Chapter 18 - The Warning in the Mail
Back at the Duca estate, the afternoon mail had just been delivered to the front foyer.
Sal sorted through the stack of legal letters, medical journals, and philanthropic inquiries until his hand stopped on a plain, unlabelled manila envelope bearing no return address and a local Baltimore postmark. The paper felt unusually thick, sealed with heavy-duty wax.
Sal didn't open it. He immediately carried it upstairs to Lorenzo’s study, placing it squarely in the center of the mahogany desk.
"Boss, you need to see this," Sal said, his voice dropping into a sharp, alert register. "It came through the private courier drop ten minutes ago."
Lorenzo set down his pen, his eyes locking onto the envelope. He sliced through the wax seal with his pocket knife and tipped the contents onto the desk.
Out slid a single 8x10 glossy photograph and a typewritten note.
The photograph showed Lucas playing soccer in the side garden taken from a high-angle telescopic lens—complete with a bright red crosshair digitally superimposed directly over the boy’s chest.
Lorenzo’s blood turned instantly to ice. The grief and exhaustion of three years ago flickered briefly in his mind, only to be instantly consumed by a nuclear rage so hot and terrifying that the air in the room seemed to warp.
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He read the typewritten note: “You can dismantle the ports, Duca. You can buy the hospitals and play the philanthropist. But blood always calls for blood. Your son’s life was spared once by a toddler’s nose. Let’s see if he survives what’s coming next.”
Signed: Viktor.
