THE MAFIA BOSS’S SECRET HEIRS

The silence in the minivan was absolute, broken only by the violent, ragged sound of Clara’s breathing.

“No,” she gasped, her hands frantically scrambling over the empty seats, searching for bodies that weren’t there. “No, no, no! Leo! Max!”

I unclipped my seatbelt and threw myself into the back row. Sloane was still bound, her eyes wide with genuine shock. The heavy sliding door on the passenger side was wide open, the cold mountain air rushing in.

“Luca! Did you stop?” I roared, scanning the dark tree line.

“I swear to God, Boss, I didn’t stop!” Luca yelled back, his gun already drawn as he scanned the perimeter. “I slowed down at the switchback a mile ago, but the doors were locked!”

I looked down at the floorboards. The child safety locks hadn’t been disabled. They had been bypassed. A small, precise incision in the plastic paneling exposed the locking mechanism. Someone had reached in and popped the lock manually.

Sloane let out a dry, hacking laugh from the back floorboard.

“I told you, Dominic,” Sloane sneered. “Marco is a professional. He didn’t just forge paperwork. He had one of his ghosts inside your vehicle before you even left Boston.”

I grabbed Sloane by the throat, pulling her face inches from mine. “Where did he take them?”

“I don’t know,” she gasped, struggling against my grip. “The cabin was supposed to be the rendezvous point!”

I dropped her and jumped out of the van, my weapon raised. Clara was already on the porch, falling to her knees beside the small blue shoe. She clutched it to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Dominic, they took them. They took my babies.”

I knelt beside her, wrapping my arms around her shaking shoulders. I looked at the broken door of the cabin. The wood was splintered outward. The door hadn’t been kicked in. It had been kicked out.

Someone had broken out of the cabin, not into it.

I stood up, signaling for Luca to cover me. I moved slowly through the shattered doorway, the beam of my tactical flashlight cutting through the darkness.

The inside of the cabin was a fortress. Reinforced steel on the windows. Emergency rations stacked to the ceiling. Clara hadn’t just bought a house; she had built a bunker.

But the bunker was destroyed. Furniture was overturned. Bullet holes riddled the drywall. There had been a massive firefight here recently.

“Clear,” Luca called out from the back bedroom.

I walked into the kitchen. On the heavy oak table, illuminated by a single flickering overhead light, was a map of New England. A bloody handprint smeared the topography.

And pinned to the center of the map with a heavy combat knife was a single train ticket.

I pulled the knife free and picked up the ticket.

It was yellowed, old, and fragile. I recognized it instantly. It was the exact same train ticket my father had given Clara six years ago to flee Boston. The ticket to Nowhere, Maine.

I stared at the ticket, the pieces of the puzzle violently shifting in my mind.

Marco didn’t take the boys from the van. Marco’s ghost didn’t unlock the door.

“Luca,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Check the van again. Check the undercarriage.”

Luca ran outside. A minute later, he returned, holding a small, crushed black box with wires hanging from it.

“Signal jammer,” Luca reported. “Military grade. It knocked out the van’s internal sensors. Whoever took the kids hopped onto the running boards at the switchback, popped the lock, and grabbed them while we were moving.”

“Not whoever,” a weak, raspy voice echoed from the shadows of the pantry.

I whipped my gun toward the sound.

A figure stumbled out of the darkness, clutching a bleeding gunshot wound to the abdomen.

Clara gasped, running into the kitchen.

It was an older woman, her silver hair matted with blood, her hands shaking as she leaned heavily against the counter.

“Mrs. Moretti?” Clara whispered in shock.

I lowered my weapon, utterly paralyzed.

It was my mother. Isabella Moretti. The woman who had supposedly abandoned our family and moved to Italy twenty years ago.

“Dominic,” my mother coughed, sliding down the cabinets to the floor. “You’ve grown into a handsome man.”

I rushed forward, sliding on the bloody linoleum to catch her before her head hit the ground. “Mom? What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Florence!”

My mother let out a bitter, wet laugh. “I never went to Florence, Dom. Your father sent me away. Just like he tried to send Clara away. But I didn't run. I stayed in the shadows. Watching you. Protecting you when I could.”

She looked up at Clara, a weak smile crossing her pale face. “You did a beautiful job with the boys, Clara. They are so brave.”

“Where are they?” Clara begged, dropping to her knees beside us. “Please, Isabella. Who took them?”

“Marco sent a hit squad here an hour ago,” my mother wheezed, gripping my shirt collar. “He found the deed to the cabin in your father’s old files. He knew Clara would run here. I’ve been guarding this place for three years. I killed four of Marco’s men, but there were too many.”

She coughed, blood spattering her lips.

“I didn't take the boys from the van, Dominic. I couldn't reach you in time.”

“Then who did?” I demanded, panic rising in my throat.