The Red Envelope

Dante stepped out of the bathroom into the dim light of the bedroom.

The floorboards didn't even creak under his boots.

""Looking for something, Vanessa?""

Vanessa froze mid-reach.

For a fraction of a second, her composure fractured, her fingers stiffening against the dark fabric of the armchair.

Then, like water smoothing over glass, her face shifted into an expression of warm, sleepy concern.

She turned around slowly, offering a soft, breathless laugh.

""Dante! You scared me,"" she murmured, taking a step toward him with her hands open. ""I woke up and you weren't in bed. Are you alright? Your coat is soaked—""

""I asked what you were looking for,"" Dante interrupted.

His voice wasn't loud.

It was flat, cold, and entirely empty of the warmth she had grown accustomed to manipulating.

Vanessa stopped three feet away from him, her dark eyes narrowing just a fraction as she appraised his posture.

She saw the mud caked on his boots.

She saw the faint smear of dried blood on his shirtsleeve.

And she saw the absolute, terrifying stillness in his eyes.

""You're being paranoid,"" she said, her voice dropping its playful cadence, replaced by a sharp, calculating edge. ""Must have been a rough meeting downtown.""

""Extremely rough,"" Dante replied, taking a slow step closer. ""So rough that three federal agents were waiting for me at a location only two people outside my inner circle knew about.""

Vanessa didn't flinch, but the pulse at her throat fluttered like a trapped bird.

""And you think that has something to do with me?""

""I don't think, Vanessa,"" Dante said, pulling the white envelope out of his jacket and holding it up between them. ""I know.""