Chapter 13 - The Knock at the Door
The morning peace was shattered shortly after noon by a sharp, rhythmic pounding on the heavy oak front door of the estate.
Elena paused, a half-unwrapped gift in her hand, her eyes darting toward the entryway. In her world before Dante, a knock like that never meant anything good—it meant landlords demanding overdue rent, or worse, debt collectors with heavy fists.
Dante rose from the floor instantly, his movements dropping all pretense of casual relaxation. The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced in a fraction of a second by the cold, calculating glare of a predator whose territory had been breached. He instinctively stepped backward, placing himself physically between the front hallway and the living room where Sophie was busy playing with her new paints.
"Stay here," Dante commanded in a low, absolute tone that brooked no argument.
He strode down the short corridor, his heavy boots clicking sharply against the floor. He didn't bother looking through the peephole; he simply unlatched the heavy deadbolts, turned the brass handle, and pulled the door open wide.
There was no one standing on the porch.
Instead, resting squarely on the Welcome mat was a heavy, square package wrapped in plain brown butcher paper and tied with coarse hemp twine. Sticking out from beneath the twine was a small, cream-colored envelope bearing no return address—only Dante’s name written in elegant, old-fashioned cursive.
Dante didn’t reach for it immediately. His gaze swept the snowy street, scanning the parked vehicles, the distant pedestrians, and the iron fence lines. Half a block away, a black sedan was pulling away from the curb, blending seamlessly into the holiday traffic.
Slowly, cautiously, Dante bent down and picked up the package. It had weight to it—cold, heavy, and dense. He slipped the envelope free from the twine, broke the wax seal with his thumb, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy cardstock.
Printed on the paper was a single black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of Elena and Sophie walking out of the local bakery just two days prior, completely unaware of the camera lens zoomed in on them. Below the photograph, a short message had been typed out on an old typewriter:
*A king cannot build a castle on shifting sand, Moretti. You left loose ends in the North End. Time to settle the ledger, or watch them pay the interest.*
Dante’s fingers tightened around the paper until the heavy cardstock crunched and tore beneath his grip. A cold, suffocating fury—darker and more lethal than anything he had felt in years—surged through his veins. He had thought the syndicates of the old guard respected the unwritten truce. He had thought his retirement from active enforcement was absolute.
He was wrong.
"Dante?" Elena’s voice floated softly from the hallway. She had stepped out of the living room, her expression instantly shifting from festive joy to deep alarm as she saw the dark, terrifying expression carved into his face. "Who was at the door? What is that?"
May you like
Dante slammed the heavy oak door shut, throwing the deadbolts with a deafening click. He turned around, desperately trying to soften the jagged edges of his fury before she could see the full extent of the danger, but it was too late. She had already seen the paper in his hand.
***
