My heart clenches. He’s trying so hard to be brave.
“I’m sorry, Austin. I’m so sorry we’re here.” I press my forehead against his, breathing with him, trying to calm us both. “But we’re going to get out of this. I promise you that.”
It’s a promise I have no right to make, but sometimes hope is the only medicine we have.
I take stock of our prison while Austin’s breathing slowly evens out. We’re in a cellar, but not the kind you’d store wine in. This is all gray brick walls and cracked concrete, the kind of basement that’s seen too much and forgotten how to be clean. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting sickly yellow light that leaves too many shadows in the corners.
It’s empty. Completely, utterly empty.
No stored furniture, no old tools, no convenient weapons lying around. But foster care taught me to look for advantages even when there don’t seem to be any. That brick near the corner is loose, mortar crumbling around the edges. The light fixture might not be secured well. And if I can get my hands free...
I’m not armed, but I’m not helpless either. I’ve survived worse than whatever this bastard has planned.
Austin’s breathing finally slows to something resembling normal, though he’s still shaky and pale. His color is marginallybetter, but I know this is just a reprieve. Without his evening medication, without the controlled environment his heart needs, we’re on borrowed time.
When I hear footsteps overhead, I help him to his feet and position myself between him and the door.
It opens with a creak that belongs in a horror movie, and all I can see is a dark silhouette against the bright light behind him.
The man is big. Intimidating. Everything about this situation is designed to make us feel small and powerless.
He descends the stairs with deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring our fear. When he reaches the bottom and steps toward us, it fuels something reckless in me, some desperate mother-animal instinct that makes decisions before my brain can catch up.
I calculate quickly. He’s big, but he’s not expecting us to fight back. Austin is small and fast. If I can distract him for even a few seconds, maybe Austin can make it up those stairs. Maybe someone will hear him scream. Maybe Alessio is already close enough to matter.
It’s a terrible plan. But it’s the only plan we have.
“Run,” I whisper to Austin. “Up the stairs. Go!”
Austin bolts past the man toward the stairs, and God, he’s fast. Small and quick, darting around our captor before the man can react. I’m right behind him, but I’m not as lucky. A backhand catches me across the face, and pain explodes through my cheek. I hit the concrete hard, tasting blood.
“Mommy!”
Through watery eyes, I watch Austin run back down the stairs toward me. My heart sinks. I wanted him to keep running, to get away, but instead he’s right back in danger with me.
“You’re not going anywhere, bitch.” The man bends down, putting his face close to mine, and recognition hits me like a shot of ice to my veins. “Not until you answer a few questions.”
The second he leans closer, dread knots in my gut. I know that voice. I know that face. And I know nothing good can come of it.
I reach for Austin with my bound hands, pulling him close, and send up a desperate prayer that Alessio finds us before it’s too late.
36
ALESSIO
Call it paranoia,but when you’re in my line of work, paranoia keeps your family breathing.
The last couple years have seen more kidnappings in our world than I care to count. Some successful, some not, all of them reminders that the people you love become targets the moment you let your guard down. So when Nina and Austin moved in with me, I took out a little insurance policy.
Every pair of shoes I bought for my son has a tracking device sewn into the right heel. Nina’s purse has another one tucked into the lining where she’ll never find it.
Good thing, too, because right now that purse is sitting in a dumpster two blocks from my building, tossed there along with Nina’s phone. But Austin’s sneakers? Those little beacons of hope are leading us straight to a rundown house in the kind of neighborhood where nobody calls the cops.
“You want to wait for backup?” Dario checks his weapon for the third time since we parked.
The smart play would be to call in reinforcements. The last time I went in half-cocked was that disaster at the Bratva bar, and we barely made it out alive. But every second we waste is another second my family spends terrified and alone.
“That’s my son in there,” I say, steel in my voice. “My woman. They’ve been scared long enough.”
