And the baby—
The baby had deserved nothing but life.
That truth sat heavier than any crown, any empire, any blood-soaked throne I had ever claimed.
And now someone had dared to put their hands on my son.
The world had already taken too much from him.
I would not allow it to take anything else.
I rubbed a hand over my face, dragging my fingers down until they pressed into my jaw, trying—failing—to push the images back into whatever locked room they belonged in.
The burner phone on the desk vibrated.
The sound was soft, almost polite.
I froze.
My gaze slid to the screen, and for a fraction of a second my mind refused to understand what I was seeing. Then the numbers resolved themselves into meaning, and my pulse detonated in my chest.
It was the number I’d given Yannis three days ago.
His first personal phone. Bright blue, rubber-cased, childproof. Loaded with games, educational apps, and—hidden behind a passcode only I knew—my direct line. No intermediaries. No handlers. Just me.
He had smiled when I handed it to him. A real smile. Small, hesitant, like a fawn testing its legs, but unmistakable. The first genuine one since the funeral.
My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
I snatched the phone, thumb fumbling as I hit accept, then placed it on speaker on the desk as if grounding myself in something solid might keep the world from collapsing.
My pulse roared in my ears. This was it. The call every parent in my world dreaded. The captors making demands. Setting terms. Bargaining with flesh and blood.
I braced for cruelty.
Silence.
The line was open, but empty. No breathing. No background noise. Just a void that stretched for an eternity measured in heartbeats.
Then—
“D... Dad?”
The word cracked through the air like glass shattering.
The world tilted violently, as if the floor had dropped out from under me.
“Yannis?” My voice broke despite every instinct honed by decades of violence and control. Raw. Disbelieving. “Yannis, is that you?”
A small, shaky breath came through the speaker, amplified and fragile. It sounded like a child standing on the edge of something enormous.
“Y-Yes,” he said. Clear. Soft. Real.
My knees nearly buckled.
“Yannis,” I said again, slower this time, afraid the sound of his name might dissolve if I said it too loudly. “Are you—are you hurt? Did anyone touch you?”
“No.” Another breath. Steadier now. “I’m okay.”
