CHAPTER TEN
Three Weeks
The envelope was on her windshield when she came out of Romano's shop at six fifteen.
No name. No stamp. Just plain white tucked under her wiper blade like it had always been there waiting for her to find it.
She looked at it for a moment.
Looked around the street. Evening traffic. A woman walking a dog. A delivery scooter turning the corner. Nobody watching. Nobody she could see.
She picked it up.
Inside was a single photograph.
Her.
Coming out of Dante's building three nights ago. Leather jacket. Silver buckle boots. Looking straight ahead completely unaware that anyone was watching.
On the back — four words in neat precise handwriting.
We know who visits.
She got in her car. Locked the doors. Called Dante.
He picked up on the second ring.
Someone is
