Chapter 4 - The Envelope Evan Sent From PrisonDating Adrian Bellandi was surprisingly boring.
I mean that as a compliment.
There were no helicopters.
No diamonds appearing mysteriously on pillows.
No dramatic declarations beneath rain-soaked windows.
There were dinners.
Walks.
Arguments about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Adrian believed putting pineapple on pizza should be prosecuted.
I told him his criminal empire had finally identified a crime too ridiculous even for him.
He did not laugh.
I did.
We moved slowly.
Painfully slowly by Adrian's standards.
Perfectly slowly by mine.
The first time I slept at his house, we did not have sex.
That seemed to confuse him.
Not because he expected it.
Because I arrived with an overnight bag, kissed him for approximately twenty minutes, then announced I wanted to sleep.
He blinked.
“Sleep?”
“Yes.”
“In my bed?”
“If that's okay.”
He looked almost offended by the question.
“Yes.”
So we slept.
I woke at three in the morning from a dream about Evan.
My body jerked upright.
Adrian woke instantly.
He did not grab me.
“Bad dream?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me closer?”
That question.
Always the question.
“Yes.”
He moved beside me.
I rested my head against his chest.
His heart was beating fast.
He had been frightened too.
That realization mattered.
Powerful men rarely admitted fear.
Sometimes their bodies did it for them.
By morning, I had drooled on a man rumored to control half the shipping contracts along the eastern seaboard.
He never mentioned it.
I respected him for that.
Then the envelope arrived.
It came on a Tuesday.
Federal correctional facility return address.
Evan Cole.
I held it between two fingers as if it might explode.
Rosa saw my face.
“What?”
I handed it to her.
She read the return address.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“You don't have to open it.”
“I know.”
I put it beneath the register.
For six hours, I didn't touch it.
At closing, I carried it home.
Set it on my kitchen table.
Made tea.
Walked around it.
Finally I called my attorney.
“Can he contact me?”
“Unless your protective order prohibits correspondence, technically yes. You don't have to respond.”
“Should I open it?”
“That is entirely your decision.”
I hated decisions that were entirely mine.
Sometimes I wanted someone else to choose.
That was the dirty secret of independence.
Freedom was exhausting.
I opened it.
The letter was three pages.
The first page was apology.
The second was explanation.
The third was poison.
Evan wrote that prison had changed him.
That therapy had helped him understand the harm he caused.
That he regretted hitting me.
That he regretted taking my money.
Then came the sentence:
But I hope someday you can acknowledge that Adrian Bellandi manipulated the situation because he wanted you.
I read it twice.
Then:
You traded one controlling man for another. The only difference is Bellandi is richer and better at hiding it.
My hands began trembling.
I hated Evan for knowing where to cut.
Not because I believed him.
Because part of me feared him.
That night Adrian was supposed to come for dinner.
I almost canceled.
Instead I put the letter on the table.
He arrived at seven.
Knocked.
I opened the door.
He saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Evan wrote.”
Everything in Adrian changed.
Not visibly to most people.
I knew him now.
The slight tightening around his mouth.
The stillness.
“Where is it?”
“On the table.”
He walked toward it.
Then stopped.
“May I read it?”
“Yes.”
He read all three pages.
Slowly.
When he finished, he folded the paper.
“He's trying to get inside your head.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I bristled.
“Yes.”
Adrian immediately recognized the mistake.
“Sorry.”
“Good.”
He sat.
I remained standing.
“Is he right?”
“No.”
“That's not what I mean.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Did you want me before the restaurant?”
His silence answered.
My stomach tightened.
“How long?”
“I had seen you before.”
“Where?”
“Your bakery.”
I stared.
“When?”
“Months earlier.”
“You never came inside.”
“No.”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
A chill moved through me.
“Why?”
“One of my offices is six blocks away.”
“That doesn't explain why you watched me.”
“I wasn't watching you.”
“Adrian.”
He exhaled.
“I saw you through the window once.”
“And?”
“You were arguing with a delivery driver.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
“He deserved it.”
“I assumed.”
“What happened?”
“You were furious. Then a little girl dropped a cupcake outside.”
I remembered.
“She cried.”
“You walked out, gave her another one, then returned to screaming at the driver.”
I crossed my arms.
“That sounds like me.”
“It did.”
“You didn't know me.”
“No.”
“Then why remember?”
His expression softened.
“Because you were alive.”
I looked away.
The sentence was too intimate.
“Did you know who Evan was?”
“Not then.”
“Did you investigate me?”
“After the restaurant.”
“How much?”
“Enough to make sure you weren't involved.”
My jaw tightened.
“You already admitted that.”
“Yes.”
“Anything after you knew I was innocent?”
A pause.
Too long.
“Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I had security check whether Evan had been near your bakery.”
“Without telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
He looked directly at me.
“I knew your mother's address.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Because if Evan ran, I thought he might look for you there.”
“You investigated my mother.”
“I verified an address.”
“That is investigating my mother.”
“Yes.”
I walked away.
He did not follow.
For several minutes neither of us spoke.
Evan's letter lay between us like something rotten.
Finally Adrian said, “This is why the letter works.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Because some of what he says is close enough to the truth to frighten you.”
That admission surprised me.
He continued.
“I did things without your permission because I believed knowing more made you safer.”
“And because you're used to knowing everything.”
“Yes.”
“And controlling everything.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
He didn't defend himself.
That helped.
Not enough.
But it helped.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't automatically.”
The answer stopped me.
Adrian stood.
“You should watch what I do.”
He placed the letter back on the table.
“If I become the man he says I am, leave.”
My throat tightened.
“And you'll let me?”
Pain crossed his face.
“Maddie, if you need my permission to leave, then I've already become him.”
That was the moment I understood something.
Trust was not believing someone could never hurt you.
That was fantasy.
Trust was knowing what they would do when they had the opportunity.
Adrian had opportunities every day.
Money.
Influence.
Fear.
Information.
And increasingly, he was choosing restraint.
Not perfectly.
But deliberately.
I picked up Evan's letter.
Walked to the kitchen sink.
And burned it.
Adrian watched.
“You don't want it for evidence?”
“My lawyer has a scan.”
He smiled.
“Paperwork is holy.”
I looked at him.
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything you tell me.”
I extinguished the ashes.
Then I walked toward him.
“This doesn't mean I forgive everything.”
“I know.”
“It doesn't mean I'm not angry.”
“I know.”
“And if I discover you've secretly bought my apartment—”
“I haven't.”
“My car?”
“No.”
“My bakery?”
“No.”
“My mother?”
He almost smiled.
“I don't believe Pennsylvania permits that.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then I put my forehead against his chest.
His hands remained at his sides.
Waiting.
I took one.
Placed it around my waist.
Only then did he hold me.
Three weeks later, Evan sent another letter.
I returned it unopened.
The next one too.
Then they stopped.
I thought that chapter of my life had finally ended.
May you like
I was wrong.
Because in May, a federal investigator walked into my bakery and asked for Adrian Bellandi.
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