And Leo's cries, which had stopped hours ago.
The silence was worse than the crying. At least when I could hear him, I knew he was alive, knew where he was. Now there was nothing, and my imagination filled the void with horrors I couldn't stop seeing.
He's fine, I told myself for the hundredth time. Matteo needs him alive. He's leverage.
But two-and-a-half-year-olds didn't understand leverage. They understood fear, missing their mother, and wanting to go home.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. My wrists throbbed where the zip ties had cut, dried blood cracking whenever I moved. The injection site on my neck burned, a reminder of how quickly they'd taken control.
How powerless I'd been.
Marcus's face flashed through my mind—the surprise in his eyes when the bullet hit, the way he'd fallen. He'd tried to protect us. And I didn't even know his last name, didn't know if he had family who'd be worried, crying over what happened.
And the other guard. He died because of me. Because Cassian made us targets.
No. That wasn't fair. He died because Matteo was a monster who saw a child as a weapon.
The anger felt better than the fear. I held onto it, feeding it, letting it burn away the helplessness.
A sound broke through my thoughts—a door opening somewhere above me. Footsteps on stairs, growing closer.
I tensed, moving silently to where I'd hidden the chair back. My fingers closed around the metal, cold and reassuring.
The footsteps stopped outside my door. Keys jangled. The lock clicked.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, weapon raised, heart hammering. If they came in alone, if I was fastenough—
The door swung open. Light spilled in, momentarily blinding. A silhouette filled the doorway—large, broad-shouldered.
"Well, well." The voice was smooth, cultured. Familiar. The man from the video. "The mother shows spirit."
Matteo.
He stepped inside, and I saw him clearly for the first time. The resemblance to Cassian was striking and disturbing—the same strong jaw, the same commanding presence. But where Cassian's eyes held layers of control and calculation, Matteo's held something colder. Crueler.
Two guards flanked him, hands on their weapons.
I lowered the chair back slightly, recognizing the futility. Three against one, and they were armed.
"Resourceful," Matteo observed, nodding at my makeshift weapon. "I can see why Cassian kept you around. You're not just a pretty face."
"Where's my son?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Safe. Fed. Playing with toys probably worth more than your entire apartment." He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. "I'm not a monster, Isla. I don't hurt children. Not unless I have to."
"You threatened to cut off his fingers."
"Motivation." He shrugged elegantly. "Cassian responds better to concrete threats. He's always been that way—needs to see the cost before he'll pay the price."
He moved closer, and I raised the chair back again. He stopped, hands raised in mock surrender.
"Easy. I'm just here to talk. To help you understand your situation."
"I understand perfectly. You're using my son to get to Cassian."
"Smart and beautiful. I really can see the appeal." He leaned against the wall, casual, as if we were having coffee instead of him holding meprisoner. "But you don't understand. Not really. Did Cassian tell you about our family? About what we are?"
"He told me enough."
