But we’re healing.
Slowly, carefully, we’re building something real from the ashes of our past.
Two months after Lorenzo’s death, I finalize the sale of my last Bratva holding.
The money goes into a trust for our child, untouchable and clean.
Tony and Miranda have been our biggest supporters, though Marco has still helped even if he preferred we didn’t go legitimate.
That night, Sophia and I celebrate with champagne for me and sparkling cider for her, toasting to new beginnings.
“To us,” she says, raising her glass. “To our family. To the future.”
“To the future,” I echo, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.
We’re in the middle of dinner when the doorbell rings. I frown since we aren’t expecting anyone, and no one from security announced a presence.
Sophia’s hand finds mine across the table, her eyes wide with sudden fear.
“It’s probably nothing,” I tell her, but I’m already standing, already moving toward the door with the caution that years in the Bratva have ingrained in me.
I check with security first. It’s rare someone makes it to the doorbell without someone being alerted first, but I have reduced the number on hand as we moved to legitimate.
The porch is empty except for a package sitting on the doormat.
No delivery person, no signature required.
Just a plain brown box with no return address.
Every instinct I have screams danger.
I open the door carefully, scanning the estate grounds.
Two guards make their rounds in the distance.
Another appears at my shoulder, apologizing and inspecting the package.
He picks it up carefully, and after a deep inspection he hands it to me.
It’s light, almost empty.
I carry it inside and set it on the kitchen counter, Sophia hovering behind me.
“Should we call the police?” she asks.
“And tell them what? That we’re paranoid?” But my hands are steady as I cut through the tape and open the box.
Inside is a stack of photographs and a note.
The first shows Lorenzo’s grave—a simple headstone in a cemetery I recognize on the outskirts of the city.
Someone has placed fresh flowers on it. Red roses, the color of blood.
The rest are pictures of us, taken secretly as we go about our lives.
The note is typed, impersonal, but the message is clear.
Payback’s a bitch.
