Chapter 34 #3
We order dessert—tiramisu to share because Aurora admits she's too full for an entire serving but desperately wants to taste it. The waiter brings it with two forks and a knowing smile.
The walk back to the car is comfortable, Aurora's hand tucked into the crook of my arm while I guide her through the narrow streets. The night air is cool against skin warmed by wine and attraction, carrying the scent of the city at night.
I open her door, wait for her to settle, then circle to my side with rising anticipation.
The drive back to the Celestine Towers is quick, traffic light at this hour.
Aurora hums along to the music playing softly through the speakers, completely relaxed in ways I rarely see her.
We pull into the underground garage, and I park in the guest spot closest to the elevators.
"I left the leftovers in the car," I say as we walk toward the elevator. "The restaurant packed them up—there's enough risotto for lunch tomorrow. Let me get you settled in your suite, then I'll come back down and grab them."
Aurora nods, leaning against me slightly as the elevator rises. The exhaustion from the race, the wine, and the emotional intensity of the evening is clearly catching up with her.
I walk her to her door, wait while she unlocks it, press a kiss to her forehead before she disappears inside.
"I'll be right back," I promise.
Then I'm heading back down, ostensibly to get the leftovers but really to give her a few minutes to prepare for my return.
The underground garage is quiet, my footsteps echoing against concrete. I retrieve the takeout containers from the car, carefully balanced in one hand while I lock up with the other.
On my way back to the elevator, I pass the mailboxes—the old-fashioned kind with individual locked compartments for each resident.
Aurora's mailbox catches my eye.
There's something taped to the inside of the small glass window. A piece of paper, folded once, positioned so it's visible but wouldn't be noticed unless you were specifically looking.
My blood runs cold.
I set down the takeout containers and carefully extract my lockpick set from my pocket—tools I carry out of habit more than necessity, but useful in moments like this.
The mailbox lock is simple. Takes me maybe fifteen seconds to open it without damaging anything.
I pull out the note, unfolding it with careful fingers that don't quite hide the tremor of rage building in my chest.
The message is typed, printed on generic paper that could come from any office printer in the world:
"Nice dinner. Shame if the world knew whose money paid for that wine."
Someone was watching us. Followed us to the restaurant, knew we were at the Crimson Room specifically, and is now threatening to expose my family connections in ways that could damage both my reputation and Aurora's by association.
But more concerning is the method of delivery.
This note is inside Aurora's mailbox. In a secure building with key-access only. Which means either someone has her key, or they bribed building security to gain access to the mail room.
Either option suggests resources and planning that goes well beyond casual stalking.
I fold the note carefully, tucking it into my jacket pocket.
Then I leave the building through the side exit, emerging into the small courtyard area where residents sometimes smoke. The space is empty at this hour, just decorative lighting and a few scattered benches.
I pull out the note again, along with the silver lighter I carry despite having quit smoking years ago.
The paper catches easily, flames consuming the typed threat with satisfying efficiency. I watch it burn completely before crushing the ashes underfoot.
But I'm smiling while I do it.
Because whoever is behind this just made a critical mistake.
They revealed themselves—not completely, but enough to confirm they're actively watching. Close enough to track our movements in real-time. Confident enough to physically access Aurora's building to leave messages.
This is bait.
An invitation to a hidden war where the rules are unspoken but understood by anyone who operates in the shadows.
And they clearly don't know who they're dealing with.
The Bravati family doesn't just have resources. We have networks—generations of connections built on mutual benefit and carefully maintained fear. Information flows through channels most people don't know exist. Favors are called in that span continents and decades.
Whoever is watching us, threatening Aurora, trying to destabilize our pack and sabotage our racing?
They just invited me to play on territory where I have home field advantage.
I light another cigarette despite having quit—theatrical gesture more than actual desire—and blow smoke toward the security camera I know is hidden in the decorative sconce above the bench.
They should be watching.
Confirming that I'm not intimidated by vague threats and anonymous notes.
Come and fight, fire with fire. Child’s play by someone who isn’t afraid to use all odds against one who threatens what’s his.
Because this hidden war they've started?
The game of threats and sabotage and psychological warfare?
They're competing for the ultimate prize: Aurora.
And I'll burn their entire organization to ash before I let them have her.