“She’s not here,” the man yelled.

Dominic stopped, his face freezing.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Dominic roared.

The man pointed toward the hangar behind us.

“She left ten minutes ago in the helicopter,” he shouted.

My phone buzzed again in my hand.

It was an unknown number, but a text message appeared on the screen.

It was a single image.

A live video feed of a dark room, where a little girl with bright, distinct Valenti eyes sat at a small wooden table, holding a stuffed rabbit.

I held out the phone, my hand shaking so hard the image blurred.

Dominic looked down, his eyes widening as he saw our daughter.

“Lucia,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the roar of the jet engines.

He snatched the phone from my grip, his thumb pressing against the screen as if he could reach through it and pull her out.

The young man on the plane stairs took a step backward, terrified of the look on Dominic’s face.

“Where is the helicopter going?” Dominic roared, stepping toward the stairs.