Page 28 of Code Name: Dante

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We received another message.”

10

LARK

The morning light filtering through the coffee shop’s windows couldn’t quite dispel the lingering smell of flood damage. Even after the cleanup crews had worked through the night, something felt unsettled—like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next blow.

“The espresso machine’s acting up again,” Gram called from behind the counter. She’d insisted on opening as usual, refusing to let anyone—especially not the Castellanos—dictate how we ran our business. It didn’t go unnoticed that her hands trembled as she worked the temperamental equipment, her usual, confident movements turning hesitant.

“Let me help.” I went to take over, trying not to notice the unmarked SUV parked across the street or how Tank had positioned himself near the front windows, his attention divided between the world outside and the few early morning customers who’d braved the security presence to get their usual orders.

“I’m not completely helpless,” Gram protested like I’d heard her do with Tank and some of the other guys, but she stepped aside anyway. Her cane tapped against the floor as she made her way to the register. “Though I must say, having all these handsome, young men around isn’t terrible for business.”

I snorted, remembering how she’d charmed the entire security team over breakfast, telling stories about Gloversville’s glory days while serving them coffee perfectly prepared to each one’s preferences. Even Grit, who’d initially seemed wary of the soft-boiled eggs and marinated herring Gram made everyone for breakfast, appeared to have warmed up to it.

“Speaking of handsome, young men,” she continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Have you heard from Alessandro?”

“Gram.” I focused on the espresso machine, hoping she wouldn’t notice my cheeks warming. “He’s in court.”

She raised a brow. “That’s not what I asked.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with a message from Blackjack. I’d gotten several updates throughout the morning, each one more concerning than the last. Three more vehicles had joined the first, rotating positions in a way he suggested indicated professional surveillance.

“Everything okay?” Gram asked, reading my expression.

“Fine.” The lie felt heavy on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to worry her more than necessary. “Just checking the time.”

The bell above the door chimed as Karen from the flower shop entered, looking anxious. “There are more of them,” she snapped. “Black sedans. They’re watching both our shops now.”

Tank was already moving, speaking quietly into his headset. Through the windows, I saw several security team members take up new positions, their movements precise and coordinated.

“Maybe we should close,” Karen suggested, wringing her hands.

“No.” Gram’s voice was firm. “We didn’t survive the last few years just to let thugs drive us out of business now.”

The morning rush kept us busy enough that I could almost pretend it was a normal day. Regular customers filtered in, some casting nervous glances at the security detail, others acting as if nothing was amiss. Mrs. Chen, from the alterations shop, brought us fresh-baked almond cookies, insisting we needed to keep our strength up. Mr. Peterson, who’d been coming in for his morning coffee since before I was born, sat at his usual table by the window, positioning himself like an extra sentry.

Around ten, I retreated to the basement to check if any bags of coffee beans still remained on the shelves. I should’ve anticipated the K19 crew, as everyone seemed to call them, would be too thorough to leave any behind. The water damage had been mostly contained, but the musty smell lingered.

I picked up a folded piece of paper that must’ve fallen from one of the boxes they’d delivered to Canada Lake, stunned to see the customer’s name written on the invoice for several pairs of custom leather gloves—Maria Castellano. The date was September 14, 1954, a year before the fire.

When I returned upstairs, Gram was deep in conversation with an elderly man I didn’t recognize. Their voices dropped as I approached, but I caught fragments about “the old days” and “before the troubles.” The man’s eyes followed me as I moved behind the counter, but I couldn’t read his expression.

“Who was that?” I asked after he left.

“An old friend. He knew Papa Werner.”

I was about to press her for details when more customers came in, demanding my attention.

Things slowed down considerablyby midafternoon, so much so that I was about to suggest we close early when four young men came in, wearing leather jackets with familiar insignias—the same ones I’d seen in old photographs of the Hoffman factory workers. They ordered complicated drinks and left generous tips, but something about their presence felt off.

They’d just left when Grit pulled me aside. “I received a message from Diesel, who’s one of the K19 team at the courthouse,” he said quietly. “Vincent mentioned your grandmother in court today.”

My stomach dropped. “What did he say?”

“‘Give my regards to Barbara.’” He hesitated. “Alessandro’s worried.”

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