az… take her—run… before it’s… too late…
” His breath catches—a wet, shuddering gasp—and then stops, his chest stilling, his head lolling against the crate, hazel eyes staring blank, lifeless, the light gone.
A sound tears from Azrael—low, guttural, a howl of pain and rage—and he slams his fist into the crate, wood splintering under the blow, blood and rain mixing as he grips Cassian’s shoulder, shaking him once, hard, as if he can pull him back.
“No—fuck, no—Cassian!” His voice breaks—shattering, raw—and I drop beside him, my hands on his back, steady despite the tremor in my fingers, grief surging through me—a wave crashing over the joy we’d grasped at dawn, drowning it in sorrow so deep it steals my breath.
“Azrael,” I whisper—voice cracking—my hand sliding to his neck, gripping tight, feeling his pulse race beneath my fingers, rain soaking us both as I pull him back, his head turning to me, gray eyes wild, shattered. “He’s gone—he fought for us, gave us this—but he’s right—we’ve got to go.”
He stares—unseeing for a moment—then nods—slow, heavy—his hand finding mine, gripping hard, blood and rain binding us as he pulls me close, his breath ragged against my hair.
“Cassian—fuck—he was my brother—he told me to run—save you—but this—” His voice breaks again—sorrow thick, raw—gesturing at the hall, the bodies, Cassian’s lifeless form, Marcella’s quiet sobs beside him.
“This is all I’ve known—war, blood—how do I leave him? ”
Marcella looks up—eyes red, fierce despite the tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face—her voice low, trembling. “He’s right, Azrael—Isolde—go. Another’ll rise—someone always does. Cassian—he’d want you out, safe, not bleeding for this.”
I nod—grief a cold fist in my chest—my hand tightening on Azrael’s, the sorrow shifting, resolve hardening beneath it as I meet his gaze. “He’s gone—but we’re not. We’ve got to move—honor him, live for him—but we can’t stay. The world we knew—it’s ashes, Azrael—Cassian saw it.”
Marcella rises—slow, unsteady—her hands trembling as she wipes Cassian’s blood onto her torn dress, her voice low, fierce through the tears. “You’ve got to go—now, before they come—Leonardo, Emilio, whoever’s next. Stage it—make them think you’re dead—vanish.”
Azrael’s head snaps up—gray eyes blazing, grief turning to resolve—and he nods—slow, fierce—his hand tightening on mine, pulling me closer.
“Stage it,” he mutters—voice rough, thick—his gaze flicking to Cassian, then back to me, love surging through the sorrow, a fire reigniting in his chest. “We die here—on paper—then run—together. No more ashes, no more war—just us.”
I nod—resolve hardening beneath my grief—my hand gripping his, love a lifeline pulling me through the pain, the sorrow for Cassian, for my past, for everything I’ve lost. “Together,” I whisper—voice steady despite the tremor in my chest—turning to Marcella, her eyes fierce, steady. “How—how do we do it?”
She steps forward—quick, decisive—her voice low, urgent as she gestures at the hall.
“Fire—burn it. Bodies everywhere—Leone’s, Cassian’s, theirs—add yours.
Car’s outside—My man rigged it—blow it, leave traces—hair, blood, something—they’ll think you’re gone.
I’ll spread it—say I saw you fall—give you cover to vanish. ”
Azrael’s hand slides to my neck—steady despite the chaos—and he nods—fierce, resolute. “Do it—burn it all—Cassian’d want it—send him off right. We disappear—leave this fucking world behind.”
Marcella moves—fast—grabbing a canister of fuel from a dead guard’s pack, splashing it over the crates, the bodies, the blood—soaked floor—the sharp stink of gasoline cutting through the damp rot.
I step to Cassian—kneeling, my hand touching and feeling his cold cheek, grief surging again, a sob catching in my throat as I whisper, “I’m sorry—thank you—for everything.
” Azrael’s beside me—silent, fierce—his hand pulling a strand of my hair, tucking it into Cassian’s coat, then ripping a piece of his own sleeve—blood-stained—leaving it beside him, traces for the lie.
“Matches,” I say—voice low, trembling—pulling a pack from my pocket, striking one—flame flaring bright—and tossing it into the fuel.
Fire erupts—hot, fierce—roaring up the crates, licking the bodies, Cassian’s form swallowed in orange and black as smoke billows thick, stinging my eyes, grief turning to resolve as I stand, pulling Azrael with me.
Marcella’s man—Tommaso—limps out, tossing a grenade at the car outside—a deafening boom, metal twisting, flames leaping high—and I nod at her, love and sorrow warring as I grip Azrael’s hand.
“Go—now,” she says—voice fierce, steady—her eyes meeting mine, a silent vow as she steps back, ready to spread the lie. “I’ll handle it—say you’re dead—give you time. Don’t look back.”
We move—fast, low—boots splashing through puddles, smoke choking the air as we slip out a side door, the villa blazing behind us, flames roaring high, swallowing Cassian, Leone, the war’s wreckage in a pyre of our past.
The outskirts stretch ahead—gray, silent—rain clearing, the sky opening to a cold, pale light as we sprint to a stolen bike hidden in the scrub, Azrael mounting it, me behind—arms wrapping his waist, love a fierce pulse beneath the sorrow as he guns the engine, tires spinning in the mud before catching, lurching us forward.
The road blurs—rain-soaked fields, skeletal trees whipping past—my chest tight, grief for Cassian, for my family, for the D’Angelo I was, surging raw and relentless, tears stinging my eyes, lost in the wind.
“He’s gone,” I say—voice breaking—against Azrael’s back, my hands gripping his jacket, feeling his heat, his strength through the fabric.
“My past—Father, Leonardo, everything—it’s ashes—I can’t go back. ”
“I know,” he says—voice rough, steady—over the engine’s growl, his hand finding mine, squeezing hard, love cutting through his sorrow, grounding us both. “Cassian—fuck—he’s gone—but he told me to run—save you—I can’t go back either—Emilio’s world, the Varelas—it’s dead. We’re free—together.”
The bike slows, pulling off into a shadowed grove near the road’s edge.
The gray day fades toward dusk, the silence heavy as he kills the engine and turns to me, gray eyes fierce, shadowed with pain, love, and indecision.
“We’ve staged it—dead to them—but now what?
” he asks—voice low, raw—his hand gripping mine, rain-damp fingers warm against my cold skin.
“Run—where? How? Cassian’s dead—Marcella’s covering—but another’ll rise—always does—we’ve got to vanish, Isolde—but I don’t know where. ”
I lean into him—chest to chest—my forehead pressing to his. “I don’t either—everything I was—D’Angelo, the past—it’s gone—I grieve it, Azrael—but I can’t go back—only forward—with you. We run—north, south, anywhere—just us—but we’ve got to decide—fast—before they realize, before they hunt again.”
He nods slowly, heavily, his hand sliding to my face, thumb brushing my cheek, wiping away rain and tears as sorrow and love war in his gaze.
“Together,” he whispers—voice thick—indecision a weight we share, the villa’s smoke a distant plume behind us, Cassian’s death a scar, our staged end a fragile hope.
“We’ve got to run—leave it—but fuck—I don’t know—north, maybe—somewhere cold—quiet—but we’ve got minutes—hours—before they come. ”
I nod—knowing we must, fast, but not yet choosing, the road stretching silent, open, a question we’ll answer together, or not at all.