Chapter 6 – THE WRONG BOY

Dominic squinted through the dirty glass of the office window. “What are you talking about? He matches the description. Brown hair, twelve years old.”

“I raised him,” I hissed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I know my own brother. That boy is too tall. And Toby wears thick glasses. He can’t see three feet in front of him without them.”

Dominic’s jaw tightened. “If that’s not Toby… who is it?”

Down on the warehouse floor, the heavy metal doors slid open. Enzo Moretti walked in, wearing a camel-hair coat. He approached the boy in the chair and roughly grabbed him by the chin, forcing him to look up.

The boy spat directly in Moretti’s face.

Moretti backhanded him, sending the chair toppling over. The boy crashed to the concrete, but he didn’t cry out.

“Boss,” Michael whispered, his hand on his weapon. “We have to move.”

“Hold on,” Dominic said, his eyes glued to the scene below.

Moretti wiped his face and kicked the chair upright. “Where is the Romano kid?” Moretti demanded, his voice echoing up to our office. “Catherine said he was at St. Jude’s. We tear the place apart, and we find you instead.”

The boy glared at him. “I told you, you old creep. Toby’s gone. He ran away two days ago.”

My breath caught. Ran away?

“Where did he go?” Moretti yelled.

“He figured out someone was watching him,” the boy said bravely. “He left a note. Said he was going to find his real dad.”

Moretti pulled a gun and pressed it to the boy’s forehead. “You’re lying. The kid’s a coward.”

Dominic didn’t wait another second.

He kicked the office door open and leveled his rifle. “Drop it, Enzo!”

Chaos erupted. Moretti’s men scrambled for cover, raising their weapons. But Dominic’s men had the high ground. A brief, deafening exchange of gunfire echoed through the warehouse. Three of Moretti’s men dropped. The rest threw down their guns.

Dominic leaped down the metal stairs, his gun fixed on Moretti. I ran down right behind him, terrified for the boy.

“It’s over, Enzo,” Dominic said, stepping over the debris.

Moretti laughed, keeping his gun aimed at the boy’s head. “You think you won, Dom? You don’t even have your kid. And neither do I.”

I rushed forward and kicked Moretti’s knee as hard as I could. He buckled with a grunt of pain, dropping his weapon. Michael immediately pinned him to the floor.

I knelt beside the boy and untied the thick ropes around his wrists. “Are you okay?” I asked frantically. “What’s your name?”

“Sam,” the boy said, rubbing his bruised arms. He looked at me, then his eyes widened. “Wait. Are you Emily?”

“Yes! How do you know me?”

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled, silver St. Christopher medal. It was exactly like the one Dominic wore.

“Toby gave me this,” Sam said. “He said a lady came to visit him and tried to take him away, but he saw her talking to some scary guys outside. He got spooked. He left this for me and said if anyone came looking, to tell them he went to the only place he felt safe.”

Dominic knelt beside us, gently taking the silver medal from Sam’s hand. He stared at it, the weight of a son he’d never met crushing him in real time.

“Emily,” Dominic said softly. “Where would he go? Where is the one place he felt safe?”

I thought about Toby. The quiet, gentle boy who loved to paint. The boy who hated loud noises and crowded spaces. The boy who, just last month, asked me if he could visit the one place our mother always took us when we were sad.

My blood ran cold.

“The old lighthouse,” I whispered. “At Cape May. We used to go there every summer before my mom died.”

Dominic stood up. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

Suddenly, a slow, mocking clap echoed from the shadows near the cargo ship doors.

We all turned.

Vincent stepped into the light, completely drenched in rain, holding a sleek assault rifle.

“You guys really make things complicated,” Vincent smiled. And then he pulled the trigger.

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