“Not now.”
When it’s just me and Omero, I let loose.
I pick up the chair from the corner desk and smash it against the wall. It’s satisfying but not nearly enough. Next, I overturn the dresser, then rip the curtains down, punching a hole in the wall while screaming every ounce of rage in my body finally surfacing.
“Basili —”
“They took my son!” I rage. The words were tearing from my throat, raw and agonizing. “They came into my home, and they took him! Again!”
“We’ll get him back —”
“How? How, Omero?” I spin to face him. “We don’t even have a license plate number to go off of. We don’t have faces, names, or a location. We have nothing!”
“Boss, we have a partial plate. A make and model. That’s a start —”
“It’s not enough!” I punch the wall again, feeling the skin over my knuckles break open on contact. “There’s a traitor in this house, Omero. How else did they get past our security?!”
“I —”
“Out, go start interviewing everyone who was in residence when he was taken. I need to be alone.” I collapse onto Emmanuel’s castle bed, my head in my hands, blood dripping from my knuckles onto the floor.
Omero moves to the door, pausing only long enough to say one last thing. “We’ll find him. I swear to you, we’ll get him back.”
But his promise feels empty. Emptier than my own to keep him safe in the first place.
It’s well past midnight when Chloe comes to see me in my office, a bottle of whiskey clutched in my hand. Watching the men on my monitors scramble for leads that don’t exist.
The entire situation feels hopeless. The partial plate turned up a list of over sixteen hundred plates throughout New York, three hundred of which had been of that make and model. It was most likely stolen, probably already dumped somewhere, but no one had reported it lost or found as of yet.
The traitor among the staff is yet to be identified. It could be anyone, and in my alcohol induced state, I suspect everyone.
My son, my everything, is gone.
Chloe opens the door and slips in after a brief knock. Still in her black dress from dinner, her eyes are puffy from crying and her face is paler than usual.
“Basili,” she says softly.
“Not now, Chloe.”
“Please, I just need a moment. I need to tell you something.” She moves across the room, stopping on the opposite side of the desk.
I take another drink, eyeing her over the top of my computer. “Unless you know where my son is, I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s about Shufen. The message.” She takes another step closer. “She warned me. Which means she knew. She must have been the one who sent the messages before, who helped Emmanuel escape the first time. Who sent him to the orphanage where I would find him?”
That gets my attention. “What?”
“Think about it. She has access to her father’s plans. She knew they were going to take him. She got him away from them somehow, left him where I’d find him.” Chloe’s hands are shaking. “She’s trying to help. But if she sent that warning, it means she knew about tonight, too. After the fact, maybe, but —”
My phone rings. I grab it, glancing at the caller ID. Unknown number.
I answer, putting it on speakerphone. “Who is this?”
“Mr. Cierro.” I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s heavily accented and obviously Chinese. “We seem to have acquired someone who I believe belongs to you.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Chloe’s eyes go wide.
“I don’t know who you are, but if you hurt him —”
