Elio and Adalina are still sleeping and I hate to leave them, but I need to trust Luca’s staff to take care of them.
I return downstairs, running into his housekeeper. “Mrs. Piccolo, I have to run out. Can you check on the kids and watch them when they wake? I hate to ask you but?—”
“I’ll watch them.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I hope little Rocco comes home safe and sound.”
I hurry from the house realizing I don’t have a car here. I ordered a rideshare conveniently around the corner. As the driver takes me to the diner, I work to sort out why an FBI agent has Rocco.
I know of Agent Ricci because Dom has been outspoken in his annoyance of her.
Is she working with Agent Blackwood?
Is this another FBI trick to tear apart La Corona?
If so, I’m falling into it, but what choice do I have?
I need to get my son back.
I realize I need to call Luca. I dial his number and he answers on the first ring.
"Elena."
"FBI called. Agent Ricci. They have Rocco. I'm meeting her at a diner near Washington Square."
"No." His voice turns to steel. "Give me the address, I’ll go.”
“I’m almost there?—”
“Elena, it could be a trap.”
“I haven’t committed a crime, so how could they trap me?”
He lets out a frustrated growl. “Rocco didn’t commit a crime either, yet he’s somehow in the FBI’s hands. Wait for me, goddammit.”
"I don't have time to wait!"
"Listen to me." Luca's voice drops lower, more dangerous. "They could be using you to get to all of us.”
I know he’s right, but my son takes precedence over all of that. "I don't care about La Corona politics right now! This is our child!"
"And you think I don't know that? You think I'm not tearing this city apart looking for him? Trust me for once in your life, Elena."
The accusation stings even though he’s not wrong. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair is you still thinking I'd put anything above my children. Stay put. I'm fifteen minutes out."
"Rocco doesn't have fifteen minutes." I look out the window as the car pulls up to the diner. "I'm his mother. I'm going."
"Damn it, Elena!”
"I'm sorry, Luca."
I hang up, cutting off his protests. I exit the car and hurry to the door of the diner.
Once inside, I scan the booths frantically.
Morning regulars sip coffee and read newspapers. Wait staff scurry around clearing tables and taking orders.
Then I see him, Rocco, sitting in a corner booth with a mug of what must be hot chocolate and a coloring book.
