The Red Envelope

An hour later, the bedroom was quiet again.

The rain had softened to a steady, rhythmic drizzle against the massive glass windows, washing away the grime of the night and leaving the air crisp and clean.

Elena, Sophie’s mother, had been escorted upstairs by the head of security, weeping with a mixture of shock and profound relief as she scooped her sleepy daughter into her arms and carried her back down to the staff quarters.

Dante stood alone by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the first pale gray streaks of dawn break over the skyline of Port Mercer in the distance.

He held the white envelope in his hand, looking down at the federal seal before tossing it into the stone fireplace, where a low fire crackled softly against the chill.

The flames caught the heavy linen paper, curling the edges in a quiet rush of orange light before reducing it to gray ash.

He had survived the ambush.

He had cleaned house.

And as he looked out over the quiet expanse of his estate, he realized something else with absolute certainty.

Some guards don't wear badges.

Sometimes, they wear mismatched socks and a plastic detective hat."