Chapter 5 - The Snake in the Grass
The suspension didn't keep Richard in the city.
By the third week of November, the frost had turned into a heavy, gray sleet that coated the roads around the orchard in a slick sheen of ice. Inside the house, Elena had learned the layout of the old colonial—the secret stairs behind the pantry that led to the cellar, the heavy iron bars on the kitchen shutters, and the way Matteo’s men moved through the trees at dusk like dogs looking for a scent.
She had also learned Matteo.
He was not a man who shouted; he was a man who moved with a terrifyingly slow economy of motion. He spent his afternoons in the library, reading old books on agriculture and historical architecture, his long legs crossed at the ankle, while the radio in the corner broadcasted reports of missing union leaders and port strikes in Manhattan.
“He’s here,” Marco said one evening, walking into the library without knocking. His leather boots were covered in gray slush. “We spotted a green Dodge sedan with city plates parked near the old mill two miles down the creek road. He’s using an old hunting rifle from his father’s collection—no serial number.”
Elena stood up from the sofa, her book dropping to the floor. “He found us. I told you... he’s like a dog. He doesn't stop.”
Matteo didn't get up. He turned a page of his book, his eyes skimmed the text, and then he closed it with a soft, leathery thud. “He didn't find us, Elena. Marco left the address of the old mill on the desk of Richard’s suspended partner three days ago. We’ve been waiting for him to finish his drive.”
Elena’s face went white. “You lured him here? Why? He’s going to shoot someone, Matteo! He doesn't care about the rules—he’s out of his mind!”
Matteo stood up, his tall frame blocking out the light from the green shaded desk lamp. He walked over to her, his hand reaching out to lift her chin until she was forced to look into the absolute darkness of his eyes.
“A man like your husband cannot be cured by a court order, Elena. He cannot be stopped by an internal affairs report. If he stays in the city, he will spend the next ten years waiting around the corner from your grocery store, looking through your mail, watching your windows until you’re seventy years old and too tired to run anymore. You cannot have a life while he still has a voice.”
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, heavy black key, pressing it into her palm.
“Go to the cellar with Marco,” he ordered gently. “The door behind the wine casks leads to the old carriage tunnel under the orchard. Do not come out until the lights in the main hall flash three times.”
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“Matteo...” she said, her fingers closing over the cold metal of the key. “Don't look at him. Just... don't let him look at you.”
“He won't be looking at anything for very long,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into that quiet, lethal baseline that made the house feel like an iron tomb.
