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Below the photo, one line of text: Want your son alive, come alone to the abandoned cold storage on 7th Avenue, Queens. Tell Moretti or the cops, you'll be collecting his body.

My blood turned to ice.

Fingers shaking, I dialed Anna's number.

Off.

Tried the hotel landline.

No answer.

"No... no no no..."

I grabbed my bag, bolted out of the workshop. Didn't even grab a jacket.

Remembering the note said Rocco was at the front, I didn't dare alert him and bring Marcelo's men. Bit down hard and slammed through the dim emergency exit in the back alley, stumbled into the rear street, and flagged a cab.

"Queens, 7th Avenue! Now!"

"Miss, that's all abandoned construction—"

"I'll tip extra! Just drive!"

My face scared him. He hit the gas.

The view outside blurred past. Still too slow. Way too slow.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. My mind was chaos.

Leon... my baby...

I should call Marcelo.

I should call the cops.

But the text said "Tell Moretti or the cops, you'll be collecting his body."

I couldn't risk it. Wouldn't dare gamble with his life.

I had to make sure Leon was really there first.

Maybe it's a sick joke. Maybe...

But why wasn't Anna answering?

Dread coiled tighter in my gut. Tears blurred my vision. I wiped them away viciously. Outside, the scenery shifted from Manhattan's gleaming skyline to the desolate industrial wasteland at the edge of Queens.

Forty minutes later, tires screamed as the cab skidded to a stop near an abandoned construction site at the end of 7th Avenue.

Weeds everywhere. Rusted cranes jutted into the gray sky like massive black skeletons. No people. No cars. Deadly quiet.

"Miss, this place is really dangerous—"

"Here's a hundred." I shoved cash at him. "Go."

I got out and ran toward the address in the text.

The abandoned cold storage loomed ahead—an unfinished low cement building. The black iron door hung half-open like a gaping maw.