The crying stopped abruptly, as if someone had covered his mouth or moved him somewhere I couldn't hear.
"Leo!" I screamed until my throat was raw. "Leo, I'm here! Mama's here!"
Footsteps approached. The lock clicked.
I stepped back, heart hammering, hands curling into fists. If they opened that door, I'd fight. I'd claw and bite and do whatever it took to get to my son.
The door swung open. A man in a ski mask stood silhouetted against harsh fluorescent light. He was large, broad-shouldered, with a gun holstered at his hip.
"Shut up," he said, his voice flat and bored. "Or we gag the kid, too."
The threat froze me mid-breath. "Please. Please, I just need to know he's okay. Let me see him—"
"Boss's orders. You're separated until he decides otherwise." The man tossed something at my feet. A burner phone. "You got one call. Make it count."
The door slammed shut before I could respond. The lock clicked back into place.
I grabbed the phone with shaking hands. The screen was already lit, a video queued to play.
My finger hovered over the play button, terrified of what I'd see but more terrified of not knowing.
I pressed play.
Leo's face filled the screen. His cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes red and swollen from crying. He clutched his stuffed dinosaur—theymust have grabbed it from the park—and looked so small, so frightened.
"Mama?" His voice was small, broken. "Want Mama."
"It's okay, little man," a voice said off-camera. Male, smooth, almost gentle. "You'll see your mama soon. Can you say hello to her?"
The camera panned out to reveal Leo sitting on a couch in what appeared to be a living room. Clean. Comfortable. Not a dungeon like mine.
"Mama," Leo cried. "Scared."
The video cut to black.
Then a new image: a man's face, handsome in a sharp, predatory way. Dark hair slicked back, expensive suit, smile that didn't reach his eyes.
I recognized him from photos I'd glimpsed in Cassian's office. The resemblance was unmistakable—the same strong jaw, the same intense gaze.
Matteo.
"Hello, Isla," he said, as if we were old friends. "I hope your accommodations aren't too uncomfortable. Consider them… motivation."
He leaned back in what looked like a leather office chair, completely at ease.
"Your son is safe. For now. He's being well cared for—toys, food, everything a little boy needs." His smile hardened. "Whether he stays that way depends entirely on Cassian."
My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles went white.
"It's quite simple. You want your son back? Tell Cassian to hand over the family business. All of it—the legitimate operations, the territories, the connections. Everything."
He leaned closer to the camera.
"You have his number now. When Cassian agrees to my terms, call me. You have twenty-four hours." His voice dropped, losing all pretense of civility. "After that, I start sending pieces of your son back to him. Starting with fingers."
The video ended.
I stared at the black screen, my entire body shaking. Not from fear—though that was there, cold and sharp. But from rage. Pure, molten rage.
