Late at night —
Dafydd was losing his cool. It's been a while since he came to know that his son has been taken away. But until now, he could trace him.
A knock at the door made him turn, and the moment he saw his man stepping inside, he asked, desperation clear in his tone, "Did you find him?"
The man shook his head. "Sir, we tried looking everywhere. But we couldn't find any trace of Young Master. It seems like he is nowhere in New York."
"What do you mean by that?" Dafydd frowned. "If not in New York, where can those people take him? And who the hell were those people?"
The man looked equally confused. "We don't know, sir. We even tried looking into them, but we couldn't identify at all, as though they didn't belong on the face of this Earth."
Dafydd frowned. He couldn't understand what was happening. Who could take his son like that? Never in the years had anyone tried to lay a hand on them. They were Winslow, and aiming at a Winslow —everyone knew the price.
