Page 18 of Code Name: Dante

7

DANTE

The drive to Canada Lake felt longer than it should have, each mile marked by the weight of things unsaid. From the corner of my eye, I watched Lark stare out the window, her face reflected against the passing landscape. The flooding of her shop had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. I recognized the look in her eyes—the same one I’d seen in the mirror countless times when I felt as though everything I held dear was being stripped away piece by piece.

“All those records, the history…” she said from the passenger seat as though she was having a conversation with herself while I drove.

“I’ve got people working on it,” I assured her, though I knew if the safe wasn’t waterproof, the damage would be extensive. Water and paper were natural enemies. “As soon as the utility company gives the all clear, we’ll salvage what we can.”

She nodded but didn’t respond. Her family had already lost so much to mine. Now, here we were again, generations later, and once more, a Castellano was at the center of her world falling apart. The similarities weren’t lost on me.

It seemed that, from his jail cell, Vincent’s shadow still loomed over everything. It was almost like he continued running the family, orchestrating events from behind bars. Was this his way of getting revenge—not by coming after me directly, but by targeting someone he’d already figured out meant something to me? The thought made my jaw clench. My brother had always known exactly where to strike to cause the most damage. He’d proven that when our mother disappeared and he refused to tell me where she was.

My phone buzzed with an update from the team still at her house. Mrs. Gregory was safely in the second vehicle, her clothes packed, and all medications accounted for. At least something was going right.

“You should have told me about the letters sooner,” I said quietly, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

She lifted her chin slightly. “Why would I have? Because I danced with you at a wedding?” She shook her head. “Look, I know we need, err, help. After what happened…” She paused, collecting herself. “The coffee shop has been my responsibility since I returned to live in Gloversville.”

“I understand that, but?—”

“Let me finish,” she said, her voice steady and proud. “I’m not being stubborn about accepting assistance. Not anymore. But I need you to understand that my grandmother witnessed her parents having to start over. They lost everything—their entire livelihood. The people who worked for them lost everything too. Somehow, they survived. Like them, we’ll pull through. But not as victims who need someone else to fix it for us. We’re not helpless.”

The quiet strength in her voice struck me. She wasn’t refusing help out of spite or fear; she was establishing boundaries, making it clear that accepting protection didn’t mean surrendering her dignity.

I focused on the road ahead, letting her words settle between us. She was right, of course. Leaning on me required trust that would have to be earned, and here I was, about to leave for New York City just when she and her grandmother were most vulnerable.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself to breathe slowly. Every instinct screamed at me to take control, to orchestrate a plan to keep her safe. But that path led exactly where she feared—to becoming what I’d spent years fighting against, feeling as though I was somehow entitled to manipulate the lives of others.

“What would that look like?” I finally asked. “Helping you instead of trying to take control?”

She was quiet for a long moment, and I wondered if I’d somehow made things worse. Then she shifted forward slightly in her seat. “It would start with you telling me the truth. About the severity of the threats, what I’m really facing, and why you’re so convinced my grandmother and I are in danger.”

“Some of that information could put you at greater risk.”

“I’m already there, Alessandro,” she pointed out. “I want to know what I’m up against.”

She had a point, even if admitting it felt like swallowing broken glass. “Okay,” I said finally. “But this goes both ways. No more hiding letters or pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t.”

“Let’s start with you telling me exactly what you think is going on with the coffee shop.”

I checked the rearview mirror again, this time out of habit rather than immediate concern. Other than our own caravan following behind us, the road remained clear as we wound through increasingly dense forest. “Someone’s sending a message I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you know what it means?”

“If you’re referring to the part that says, ‘We know what happened that night,’ I do not.”

“What about your grandmother?”

“I haven’t asked.”

I nodded, biting my tongue against asking why she hadn’t when that seemed to be the most logical thing to do. “The flood sent a message of its own.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone is making it clear they can get to you whenever they want.” I scrubbed my face, wondering if this was Vincent’s doing. Was he creating a smokescreen to confuse me? Sending us down a rabbit hole when what we should be doing was focusing every effort on making sure every charge against him stuck.

“It could be my brother’s doing.”

“Do you really think he has something to do with the letters and our basement flooding?”

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