Page 46 of Less
An envelope.
Plain.
White.
No name.
His entire posture changes.
“Don’t touch anything,” he says sharply and places the tray on the dresser.
My stomach drops.
“What is it?”
He opens the envelope carefully.
Reads.
And every ounce of warmth drains from his face.
“What?” I demand.
His jaw tightens.
He turns the paper toward me.
The message is printed in blocky black letters.
You should have died last night.
Next time we won’t miss.
My blood runs cold.
For half a second, the room feels too small to breathe in.
Alessio folds the paper slowly.
Then his voice turns into something I’ve never heard before.
Cold.
Final.
“We’re leaving.”
“What?”
“Right. Now.”
“But the luncheon performance—”
“You’re not finishing the show.”
I stare at him.
“Alessio—”
