Marco’s phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
He knew who it was before he even looked.
The old friend he had reached out to—the one person he thought might help him end this nightmare—was finally calling back.
With a grim expression, Marco answered.
“Tell me you have something,” he said sharply.
A heavy sigh came through the line.
“I can’t help you, Marco.”
The words were quiet, but final.
Marco’s fist clenched.
“What the hell do you mean you can’t help?” he demanded, his tone dangerous.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” the man admitted. “It’s that I can’t.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Since when do you turn your back on me?”
Another sigh.
“Since you dragged me into something I can’t escape. You don’t understand, Marco. The people backing Ella? They’re bigger than both of us. And I’m still tied to them.”
Silence.
The weight of the revelation hit Marco like a bullet. His old friend was part of them. Still part of them.
He had been asking help from someone who could never go against his own people.
Marco let out a bitter laugh, void of humor.
“So that’s it?” he muttered. “You’re choosing them over me?”
The voice on the other end was heavy with regret.
“I have no choice.”
Marco’s rage boiled over.
“Then go to hell.” He ended the call, shoving his phone into his pocket.
His blood burned.
His fingers itched to grab his gun and put a bullet through someone’s head.
Luca, who had been listening, crossed his arms tightly.
“We’re running out of time,” he said grimly. “If we don’t move fast, we might never get Matteo back.”
Carmen stood at the edge of the room, silent, but her body was trembling.
Marco turned to her.
“We’re doing this on our own,” he said.
She nodded once.
Because there was no other choice.
Tracking One of Ella’s Men
They found him in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.
One of Ella’s trusted men, someone who had been moving in and out of her hideouts.
Someone who knew where Matteo was.
Now?
He was tied to a chair, blood dripping from his split lip, his breathing ragged from the beating Luca had already given him.
Marco crouched in front of him, tilting his head.
“Start talking.”
The man spat blood onto the ground.
“F**k you.”
Marco smiled coldly.
“Wrong answer.”
He grabbed a knife from the table and pressed the blade against the man’s cheek.
The man flinched, but still refused to speak.
Marco’s patience was gone.
With one swift motion, he pressed the knife down, slicing a shallow line along the man’s arm.
The man let out a pained grunt.
“I can do this all night,” Marco said, his voice flat, detached. “But you? You’ll bleed out before sunrise.”
Carmen, standing in the shadows, watched with cold fury.
“Where is she keeping my son?” she demanded, her voice shaking with rage.
The man gritted his teeth, his breath uneven.
Then—finally—he caved.
“A safe house,” he gasped. “Outside the city. An old estate on the cliffs.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” the man panted. “She’s waiting for you.”
Marco and Luca exchanged a look.
Something about this felt off.
Too easy.
Too perfect.
Carmen’s voice cut through the room.
“If you’re lying, I’ll kill you myself.”
The man let out a weak chuckle.
“Go ahead,” he whispered. “It’s already a trap.”
Carmen’s stomach dropped.
Marco stood up sharply.
“Son of a b**ch,” Luca muttered.
Ella was playing with them.
Again.
But it didn’t matter.
They had no choice but to walk into the trap.
Matteo was waiting.
Matteo’s Mind is Slipping
The lavish room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fireplace.
Matteo sat on a large bed, his tiny hands clutching the edges of the blanket.
His head felt foggy.
Strange.
Like his thoughts weren’t his own anymore.
Ella sat beside him, her fingers combing through his curls.
“You’ve been so good, Rafael,” she murmured softly.
Rafael.
That was his name now.
Right?
It felt… right.
But also wrong. Something inside him still whispered Matteo—but that voice was getting quieter.
Ella reached for a photo, placing it in his hands.
“Look at this,” she whispered.
He did.
The picture was old, faded, but the boy in it looked like him.
Dark hair. Warm brown eyes. Matteo frowned.
“Who is this?” he asked.
Ella smiled, her eyes filled with something dangerous.
“That’s you, sweetheart.”
Matteo’s small fingers traced the edges of the photograph.
Something about it felt wrong.
“But…” he hesitated. “I don’t remember this.”
“That’s because you forgot,” Ella said gently, kissing the top of his head. “But I’m helping you remember.”
Matteo’s chest tightened.
Forgot? Had he really forgotten? Ella reached for another photo. This time, it was a blurry, dark image.
Matteo felt a chill crawl up his spine.
It was a man. His face obscured, his posture menacing.
He was holding something. No—someone.
A child.
The man’s grip on the child’s arm looked harsh. Cruel. Ella leaned close.
“Do you know who that is?” she whispered.
Matteo’s breath shook. Something inside him twisted painfully. He didn’t recognize the photo. But the fear creeping into his chest told him he should.
Ella’s fingers tightened around his hand.
“That’s Marco,” she whispered.
Matteo’s heart pounded.
“No,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Papa wouldn’t—”
“He hurt you, Rafael,” Ella interrupted, softly, sweetly.
“And he’ll do it again if you go back.”
Matteo’s hands trembled.
Ella cupped his face.
“You don’t have to go back.”
Tears welled in his big brown eyes. Barely above a whisper—
“I don’t want to go back.”