Matteo sat on the soft velvet couch, his tiny fingers gripping the edges of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The fireplace crackled beside him, casting a warm glow across the lavish room.
Ella sat next to him, stroking his dark curls gently, her fingers slow and deliberate.
“You’ve been so strong, my love,” she murmured, her voice like a lullaby. “So brave.”
Matteo leaned into her touch, his small body relaxing under her care.
She had told him so many things. Stories. Secrets. Truths. Or at least, they felt like truths now.
“I know you’re confused, sweetheart,” Ella said softly, tilting his face up to look at her. “I know they filled your head with lies. But you see it now, don’t you?”
Matteo’s little brows furrowed.
There were still shadows of memories in his mind—a warm voice calling him Teo, strong arms lifting him in the air, laughter, love.
But then there were other memories.
Ones Ella had shown him.
Flashes of anger, cruelty, betrayal.
A voice yelling his name, but not with love.
With rage.
His throat tightened.
“Papa…” he whispered, uncertain.
Ella’s fingers traced his cheek, wiping away an invisible tear.
“He’s not your father,” she whispered. “Not anymore. He let you go, Rafael. He never truly wanted you. But I did.”
Matteo’s small hands trembled.
“But Mama…” he hesitated.
Ella’s smile was warm, patient.
“I am your mother,” she said softly.
The words sank into him. Deep. Like they belonged there. Like they had always belonged there.
“I am the only one who will love you, protect you, keep you safe.”
Matteo stared at her.
And then—slowly—he nodded.
Ella ran her fingers through his hair, her lips barely moving as she whispered to herself,
“The truth doesn’t matter anymore.”
Because in the end, truth was only what you believed.
And Matteo?
He believed her.
The warehouse smelled of oil, dust, and blood.
Marco kicked the door open, gun raised, his heart pounding in his ears.
“Move fast,” Luca barked behind him. “We don’t know how long we have.”
Carmen rushed in, her breath ragged, her hands shaking around the knife she carried.
They had followed the lead.
Had tracked down one of Ella’s men, beaten him until he gave up a location.
This was supposed to be it.
This was supposed to be where Matteo was.
But as soon as Carmen saw the empty space, her stomach dropped.
“He’s not here,” she whispered.
Marco’s face darkened.
He scanned the room, eyes sharp, movements tense.
There were remnants of life here. A blanket on the floor. A child’s shoe in the corner. Matteo had been here. But not anymore.
Marco’s rage boiled over.
With a snarl, he grabbed a rusted metal chair and flung it against the wall.
The crash echoed through the empty warehouse.
“We’re too f**king late,” he growled.
Carmen covered her mouth, fighting back the sob building in her chest.
How many times were they going to be one step behind?
How many times was Ella going to play with them like this?
Luca kicked at a pile of discarded papers, frustration etched into his face.
“She’s moving him constantly,” he muttered. “She’s not keeping him in one place for long. She knows we’re close.”
Marco ran a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven.
“Then where the hell did she take him?”
A sudden scraping sound caught Carmen’s attention.
She turned, spotting a wooden crate pushed up against the wall.
Something red peeked out from underneath it.
Her pulse spiked.
She rushed forward, shoving the crate aside.
And there, underneath it—
Was a map. Unfolded. Marked.
A single location was circled in thick, blood-red ink.
Carmen grabbed it with shaky hands.
“Marco,” she breathed.
Marco turned, eyes landing on the map.
He yanked it from her grasp, scanning the location.
His body went rigid.
“I know this place,” he said darkly.
Luca frowned. “Where is it?”
Marco’s grip tightened.
“It’s somewhere no one would ever expect.”
Carmen stared at him, heart pounding.
“Where?”
Marco slowly lifted his gaze.
His expression wasn’t just anger. It was hatred. It was understanding. It was fear.
“It’s my f**king childhood home.”