The first thing I did was go to the one place I knew no one would look for me: my own room.
Pushing the door open felt like stepping into a tomb. The wreckage from the search was still there, a frozen monument to my violation.
Drawers hung open, their contents spilling out like guts. The slashed mattress bled white stuffing onto the floor.
I stood in the center of the destruction, my mind a whirlwind, but one memory stood clear and sharp: Finn's pinched face in his office.
"The guard who searched my room. Who gave the order?"
His dismissive wave. "A standard procedure."
My insistence. "His eyes were on my locked box. It wasn't standard."
The flicker in his eyes. A recalculation. "Marcus Volkan's head of security was here that day. Observing. A professional courtesy."
Marcus. It had always been Marcus.
I needed to hear his voice. I needed the anchor of the only thing that still made sense in my world. I pulled out my phone and called Nonna.
"Nonna," I said, my voice cracking with forced lightness. "It's Riley. Put Billy on. I just need to hear him."
The silence on the other end was deafening. Then, a sob, so raw it seemed to tear through the speaker.
"Riley… mi amore… he is not here."
The floor dropped out from under me. I gripped the shattered dresser to stay upright. "What? What do you mean? Where is he? Is he at a friend's?"
"No! Il parco! The park! An hour ago… a man… he knew his name, Riley! He knew his name! He asked for Billy by name and then… Dio mio….he was just gone!"
My blood turned to ice. "An hour ago? Nonna, why are you only telling me now?"
Her voice broke into a thousand pieces. "I didn't know how! I was running, screaming… the police, they came, they asked questions… I do not have your number in my head! I had to find the paper you wrote it on… I am so sorry, mia bambina … I am so sorry…"
The image of her, frantic and helpless, searching for a scrap of paper while my son was gone, shattered what was left of my composure. An hour. He had been gone for an hour.
The world narrowed to a single, burning point. Marcus.
I didn't say goodbye. I ended the call.
And then, the fury came.
It was a silent, incinerating heat that rose from my core, burning away the grief, the fear, the paralysis.
My hands, which had been trembling, went still. My breath, which had been caught in my throat, evened out into a cold, controlled rhythm.
I saw the wardrobe. I remembered the false back. The "gift" I had hidden away in shame and fear.
I crossed the room in three strides. My fingers found the hidden seam and pried it open. There it was. Cold. Heavy. Real.
I didn't hesitate. I picked up the gun.
The weight of it in my hand felt like justice. It felt like power. I slipped it into the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.
The metal was an icy brand against my skin, a constant reminder of what I had to do.
I opened my contacts and hit the number for the Volkan Grand Hotel.
"Connect me to Marcus Volkan's suite. It's Riley. From the Onyx Club."
He answered on the second ring, his voice slick with anticipation. "Riley. I've been expecting your call."
"We need to talk. Your penthouse. Now."
"I'm listening."
"Not on the phone. In person. Now." I didn't wait for a reply. I hung up.
The ride to his hotel was a blur.
The elevator ride to his suite was a silent ascent to my own execution or my salvation.
He opened the door himself, wearing a silk robe, a smug smile plastered on his face.
"Hello beautiful" he purred, stepping aside to let me in. "Finally come to negotiate your new contract?"
I stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind me, and pulled the gun from my waistband and aimed it directly at his chest.
His smile vanished. "What is this? A dramatic negotiation?"
"Where is my son?"
He laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What the hell do you think you are doing? I know you won't shoot, so drop with the act. You're a dancer, not a killer."
I shifted my aim slightly to the left and pulled the trigger.
The roar was deafening in the enclosed space.
A priceless wooden side table exploded into a cloud of splinters next to him.
Marcus flinched, his hands flying up, his face pale with shock.
He stared at the ruined table, then at me, finally seeing the truth in my eyes.
"You're insane," he whispered.
"The next one goes in your knee," I said, the gun steady in my hand. "Where is my son?"
"Okay! Okay!" he spat out, his hands trembling in the air. The smug facade was gone, replaced by the raw panic of a man who knew he was about to be erased for knowing too much.
"You have to understand, I didn't take him! I'm a businessman, not a kidnapper!"
The gun in my hand didn't waver. "Then who did? Where is my son?" My voice was dangerously quiet, a stark contrast to the gunshot still ringing in the room.
"I don't know! I swear on my life, I don't know!" he pleaded, his eyes wide and desperate.
"They just wanted information. They knew you'd been to see Falon. They knew you'd seen something. My job was to get into your room, to find the leverage. The photo... it was just data. A file to be delivered. I never touched the boy!"
The pieces didn't just click into place; they slammed together, forming a picture so much more terrifying than I had imagined.
I wasn't standing across from the mastermind.
I was staring at the errand boy.
A cold, sickening dread washed over me, followed by a fury so pure it felt like clarity.
He was a link in a chain, and that chain led to a shadow far more powerful than Marcus Volkan.
He saw the understanding dawn on my face and mistook it for mercy. "See? We can work this out. I can help you—"
He was wrong. This changed nothing.
He had sold the photo of my son's face. He had handed the key to my soul to a monster. He had torn my world apart for a profit.
My finger tightened on the trigger. The fury in my eyes silenced him forever.
"He took my son," I whispered, the words a vow to the empty room. "But you sold the map."
"I want his footage from this hotel," I demanded. "The security tape. Give it to me. Now."
His eyes darted toward a sleek laptop on his desk. He was trapped.
He licked his lips, thinking fast. "It's not here. It's in a secure server room."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not! I need to call my tech. He can bring a copy."
"Do it. Now."
He picked up his phone, his movements slow and deliberate. He dialed, his eyes never leaving mine.
"It's me," he snapped into the phone. "Bring the X-file to my suite. Now." A pause. He glared at the receiver.
"I don't care if it's protocol! Do you know who I am? Bring it. Now." He slammed the phone down. "He's coming."
We stood in silence, the gun between us.
A minute passed. Then two.
I could see the calculation returning to his eyes.
The fear was being edged out by a desperate gamble.
He was realizing that even if he gave me the file, I couldn't let him live. He knew I had Billy. He had to make a move.
The knock at the door came. "Sir? I have the file."
"It's open!" Marcus called out, his voice tight.
The moment the knob turned, he moved.
He lunged, not for the gun, but for the heavy crystal lamp on his desk.
He swung it in a wild, brutal arc. "You stupid, sloppy whore!" he snarled.
I tried to dodge, but the base caught me on the side of the head.
White light exploded behind my eyes. I stumbled, falling to my knees, the gun skittering from my grasp.
My vision swam, the room tilting.
I saw him drop the lamp and snatch a sharp, decorative letter opener from his desk.
A knife. His face was a mask of pure hatred. "You think you can threaten me?" he roared, raising it to plunge down into me.
There was no thought. Only instinct.
My hand scrambled across the carpet, finding the cool, familiar metal of the gun.
I didn't aim. I just pointed at the center of his body and pulled the trigger.
The blast was louder this time, final. The bullet took him in the chest.
He stopped, his eyes wide with surprise.
The letter opener clattered from his hand.
He looked down at the dark, blooming stain on his silk robe, then back at me, a question dying in his eyes.
He took one stumbling step and collapsed, a heap of silk and failure.
The door swung open.
A hulking bodyguard stood there, a silver flash drive in his hand.
His eyes went from his dead boss to me, still on my knees with a smoking gun.
"Sir? What's going on in—"
I didn't let him finish.
I surged up from the floor, every muscle screaming, and slammed the butt of the gun into the side of his head with every ounce of my strength.
The sound was a sickening thud. He grunted, his eyes rolling back as he crumpled to the floor beside his master.
I stood there, panting, surrounded by the wreckage.
The coppery smell of blood filled the air. I bent down, pried the flash drive from his limp fingers, and turned to leave.
I didn't look back.
I was a killer. I was a fugitive.
But I was a mother with a weapon. And I was coming for my son.