Chapter Twenty-Four The Envelope
The peace lasted eleven days.
It ended with a plain manila envelope, delivered not to the house but to Dante's office downtown, addressed to Elena by name in handwriting neither of them recognized.
Marco brought it home himself rather than risk it, his face grim in a way that made Elena's stomach drop before she'd even opened it.
Inside was a single photograph: Elena, from three weeks ago, walking through the garden at Larkspur Row — a private moment, taken from beyond the estate's supposedly impenetrable walls. Scrawled across the back, in the same unfamiliar hand: Everyone has a price. Even a fortress.
"Someone's been on my property." Dante's voice had gone dangerously quiet, the particular stillness Elena had learned to fear more than shouting.
"Someone got close enough to photograph my wife in her own garden, and my security didn't see them.
" He turned the photograph over in his hands, studying every detail with the focus of a man memorizing an enemy's face.
"This isn't the Calvettis' style. Salvatore likes theater — lilies, ribbons, grand gestures meant to be noticed.
This is quieter. This is someone who wants me to know they can reach you without me ever seeing them do it. "
"Then who?"
"I don't know yet." He set the photograph down, and when he looked at her, the fear beneath his fury was unmistakable now, no longer hidden at all. "But I intend to find out before they get any closer than a camera lens, Elena. I swear to you, on my mother's name, I will find whoever did this."
Elena stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist, feeling the tension coiled through every muscle in his body. "We'll find them," she said. "Together. I'm not something you protect from a distance anymore, Dante. Whatever this is — I'm in it with you."
He pressed his lips to her hair, holding her like something he was terrified of losing, and outside the walls of Larkspur Row, unseen and unnamed, someone continued to watch.