Chapter 1

Ever since my husband, the mafia capo Rocco Marchetti, poured all his attention and the family's resources into his brother's widow, the woman whose husband took a bullet for him.

I found our daughter Tessy's diary, where she had started writing, "My Papa is gone."

A nun from her private Catholic school called, asking about his passing.

I paused for a moment. "Yes," I replied. "He passed away a long time ago."

On Father's Day, the school organized a trip to the church to light prayer candles.

While other children wrote cards praying for their fathers' safety, Tessy neatly wrote just two words on hers: "To Heaven."

During the parent-teacher open house, the nuns displayed the children's decorated diaries on their desks. The theme for their entries was My Father.

My Papa died in a shootout in the next neighborhood over. A lady there wouldn't stop crying, and then Papa never came home.

After every entry like this, she would clutch the crucifix on her necklace, her small hand gripping it so tightly her palm grew slick with sweat.

Eventually, Rocco sensed the growing chill at home.

He dropped everything and rushed back to the estate with a bouquet of expensive red roses, hoping to celebrate his daughter's birthday with her.

The door opened. On the coffee table lay Tessy's new diary, its title scrawled in a childish hand: If Papa Were Still Alive.

Chapter 1

Ever since my husband, the capo Rocco, began pouring all his attention into his brother's widow.

According to our daughter Tessy's diary, her father was already a dead man.

When the nun from her school called to ask, I calmly played along, telling her he had been gone for a long time.

On her Father's Day prayer card, Tessy wrote only two words: To Heaven. At the parent-teacher open house, she wrote that her Papa died in a shootout in the next neighborhood over.

Later, Rocco finally sensed something was wrong.

He dropped everything and rushed back to the estate to celebrate his daughter's birthday.

When he pushed open the door, he saw a new diary lying on the coffee table. The title read: If Papa Were Still Alive.

"Gwen, is this how you're raising our child?"

Rocco stared at the diary on the coffee table.

The childish scrawl was written in pencil: If Papa Were Still Alive.

The smile on his face vanished, his eyes widening and turning red.

"I'm standing right fucking here, and you're letting our daughter write that I'm dead?"

He snapped his head toward me, his voice booming as he tossed the couture ballet dress he had ordered for her onto the sofa.

"I didn't teach her to write that."

"Those are her words, not mine."

Rocco clenched his jaw, his hands grabbing the diary as if he meant to tear it apart.

But he froze, staring at his daughter's handwriting for a long moment before slowly placing the notebook back down.

He had no idea that this wasn't the first time Tessy had held a funeral for him in her diary.

Ever since he moved Salvatore's widow, Carmela, and her son into an apartment in Queens, her father had ceased to exist in Tessy's world.

I didn't say a word, just stared at him coldly.

Hearing the commotion, Tessy emerged from her bedroom.

Wearing a faded nightgown, she hid behind me.

She didn't throw herself into his arms crying "Papa!" like she used to, nor did she shrink from his roaring.

She just looked at Rocco quietly, as if she were looking at a stranger.

A look like that cut deeper than any hysterical sob.

Rocco's breath hitched, the anger in his throat dying as if smothered by something unspoken.

He pulled at his shirt collar in frustration, suppressing his temper, and picked up that gorgeous tutu.

"Tessy, come here."

He deliberately softened his voice.

"Papa bought you the Swan Lake ballet dress."

"Don't you have a showcase at the theater next month?"

"Come, let's see if the size is right."

It was the ornate lace dress Tessy had admired in a shop window for three months, the one Rocco had always brushed off, promising he would buy it for her next time.

In the past, Tessy would have thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him excitedly.

But now, she remained completely motionless.

Seeing this, Rocco sighed.

He knelt on one knee, spreading the hem of the dress to measure it against his daughter.

Just a second before his fingertips could touch her, the phone in his pocket rang.

The ringtone was soft and musical, but everyone in the family knew it was Carmela's private line.

Rocco's hand shot back as if burned. He stood instinctively, pulling out his phone to answer.

"Carmela, what's wrong?"

His voice, without him even realizing it, was tender and anxious.

A choked voice came from the other end. "Rocco, I'm sorry to bother you again."

"But a rival crew is circling the building, and Elio's having another panic attack."

"He keeps crying for his uncle to hold him. I can't calm him down by myself, I'm so scared."

I stood by and listened to her well-rehearsed performance, my stomach churning.

Rocco's expression changed.

Without a moment's hesitation, he tossed the expensive dress onto the carpet and grabbed his holstered gun and car keys from the entry table.

"Gwen, watch Tessy. Elio's in danger. I have to take some men over there now."

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if abandoning his own daughter to protect another man's son was the most natural thing in the world.

With a loud bang, the front door slammed shut behind him. He didn't look back at Tessy once.

The house was as quiet as a tomb.

Tessy stepped forward, looking down at the crumpled, haute couture dress.

Then, she bent down, picked up the dress, and stuffed it into the trash can next to the dining table.

"Mama."

Tessy looked up at me, her voice incredibly soft.

"Dead people don't give presents, right?"

A wound tore through my heart, so deep every breath I took tasted of blood.

I crouched down, holding my daughter tightly in my arms, kissing her hair.

"Right."

Once Tessy was fast asleep, I sat in the study alone and pulled open the bottom drawer.

Inside lay a letter sealed with wax. It was a top-secret acceptance letter from an international medical research institute.

I was an attending orthopedic surgeon. To accommodate Rocco's life as a capo, I had already given up three opportunities for advanced studies at top medical schools.

But now, I refused to wallow in this filth any longer.

I picked up a red pen and drew a thick circle around a date fifteen days away on the desk calendar.

That was the final day to report to the institute.

In fifteen days, my daughter and I would leave this city.

We would live as if Rocco Marchetti had never existed.

Chapter 2

Countdown: 10 days.

I had just finished a six-hour emergency surgery, dragging myself back to the estate.

The moment I stepped onto the porch, I froze.

The front door stood wide open, and the rough shouts of a few of Rocco's men echoed from inside.

I walked in quickly, and the sight before me made my blood boil.

The Persian rug in the living room was covered in muddy footprints. Packing peanuts littered the floor, and two of his burly men were carrying the white astronomical telescope out of Tessy's sunroom.

Rocco stood to the side, biting on a cigar, directing them.

"Steady now, don't bump the lens. You drop this thing, it'll cost you half a year's pay."

That was the discontinued telescope I had bought for Tessy's seventh birthday, purchased with two years of my saved bonuses from the hospital.

Tessy used it every night to look at the stars, treating it as her most treasured possession.

She said she was going to use it to find the "Captain's Star" that Papa had told her about.

"Rocco, what the hell are you doing?"

I strode over, my face a cold mask, blocking the path between his men and the door.

Rocco's eyes flickered when he saw me return early, but his expression quickly hardened again.

"Don't stand there. You'll get in the way."

"Carmela moved into her new apartment last week. After the other night, Elio's too scared to sleep without a light on. His psychiatrist suggested stargazing might help with his trauma."

He blew out a puff of smoke.

"It's not easy for a widow raising a child. She could never afford something like this on her own."

"Tessy hasn't been using it much lately anyway. We'll let Elio borrow it for a while."

Listening to his utter nonsense, I was so angry I laughed.

Taking my daughter's most prized possession to soothe another boy's trauma.

How could he make his blatant favoritism sound so noble?

In the past, I would have fought him to the death over it, absolutely insisting on keeping the telescope.

But now, I simply took out my phone, opened the camera, and recorded the movers and Rocco's face in crystal clear detail.

"What are you recording?"

Rocco frowned, stepping forward to snatch my phone.

I took a step back, dodging his hand.

"I'm documenting this."

"This is my personal property. If you give it to someone outside the family without my consent, I have every right to record it."

Rocco's face darkened.

"Gwen, when did you become so petty?"

"He's Salvatore's son."

"Salvatore took a bullet for me. It's just a damn telescope. Is this really necessary?"

He pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his suit pocket and threw it onto the coffee table.

"Fine. Consider this me buying the telescope from you."

"You can buy Tessy an iPad app for stargazing. It's the same thing."

With that, he waved his hand, signaling his men to carry the telescope away.

The truck roared as it left.

The front door closed. I looked at that half-empty sunroom, my chest feeling as though someone was stepping on it.

Tessy came home from school not long after.

Still wearing her backpack, she walked to the door of the sunroom and stopped.

The spot where the telescope used to be was empty, leaving three shallow indentations from the tripod on the oak floor.

Tessy didn't cry, nor did she ask me where the telescope went.

She just walked silently back to her bedroom and opened the diary Rocco had crumpled.

She picked up a pencil and quietly wrote the fourth entry.

The title read: Dead Papa Took My Stars, Too.

I stood outside the half-open door, watching my daughter's frail, stubborn back, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

My phone buzzed.

I opened Instagram to a new post from Carmela.

In the photo, Elio was leaning over the telescope on the balcony, smiling radiantly.

The caption read: May Salvatore watch over us from heaven. Thank you to our dear Uncle Rocco for giving us a light to live by.

The first like was from Rocco's account.

I stared at the photo for a long time before my hand moved on its own, slowly, and tapped 'like'.

Then I switched out of Instagram, opened my banking app, and paid the remaining balance on the West Coast house in full. It was in a good school district, completely shielded from any gang interference.

Just as the payment went through, a text from Rocco popped up on my screen.

[Once Elio is settled, there's a family truce next weekend. I'll take Tessy out on the yacht to make it up to her.]

[Stop teaching our daughter to hold a grudge against this family's heroes.]

I stared at the words "make it up to her," a bitter smile touching my lips.

I didn't reply.

He would never know there wasn't going to be a next weekend for us.

Chapter 3

Countdown: 3 days.

Tonight was the family's annual charity gala.

By tradition, a child of one of the capos was to present a painting to the Godfather, Don Vittorio, symbolizing the family's legacy and loyalty.

Tessy, wearing the velvet dress I had custom-made for her, sat in the front row of the banquet hall.

Her eyes were fixed on the carved wooden doors at the entrance.

I sat beside her, holding her small, slightly sweaty hand, a sharp pain squeezing my heart.

I knew his empty promises meant he wouldn't show, but a child's heart always holds on to a sliver of hope.

Tessy whispered, "Mama, Papa said he would definitely be here to watch me present my painting to the Godfather today."

I didn't say anything, I just held her hand tighter.

Ten minutes before the presentation segment began, my phone screen lit up.

It was a text from Rocco.

[Something came up on our turf. Can't get away.]

[Tell Tessy I'm sorry.]

A cheap excuse, a broken promise he took for granted.

I placed my phone face down on my lap, withholding the cruel truth from my daughter.

Tessy looked toward the entrance again. "Maybe Papa's motorcade hit traffic."

The gala continued.

The host, the family's own Consigliere, took the microphone.

"Next, please enjoy the artwork presented to Don Vittorio by one of our family's own young artists."

Tessy's hand squeezed my fingers tightly.

"This year's piece is titled The Godfather and the Longsword!"

The velvet curtains parted, and an oil painting was revealed under the spotlight.

The Godfather in the painting held a longsword, majestic and inviolable. It was the result of half a month of work, her sweat and tears poured onto the canvas.

She had channeled the last of her respect for this family into the brushstrokes.

Tessy stood up excitedly, looking back at me. "Mama! It's my painting!"

I smiled in relief and was just about to lead her toward the red carpet.

The host continued, "And now, please welcome the artist behind this year's piece, Elio Ricci!"

The smile on Tessy's face froze instantly.

The signature in the bottom right corner of the painting on the large screen clearly read "Elio," not "Tessy."

Her hard work had been blatantly stolen and credited to Carmela's son.

Tessy stood frozen in place, her lips moving, but no sound came out.

A few of the other capo wives nearby leaned in to whisper, "Why is Rocco's daughter standing? I thought they called up the widow's son."

Tessy heard it. She silently sat back down and lowered her head.

I clenched my fists, stood, and strode toward the VIP lounge.

Carmela was inside, as expected. She was bending over, straightening a bowtie for Elio, her bright red lipstick applied flawlessly.

I blocked her path. "Carmela, stop right there."

She looked up, a smile still hanging on her face.

"Oh, Gwen. What are you doing in here?"

I stared at her coldly. "My daughter painted that. What right does your son have to take the credit?"

Carmela took a half-step back, her voice low, her shoulders shrinking to make her look pitiful.

"Gwen, don't take this out on me. Rocco arranged this with the Consigliere himself. I honestly had no idea..."

She paused, then leaned closer, her lips twisting into a smirk as she spoke in a voice only I could hear.

"So what if your daughter worked her fingers to the bone? One word from Rocco is all it takes to give the credit to my Elio."

"Men give their favor to whomever they please. Your jealousy won't change the fact that Rocco couldn't care less about you or your daughter."

"You have no shame." Seeing the smug provocation on her face, I slapped her, hard and clean.

Carmela's head whipped to the side, and she clutched her face, letting out a scream.

Just as I was about to drag her out to confront the Consigliere, the lounge door was kicked open.

A hand pushed violently against my shoulder.

"Gwen! What the hell is wrong with you?"

The force of the shove sent me stumbling back, my lower back slamming hard against the marble counter.

I bent over in pain, barely able to lift my head.

The man who had entered was Rocco.

He shielded Carmela and Elio behind him, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.

Carmela pressed against his back, whimpering.

"Rocco, it hurts so much. Don't blame Gwen, it's all my fault. I shouldn't have let Elio take the spotlight. I'll give it back to her..."

Rocco saw the red swelling on Carmela's face. He pulled her into his arms and turned on me, pointing a finger in my face and cursing furiously.

"Gwen, have you lost your mind? Assaulting someone at the family gala? You're acting like a venomous, heartless bitch."

Holding onto the counter, I stood up straight and looked at him.

"Rocco, Tessy painted that stroke by stroke for more than half a month! You changed the signature to Elio, and now you push me for this woman?"

"It's just a painting!" Rocco cut me off. "Tessy is young, she'll have other chances! Elio grew up without a father. He can't hold his head high among the other family kids. He needs this. He needs to be seen by Don Vittorio, to have a patron, to have protection."

"Salvatore took a bullet for me! I gave his son one chance to be seen. So what?"

"As a capo's wife, you should have more grace. Hitting someone? You're being unreasonable."

Venomous. Unreasonable.

My daughter was robbed of the artwork she was so proud of, robbed of the honor of presenting a gift to the Godfather.

I came for justice, and in return, my husband, Tessy's own father, shoved me against a marble counter for another woman.

I said nothing more.

Applause echoed from outside. Elio was led onto the stage by the staff.

He kissed the Godfather's ring, stood in front of Tessy's painting, and smiled for the flashing cameras.

Carmela walked out on Rocco's arm. She approached the edge of the stage and took the microphone, her voice thick with perfectly measured, choked sobs.

"Elio owes everything he has today to our most respected Mr. Rocco Marchetti..."

"Rocco treats us, a widow and her orphan son, better than his own flesh and blood."

Rocco lowered his head and let out a sigh.

"Mama."

A soft call came from behind me, and I turned around. Tessy was standing at the entrance to the restroom.

She looked at Elio holding the painting on stage, looked at Rocco holding Carmela, and looked at me holding my lower back.

"Tessy." Panic gripped my heart, and I reached for her.

But Tessy quietly took a step back.

She looked down at the family rose brooch pinned to her dress.

She raised her hand and slowly, deliberately, unpinned the symbol of honor from her velvet dress. With a clatter, she tossed it into a nearby trash can.

Then, she stood up straight and gently dusted off her hands.

"Mama, let's go home."

My daughter's small face was tight, tears welling in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall.

My heart felt as if it had been carved out with a knife. I walked over and held her tightly without a word.

Then, I turned around and walked through the crowd, leaving the banquet hall without looking back once.

I didn't turn back to argue anymore.

There's no point arguing with a man who is blind to the truth. It's a waste of breath.

Back at the estate, Tessy sat alone in her room for a long time. Then she opened her diary and wrote a new entry.

The title read: Papa Gave My Painting to Someone Else and Hurt Mama for Another Woman.

I took out my phone and opened the airline app.

Without a second thought, I changed our tickets to the West Coast, booking the first red-eye flight for the following day.

I wouldn't stay in this filthy city, this territory controlled by Rocco, for a second longer than I had to.

Chapter 4

On the afternoon of our departure, I took Tessy to an Italian bistro downtown for one last bowl of her favorite pasta.

The neighborhood was bustling with noise.

Holding my hand, Tessy suddenly stopped as we walked past the floor-to-ceiling windows of a high-end restaurant.

I followed her gaze.

Through the glass, I saw Rocco clearly.

With one hand steadying the plate, he used a silver knife to meticulously cut a small piece of filet mignon, dip it in sauce, blow on it, and feed it to Elio.

Carmela sat beside him, smiling. She casually pulled out a napkin and gently wiped a smudge of red wine from Rocco's lips.

Her fingertips lingered on his lips for a moment too long, a deliberately possessive touch.

What a joyous, deeply affectionate picture of a family of three.

Looking at this scene, I almost burst out laughing.

So this was the urgent "turf conflict" he couldn't get away from.

His lie, exposed in broad daylight, was both ridiculous and cheap.

Tessy's little hand gripped the hem of my trench coat tightly as she asked in a low voice:

"Mama, isn't Papa supposed to be in a turf war?"

I let out a cold laugh, taking her hand and turning to leave.

Suddenly, the piercing sound of screeching tires tore through the street.

It was followed by a series of muffled pops, like distant fireworks.

But it wasn't the sound of fireworks; it was automatic rifles.

A black SUV roared past from across the street. The windows rolled down, orange flames spat from the muzzles, and storefronts shattered.

It was a drive-by shooting from a rival gang.

The crowd erupted in screams, scattering in a panicked frenzy.

"Tessy!"

I screamed, my hand clamping down on my daughter's wrist.

But the panicked crowd was a stampede. You didn't choose your direction; you were swept along by it.

A panicked man slammed into my side, sending me sprawling onto the glass-strewn asphalt.

My hand was empty.

"Mama!"

By the time I scrambled up, my head bleeding, the street was thick with the harsh smell of gunpowder and smoke.

I searched frantically through the crowd.

Through the swirling dust, I saw Tessy. She had fallen behind a wide pillar, trapped by chunks of shattered marble from the building's facade.

Right at that moment, a familiar figure charged out of the ruins of the restaurant.

It was Rocco.

His back to the pillar, he turned and returned fire toward the street.

He saw her. He had to have seen her. His own daughter, trapped less than ten yards away.

But from the other side came Carmela's shrill screams.

"Rocco!"

"Help!"

"Elio's arm was cut by the glass!"

Rocco's body stiffened.

He glanced back at his daughter curled up behind the pillar. I will never know what was in his eyes in that moment.

The struggle lasted less than two seconds.

He shouted to her over the chaos.

"Tessy, don't move! Hold on! Papa will get Elio in the car and come right back for you!"

The moment the words left his mouth, I watched helplessly as he turned around, using his own back to shield Carmela and her son from the guns across the street, escorting them all the way to the family's black armored SUV parked by the curb.

In that life-or-death moment, he chose to leave his own daughter behind.

I watched, transfixed, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood.

With a careless "hold on," he left his daughter in the crosshairs.

The dust and smoke settled layer by layer.

Tessy watched the direction the armored car disappeared in, her small body motionless.

She stopped crying. She stopped yelling.

She just slowly lowered the hands covering her ears, letting the choking dust fill her nose and throat.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and her lips trembled slightly.

"Mama, Papa went to save someone else."

"Today, Tessy really doesn't have a Papa anymore."

Those words were a bullet, shattering the last of my sanity.

Roaring, I snatched a broken steel pipe from the ground and, like a madwoman, pried away the marble pinning my daughter.

"Tessy!"

"Mama is here!"

"Mama is here!"

I picked up my nearly unconscious daughter, wrapped her tightly in my trench coat, and sprinted toward the ambulance arriving with its sirens blaring.

The moment the ambulance doors slammed shut, the battlefield outside was cut off.

The red light above the emergency room turned on.

I collapsed onto a cold bench, drained of all strength.

I pulled out my phone and opened the chat with my private lawyer.

[File for divorce. Full custody. Unilateral. Draft the papers immediately.]

[Sever all financial ties. Erase him from our lives.]

After sending the message, I contacted the car service to the airport.

I wished I could leave this place right this very second.

Chapter 5

Two hours later, the doors to the emergency corridor slammed open.

Covered in sweat, gunpowder, and blood, Rocco charged down the hospital corridor, sprinting straight for me.

"Gwen!"

"How's Tessy?"

Even his voice was trembling. He reached out to grab my shoulders.

But before his hands could touch me, Carmela, trailing behind him, suddenly crumpled to the floor.

"Rocco..."

"I can't breathe. Elio just threw up again, and he won't stop screaming. Please, can you go back to the ward and stay with him?"

Carmela gripped the hem of Rocco's bloodstained shirt, tears streaming down her face.

It was a manipulative performance she had perfected.

Every time she cried, Rocco would relent.

But this time, Rocco froze.

He looked down at Carmela's fingers gripping his shirt and violently shook her off.

"Get the hell off me!"

"My daughter is in there fighting for her life!"

Carmela was thrown against the wall. She screamed, and the nurses in the hallway and a few waiting families all turned their heads.

She took the opportunity to writhe on the ground, wailing loudly.

Even furious, Rocco's steps were hindered by her heart-wrenching cries.

At that moment, the attending physician, Dr. Halstead, walked up to me holding a medical chart.

He paused, his voice heavy.

"Dr. Marchetti, the combination of severe oxygen deprivation from the smoke and the acute shock from the shootout has caused her brain's language center to trigger a defensive shutdown."

"In layman's terms, it's severe, trauma-induced aphasia. She has temporarily lost the ability to speak."

The entire corridor went silent.

Even Carmela, who was throwing a tantrum on the floor, was shocked enough to stop her dry sobs.

Rocco froze as if struck by lightning. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, his lips trembling.

"What did you say..."

"What exactly does this mean?"

"What do you mean she can't make a sound?"

"My daughter... She's the smartest girl. She was reading me bedtime stories just last week."

Halstead ignored him, handing the chart directly to me.

I took it and signed my name. My eyes were dry. I didn't shed a single tear.

Holding the medical records, I turned and walked toward the ward.

Rocco panicked, chasing after me and blocking my way.

"Gwen, you can hit me, you can curse at me, you can even stab me with a knife!"

"I deserve to die!"

"I thought the armored car was just around the corner. I thought it would be completely in time to shove them into the car and come back to save her..."

I stopped in my tracks, tilting my head up and scrutinizing him coldly.

I offered no hysterical accusations, nor did I utter a single curse.

I just walked past him, pushed open the door to the ward, and locked it from the inside, right in his face.

Silence was the cruelest verdict.

Rocco was shut out.

He pressed his face to the small window in the door, his eyes fixed on his daughter in the bed.

Wearing an oxygen mask, Tessy slowly opened her eyes and saw Rocco through the glass.

Rocco tapped rhythmically on the glass, his mouth forming her name over and over.

Tessy didn't cry. There was no expression on her face.

She looked at him for two seconds.

Then, she slowly turned her head away and closed her eyes.

In her small world, her father was already dead and buried.

Rocco slid down the door to the floor, covering his face with his hands as his shoulders shook with silent, violent sobs.

Right then, his phone rang.

It was the Consigliere. The family had suffered a massive drive-by, and as the capo of the district, he had to go to a meeting immediately to plan their bloody revenge.

Bound by the family's code, Rocco had to leave. Seeing this, Carmela hastily scrambled up and followed him.

The second he stepped into the elevator, I pressed the call button in the ward.

"This is Dr. Marchetti. Process my daughter's discharge paperwork immediately."

"You heard me right. Right now."

I had everything handled within half an hour.

As an attending physician, I knew all the shortcuts in this hospital.

I had Halstead erase Tessy's admission records from the system, cancelled her local insurance files, and contacted a firm to seal and transfer her academic records from the private school.

At 2:00 AM, holding Tessy, I boarded an interstate flight to the West Coast.

Sitting by the window, Tessy watched the runway lights slipping backward outside.

A thin layer of condensation clouded the window.

Tessy raised a small finger and traced a large X through the fog.

Once finished, she rested her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

This absurd father-daughter bond was officially, finally, severed.

At 7:00 AM.

Rocco, reeking of blood after dealing with the gang shootout, rushed back to the hospital with bloodshot eyes.

He pushed open the door to the ward. It was empty. The bed had been stripped, the sheets piled in a laundry cart.

No me. No Tessy.

There was only a young nurse cleaning up the IV tubes and gauze left from the night before.

"Where did they go?"

"Who took my wife and daughter away?!"

Rocco grabbed the nurse's wrist, nearly lifting her off the ground.

The nurse couldn't break free and reached back to press the call button.

In a state of panic, Rocco reached into his suit jacket, pulled out his gun, and pressed the muzzle against her temple, his eyes bloodshot.

"Talk! Where did they go?"

The nurse turned pale with terror and stammered, "Dr. Marchetti discharged the child early this morning. You're too late, sir."