"Luca." Marco's voice was smug, satisfied. "I trust your wife is recovering? Such a shame about all that blood loss. Childbirth is so hard on a woman's body."
"You're a dead man," Luca said softly.
"Maybe. But not today." Marco paused. "I'm sending you something. A little... motivation. To make sure you understand how serious I am."
The phone buzzed again. A text message. A photo.
Luca's blood turned to ice.
The image showed his daughter, still impossibly tiny, still hooked to medical equipment—but alive. A woman's hands held her, and in the background, just visible, was a concrete wall with distinctive graffiti.
Gia moved beside him, looking at the screen. Her breath caught. "I know that place. That's the old shipping warehouse on Pier 19. The one that was condemned after the fire."
"He wants us to find her," Luca said, his voice deadly calm. "This is deliberate. He's showing us exactly where she is."
"It's a trap."
