My trembling hand reached for the black plastic burner phone.

Dante’s hand clamped over mine before I could touch it.

“Don’t,” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.

He snatched the phone himself and swiped the screen.

He pressed the speaker button and held the device between us.

The sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing filled the quiet kitchen.

“Russo,” a voice purred, smooth and dripping with mock sympathy.

It was Lorenzo Moretti.

“Where is she?” I screamed, unable to stop myself.

Dante grabbed my shoulder, his grip tight and warning, but his eyes were fixed on the phone.

“Ah, the mother is there too,” Moretti said, letting out a soft chuckle.

“You have five seconds to tell me she is safe, Lorenzo,” Dante said.

His voice was dangerously calm, the silence of a gathering storm.

“She is perfectly fine, Dante,” Moretti replied. “Sleeping like a baby, which she is.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest heaving as a sob threatened to choke me.

“What do you want?” Dante asked.

“You know what I want,” Moretti said. “Your shipping docks on the south slip.”