As I drew closer to the light, the outline of a large metal shipping container appeared.

A black SUV was parked beside it, its engine idling silently.

Two men stood near the front bumper, their hands buried in the pockets of their heavy coats.

They watched me approach, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods.

“Stop right there,” one of them called out.

I stopped about ten yards away from them.

“Where is my daughter?” I asked, keeping my voice level.

The door of the SUV opened, and a taller man stepped out.

It was Lorenzo Moretti.

He wore a tailored wool coat that looked too expensive for this derelict place.

He smiled, but his eyes remained cold and empty like the river.

“Sophia,” Moretti said, his voice smooth. “You actually came.”

“I want my baby,” I said.

Moretti gestured to the back seat of the SUV.

“She is safe inside,” he said. “For now.”

I took a step forward, but the two guards moved to block me.

“First, we talk about Dante Russo,” Moretti said. “Where is he?”