On the desk monitor, the red dot on Noah’s forehead remained perfectly still.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“It is not about what I want anymore,” she said. “It is about what Salvatore requires.”

The line clicked, and the screen in front of us split in two.

On the left side, the live feed of my three sleeping babies continued.

On the right side, a high-definition video broadcast began to play.

Salvatore Vale sat in a high-backed leather armchair in a wood-paneled study.

Next to him stood Richard Hart, his expensive gray suit immaculate, holding a glass of amber liquid.

“Is Isabella’s little rat listening?” Salvatore asked, looking directly into his camera.

“She is listening, Salvatore,” Camille’s voice came through my phone speaker.

“Excellent,” Salvatore said.

He leaned forward, resting his liver-spotted hands on the silver handle of his cane.

“You thought you could hide in the old drainage vaults,” Richard Hart said, chuckling.

“The Vale family does not lose its assets,” Salvatore said. “And those children are Vale assets.”

Isabella stepped closer to the console, her fingers tapping rapidly on a side keyboard.