Chapter 2 - THE 6:47 A.M. DISCOVERY
The sun over Chicago did not actually rise that morning; it merely bled a pale, sickly gray through the heavy soup of smog and rain.
Vincenzo Duca woke up alone in the master bed at 6:40 a.m.
Valentina had left around two in the morning. She had grown increasingly irritated as the night wore on, frustrated by the fact that Vincenzo’s mind kept drifting away from her—his eyes constantly flicking toward the hallway, his phone gripped tightly in his palm, his attention fractured by an inexplicable sense of restlessness he couldn't quite name.
After she slammed the penthouse door behind her, Vincenzo had spent the remaining hours of the night sitting in his leather-bound study on the lower level, staring at import-export manifests and pretending to read maritime security reports. But beneath the veneer of his corporate control, a strange, phantom chill had settled into his bones—the distinct, nagging scent of chamomile tea and absolute absence.
At 6:45 a.m., needing a glass of water, he walked out of the study and toward the kitchen.
That was when he saw it.
The white manila envelope sitting dead center on the long mahogany table in the formal dining room.
Vincenzo stopped mid-stride. His polished leather shoes clicked softly against the floorboards as he approached the table. The sight of the envelope triggered an immediate, visceral spike of adrenaline—an instinct honed by a decade of turf wars, federal investigations, and bloody territorial disputes.
A warning? A message from the Outfit?
His hand darted out, tearing the flap open.
Inside wasn't a photograph of a dead drop, nor a ledger of missing shipments, nor a threat scrawled in blood.
It was a medical printout.
Vincenzo’s dark eyes scanned the thermal paper. He knew what an ultrasound looked like. He had attended enough baptisms, christenings, and hospital visits for the children of his captains and capos over the years to recognize the curved, ghostly shape on the screen, the tiny anatomical measurements printed neatly in the corner, and the date stamp.
Yesterday's date.
Patient: Celeste Duca.
Gestational Age: 12 Weeks.
For the first time in his adult life, Vincenzo Duca experienced a total, catastrophic cognitive collapse. His fingers tightened around the paper until the edges crumpled. The silence of the massive penthouse suddenly felt deafening, pressing against his eardrums like deep-sea pressure.
“Celeste?” he called out.
His voice wasn't a shout. It was low, steady, and dangerously careful.
No answer.
He walked out of the dining room and took the stairs two at a time, moving with the terrifying speed of a predator realizing its den has been breached.
“Celeste!”
He pushed open the door to the master bedroom.
It was neat. Too neat. The bed was made with military precision—a task Celeste usually left to the morning cleaning staff. Her silver-framed photograph of her mother was gone from the nightstand. The top drawers of her dresser were slid half an inch open.
He wrenched open the walk-in closet.
To an untrained eye, it looked full. But to Vincenzo, who knew every detail of his domain, the truth hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
The rows of wool coats were missing her favorite winter jacket. Her travel trunk was gone. The small velvet box containing her childhood baptismal chain was missing from the shelf.
She hadn't just gone out for coffee. She hadn't visited a friend.
She had packed up her life and walked out.
Vincenzo stood in the center of the silent closet until the reality turned hard and heavy enough to hold in his hands.
May you like
He walked over to the nightstand, picked up her abandoned smartphone lying face-down on the marble surface, and pocketed it. Then he pulled out his own encrypted satellite phone and dialed a single three-digit speed dial.
“Enzo,” Vincenzo said the moment the line connected. “Get up here. Now.”
