The Belloni estate's library.
Only the crackle of logs in the fireplace filled the room.
Luca sat back in a leather chair
and slit open a newly delivered envelope.
Inside—photographs.
Rain-soaked streets of Vancouver.
A middle-aged couple walking side by side with grocery bags.
Behind them, a boy stepping out of a school gate.
Mateo spoke in a low voice.
"The reporters I mentioned.
Friends of the Dr. Nam and his wife… neighbors of Sir George.
They've been asking questions about you, about the lab."
Luca said nothing.
He flipped through the photos one by one—
the couple in their driveway,
the woman at a supermarket checkout,
the boy shooting hoops on a school court.
The last image bore a red scrawl—dates and times.
His fingers stopped.
The boy was smiling.
Behind him, a blank sky and the school's brick wall.
The innocence in that face did nothing to move Luca's eyes.
"Send it."
"Where?"
"Their front door."
"And a note?"
Luca thought for a moment,
then uncapped a silver fountain pen.
On the back of the envelope, he wrote:
Next time, it could be an obituary instead of a news photo.
He slid the envelope across the desk.
His expression was stone, but his voice was almost gentle.
"No need for words. The pictures will speak."
Outside, winter rain traced slow lines down the window.
Somewhere across the city,
toward an ordinary front porch,
a single envelope was already on its way through the dark.