The courier flinches when he sees me—a young man, early twenties maybe, wearing what looks like a standard delivery uniform but without any company logo. His eyes dart nervously, taking in my size, my expression, the tattoos visible on my forearms where I’ve rolled up my sleeves.
“Mr. Russo?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.
“Who’s asking?” I respond coldly.
He swallows visibly. “I have a delivery for you, sir.” He lifts a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper, about the size of a large book. “A wedding gift.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know, sir. I just got the call to pick it up and deliver it by midnight. Paid in cash.”
I study his face, looking for signs of deception. His fear seems genuine enough—the slight tremble in his hands, the sweat beading at his temples despite the cool March night.
“Where did you pick it up?”
“A drop box location downtown. Instructions were to deliver it to this address by midnight, no signature required.”
I reach for the package, and he practically shoves it into my hands, clearly eager to complete the transaction and leave.
“You can go,” I tell him, and the relief on his face is palpable.
I watch as he practically runs back to his car, turning only when the sedan disappears down the driveway. The package feels heavy in my hands, substantial but not excessive. I examine it carefully—no markings, no return address, just sturdy brown paper secured with tape.
With cautious steps, I return to the library, my sanctuary violated by this unexpected intrusion. I place the package on the desk.
I stare at the package for a full minute, mapping each fold in the brown paper, each strip of tape, searching for anything suspicious. My instincts scream that nothing good comes at midnight in unmarked boxes.
With precise movements, I use a letter opener from my desk to slice through the tape, carefully peeling back the paper to reveal a black lacquered box that makes my blood run cold. I know this box—or rather, I know the collection it comes from.
The black lacquer gleams in the firelight, perfectly polished and unblemished. Heavy. Expensive. The kind of luxury that doesn’t announce itself but is recognized instantly by those who matter. Andrea Russo’s signature taste.
I run my fingers along the edge, feeling for any irregularities, any sign of tampering. Finding none, I lift the lid slowly, half-expecting something more volatile than cigars. But there they are—eight perfectly rolled cigars nestled in individual grooves, the finest tobacco money can buy.
The brands alone would tell me they came from my dad’s private stock—rare vintages, aged precisely to his exactingstandards. But it’s not the cigars themselves that confirm it. It’s the labels.
Each cigar bears not the traditional brand marking, but a custom label—black with gold lettering that reads “March 26th” in elegant script. My wedding date.
A date my dad shouldnotknow.
I lift one cigar from its groove, examining it more closely. The craftsmanship is impeccable—of course it is. Andrea Russo accepts nothing less than perfection, especially when sending a message. And this is definitely a message.
A small card tucked into the lid catches my eye. I extract it with careful fingers, recognizing the heavy stock my dad favors for his personal correspondence. The message is short, written in his distinctive hand.
Congratulations on your wedding day, son!
Six words. Simple. Direct. Terrifying in their implications. Snarling, I slam the cigar box shut with enough force to rattle the crystal tumblers on the side table.
My dad knows.
The man who lives an ocean away somehow knows I’m getting married tomorrow. Knows the exact date. Knows enough to send a delivery that would arrive at precisely midnight, the symbolic start of my wedding day.
This isn’t a gift. It’s a statement. A reminder that nothing escapes his notice, not even across continents. That my business remains his business. That Alina…
My thoughts screech to a halt.Alina.If he knows about the wedding, what else does he know about her?
I grab my phone, dialing the security gate again.
“Weston,” the guard answers immediately.
