They'd taken my son. Threatened to hurt him. Used him as leverage in whatever sick game Matteo was playing with Cassian.
I looked around the room with new eyes. The chair I'd used to cut my bonds. The bucket. The walls.
No windows. No obvious weapons. But there had to be something. Anything.
I moved to the chair and examined it more carefully. The legs were bolted to the floor, but the backrest was loose. I worked at it, ignoring the pain in my hands, until it came free with a screech of protesting metal.
One end was jagged where the weld had broken. Not much, but better than nothing.
I tucked it against the wall where it wouldn't be immediately visible and sat back down, forcing my breathing to steady.
Matteo thought I was just leverage. Just a frightened mother who would do whatever they wanted.
He was wrong.
I'd spent nearly two and a half years raising Leo alone—of figuring things out, of solving problems, of being everything my son needed. I'd fought for every dollar, every opportunity, every moment of stability.
I'd fight for this too.
Cassian would come. I knew that with absolute certainty. He'd move heaven and earth to get Leo back. And when he did, I'd be ready.
Ready to fight my way out if I had to. Ready to protect my son with everything I had.
Ready to show Matteo Barone that he'd made a fatal mistake when he took what belonged to Cassian Barone.
He thinks I'm just a mother,I thought, feeling the sharp edge of metal against my palm.He forgot I'm a fighter.
CHAPTER 17
Cassian
The call came during a meeting with Calabrese.
My phone vibrated against the mahogany table, Marco's name flashing on the screen. I silenced it without looking. Whatever it was could wait—Vincent was outlining his proposal for a joint operation against Matteo, and I needed to hear every detail before committing.
The phone buzzed again immediately. Then again.
Vincent paused mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. "You should probably take that."
Something cold slithered down my spine. Marco knew better than to interrupt unless it was critical. I stood, moving to the corner of the private dining room. "What is it?"
"Boss." Marco's voice was wrong—tight, strained. "There's been an incident. Central Park. The detail you had on Ms. Quinn and the boy."
My blood turned to ice. "What kind of incident?"
"An attack. Three vehicles, at least six hostiles. They took them both." He paused, and I heard something in his silence that made my vision narrow. "Marcus and Carlo are down. The scene is… It's bad, Cassian."
The phone nearly slipped from my hand. "Dead?"
"I'm looking at Carlo’s body now. Marcus is en route to the hospital. NYPD is already here, but I'm keeping them back. We have maybe ten minutes before this becomes a circus."
"Isla and Leo?" The names felt like gravel in my throat.
"Gone. Witnesses say they were forced into a van. Black, no plates visible. We're pulling traffic cam footage now, but—"
"Find them." The words came out cold, lethal. "I don't care what it takes. Find my son."
I ended the call and turned to find Vincent watching me with sharp, calculating eyes.
