The front doors creaked open, the old wood groaning as Marco and Carmen stepped inside, guns drawn.
The air was cold and stale, the scent of dust and something faintly floral lingering in the massive foyer.
A grand chandelier hung overhead, its crystals reflecting the dim glow of candlelight.
Then—footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Taunting.
From the top of the grand staircase, Ella emerged.
A knowing smile curved on her lips, her hands resting lightly on the wooden banister as she gazed down at them.
“Took you long enough,” she said smoothly.
Marco’s jaw clenched.
“Where is he?” Carmen demanded, her voice shaking with rage.
Ella tilted her head, mocking amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, placing a hand over her heart. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”
And then—
From behind her, a small figure appeared.
Carmen’s breath hitched.
“Matteo.”
There he was.
Standing beside Ella, his tiny frame dressed in expensive clothes, his dark curls neatly combed, his face calm.
Too calm. Matteo wasn’t crying. Wasn’t scared. He just stood there, his hands resting at his sides. Unmoved. Unfazed.
Not reaching for them. Not running. Carmen felt sick.
“Matteo, baby,” she whispered, her grip loosening on her gun. “It’s Mama.”
Matteo didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even acknowledge her. Marco’s chest tightened painfully. “Matteo, come here,” he said firmly. “We’re going home.”
Matteo still didn’t react.
Ella just smiled.
And then—she knelt beside Matteo, bringing her lips close to his ear.
She whispered something. Something too soft to hear. And that’s when Matteo finally lifted his head. He looked right at them.
His brown eyes—the same ones Carmen had kissed every night, the same ones that lit up whenever Marco tossed him in the air—
Were empty.
And then—
His voice was small, quiet, absolute.
“I don’t know you.”