The envelope sat folded in my purse, a constant reminder of the words written inside:
"Stop digging, or you'll find something you can't bury."
I hadn't slept much the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured the man in the parking garage, his calm voice echoing in my head. The envelope wasn't just a warning—it was a message, deliberate and clear. Whoever had sent it wanted me to know they were watching.
But it wasn't fear keeping me awake. It was anger.
I wasn't going to be scared off like some rookie. If they thought they could intimidate me, they were wrong.
The next morning, I found myself back at the detention center, the steel and concrete walls looming high against the gray sky. My heels clicked sharply against the tiled floor as the guard led me to the visiting room.
Lorenzo Santini was already seated when I entered, his posture relaxed, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the table. His dark eyes followed me as I approached, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Ms. Moretti," he said, his voice low and smooth. "You just can't seem to stay away."
I ignored the comment and sat down, pulling the envelope from my purse. Without a word, I slid it across the table, pressing it against the glass so he could see the words.
Lorenzo's smirk faded as his eyes scanned the message. Slowly, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table.
"Interesting," he murmured.
"Does it look familiar to you?" I asked, my tone sharper than intended.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, dark and unreadable.
"Should it?" he asked.
"Someone gave this to me last night," I said, my frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "Someone who knew I'm working on your case. They're telling me to stop digging. Why?"
Lorenzo tilted his head slightly, studying me. For the first time, his smirk was gone, replaced by something colder, sharper.
"Because you're getting close," he said finally.
"To what?"
His lips curved into a faint smile. "To the truth."
I clenched my jaw. "If the truth is that you're innocent, why would anyone go to this length to stop me? Who's behind this?"
Lorenzo's expression darkened. "The same people who put me here."
"The Calvini family," I said. It wasn't a question.
"They're part of it," he replied. "But they're not working alone."
"What does that mean?"
"It means this isn't just about me," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "The Calvinis have been trying to take me down for years. But this time, they're not just coming after me—they're targeting everything I've built. My family. My allies. My power. Framing me for Marco Greco's murder is just the beginning."
"And you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with it?" I asked, my tone edged with skepticism.
He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking on mine. "I didn't kill Marco Greco. You know that."
"I don't know anything yet," I shot back.
"You will," he said, his voice soft but firm.
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. "Lorenzo, whoever sent this note isn't bluffing. They're serious. They're following me, threatening me. If you want me to keep working on this case, you need to be honest with me."
"I am being honest," he said.
"Not honest enough," I snapped. "If the Calvinis are behind this, why didn't you tell me earlier? Why am I only finding out now?"
He studied me in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Because I needed to know if you could handle it."
"Handle what?"
"The reality of what you're dealing with," he said. "This isn't just a murder trial, Elena. This is war. And wars aren't fought in courtrooms—they're fought in shadows. You're stepping into a world where the rules don't exist. If you're not ready for that, you should walk away now."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping. "And if I don't walk away?"
His smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. "Then we fight."
Back at my office, I sat at my desk, surrounded by case files. Lorenzo's words played on a loop in my mind: Wars aren't fought in courtrooms—they're fought in shadows.
I hated to admit it, but he was right.
If the Calvinis were behind this, then Montini and Ferraro—the prosecution's witnesses—were the key to unraveling their plan. I needed to find out exactly how they were connected.
I opened Montini's financial records, focusing on the fifty-thousand-euro deposit. It wasn't enough to prove bribery—not yet. But as I sifted through his bank statements, something else caught my attention: a series of smaller payments, spread out over several months, all from a shell company registered under the name Grimaldi Imports.
The Calvinis' front company.
I felt a flicker of triumph. Montini wasn't just bribed—he was on their payroll.
I turned to Ferraro's records, hoping for a similar breakthrough. Her financials were clean, but her travel history raised a red flag. Two weeks before the murder, she'd flown to Naples—the heart of Calvini territory.
My heart raced as the pieces began to fit together. This wasn't just a frame job. This was an orchestrated attack, designed to take down Lorenzo and cripple his organization.
But as I sat there, poring over the details, a new thought crept into my mind—one that sent a chill down my spine.
If the Calvinis were willing to go this far, how far would they go to stop me?
That night, as I drove home, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white. My thoughts were a whirlwind of possibilities, each one more daunting than the last.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I glanced at the screen.
Unknown Number.
My chest tightened. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. Part of me wanted to ignore it, but the call wouldn't stop.
Finally, I answered. "Hello?"
There was a pause on the other end, then the same low, detached voice I'd heard in the parking garage.
"You didn't listen," the man said. "That's a mistake."
My blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
"You'll find out," he replied. "Soon."
The line went dead.
I sat there, the phone still pressed to my ear, my heart pounding in my chest. This wasn't just a warning anymore. This was a promise.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my jaw clenched.
They thought they could scare me. They thought I would walk away.
But they didn't know me.
If they wanted me to stop digging, they'd have to try harder.