The crystal glass had not stopped trembling when Sophia Moretti pointed her finger at the child and screamed that she did not belong. The little girl in the plain blue dress said nothing. She did not cry. She did not step back. She only waited — until the room went quiet enough to hear the mafia boss's chair scrape the marble. Then she raised one small hand and pointed. Not at Sophia. Not at the guards. At something behind her. Don Marco Duca saw Sophia's face change, and in ten years of blood he had never once seen her afraid. She was afraid now. And the child still had not spoken a word.

Saint Agnes stood at the end of a narrow road in upstate New York, surrounded by winter-bare trees and a rusted iron fence.

It had once been a private rehabilitation center. Now its windows were boarded, its roof sagged, and weeds covered the entrance.

Marco arrived before dawn with Victor and four men he trusted.

He left Lily at the mansion with Elena, promising to return before she woke.

He had not expected her to follow him.

But when the team reached the front entrance, Victor's phone rang.

Elena's voice came through, frantic.

"Mr. Duca, Lily is gone."

Marco closed his eyes.

"Find her."

"We're trying. She left a note."

"What does it say?"

A pause.

"She drew the building."

Marco looked toward Saint Agnes.

At the far end of the property stood a smaller structure with a collapsed roof. Lily had drawn it on the back of a photograph.

Marco ordered two men to return to the mansion while he searched the grounds.

The main building smelled of damp plaster and old medicine. Rusted beds lined the corridors. In one room, he found a broken crib with a blue ribbon tied around its railing.

He recognized the ribbon from Isabella's portrait.

Victor called from the basement.

"Boss, you need to see this."

Behind a storage shelf was a narrow door hidden by layers of paint. The lock had been broken recently.

Inside was a small room containing a mattress, a water jug, and dozens of children's drawings.

Marco picked one up.

Every picture showed the same woman.

Dark hair. A white dress. A silver pendant.

Isabella.

Beneath the drawings, someone had written dates spanning six years.

The most recent date was three months earlier.

Marco felt the room tilt around him.

"She was here," he whispered.

A sound came from behind the wall.

Three soft knocks.

Everyone froze.

Marco approached the plaster partition and knocked twice in response.

Three knocks came back.

Victor drew his weapon.

"Could be a trap."

Marco ignored him.

He pressed his palm against the wall, searching for a seam. One section shifted inward, revealing a narrow passage behind the plaster.

At the end stood a metal door.

A woman's voice came through it.

"Who is it?"

Marco's breath caught.

He knew that voice.

He had heard it in his dreams for six years.

"Isabella?"

Silence.

Then a whisper.

"Marco?"

He placed his hand against the cold metal.

"It's me."

A lock clicked.

The door opened a few inches.

A woman stood in the darkness, her hair streaked with gray, her face thinner than he remembered. A pale scar crossed her temple. She looked older, frightened, and impossibly familiar.

Marco could not move.

Isabella stared at him.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then she asked the question that shattered his hope.

"Where is our daughter?"

Marco swallowed.

"She's alive."

Isabella covered her mouth.

"Lily?"

He nodded.

She began to cry, clutching the doorframe as though her legs could no longer support her.

Marco reached for her.