Chapter 6 - BRIAR HOUSEBriar House was the kind of place rich people donated to and poor people disappeared into.
It sat three hours north of the city behind fields gone brown with late winter, a large brick building with white columns, trimmed hedges, and security cameras hidden badly in birdhouses. The sign near the driveway read:
BRIAR HOUSE FAMILY WELLNESS CENTER
A lie written in tasteful blue letters.
Lorenzo arrived before dawn.
He did not bring an army. Armies made noise, and his daughter had already been stolen by men who counted on noise to cover fear.
He brought Rocco, Sophia, Sister Agnese, and Emma.
Rocco objected to the child coming. Lorenzo did too, silently. But Emma had woken screaming when Sophia tried to leave her at the mansion. She clung to her mother with both arms and cried, “Bad man in house,” until Lorenzo understood that children who knew too much could not be kept safe by being left behind.
So Emma slept now in the back seat against Sophia’s lap, the gray rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
Sister Agnese sat beside them, one hand around a rosary, one hand around the ledger.
“You are sure this is wise?” she asked.
Lorenzo looked out at Briar House.
“No.”
“At least you are honest.”
“Honesty has become fashionable tonight.”
The nun almost smiled.
Rocco handed Lorenzo binoculars.
“Two guards at the front. One by the west entrance. Lights on second floor. Kitchen staff moving.”
“And children?”
Rocco hesitated.
“Some.”
Lorenzo took the binoculars.
Through the glass, he saw a small face at an upstairs window. Then another. Then the curtain moved and they were gone.
His hand tightened.
Briar House was not a hospice.
It was inventory.
Sophia whispered from the back, “Mr. DeLuca.”
He turned.
Emma was awake.
The little girl rubbed her eyes, then pointed at the building.
“Baby song.”
Lorenzo went still.
“What?”
Emma sat up, listening.
“I hear baby song.”
No one else heard anything.
Sophia stroked her hair. “Sweetheart, maybe you dreamed—”
Emma shook her head. “No. Same song.”
“The music box?” Lorenzo asked.
She nodded.
“It goes sleepy-sleepy, moon go bright.”
Sister Agnese closed her eyes.
“Isabella’s lullaby.”
Lorenzo looked at the building again.
Hope was no longer soft in him.
It was sharp enough to cut.
They entered as dawn bruised the sky.
Rocco disabled the west entrance camera. Lorenzo picked the lock with a skill he had learned long before suits and power made such things unnecessary. Inside, Briar House smelled like disinfectant, oatmeal, and fear.
A nurse in pink scrubs rounded the corner carrying a clipboard.
She saw Lorenzo and froze.
Rocco took the clipboard before she could scream.
Lorenzo stepped close.
“Children’s ward.”
“I don’t know—”
He showed her the photograph of Lucia.
The nurse’s face changed.
Not recognition.
Guilt.
Lorenzo lowered his voice.
“Where?”
The nurse began to cry.
“Room seven.”
“Is she there now?”
“I don’t know. They moved some children last night.”
“Who moved them?”
“A man. Gray hair. Expensive coat.”
Carlo.
Rocco cursed.
Lorenzo’s restraint thinned.
“Room seven.”
They found it at the end of the second-floor hallway.
The door was painted yellow. A paper moon was taped to it, colored purple by a child’s crayon. Beneath the moon, someone had written LUCY in block letters.
Lorenzo could not open the door at first.
His hand rested on the knob.
For years, men had called him fearless because they did not understand the difference between courage and emptiness. Lorenzo had not feared death since nineteen. He had not feared prison, betrayal, blood, or God.
But he feared this door.
Because behind it might be nothing.
Or worse.
Behind it might be proof that he had arrived too late.
Sophia stepped beside him.
“Open it,” she whispered. “A father should not knock on his own child’s door.”
Lorenzo turned the knob.
The room was small.
A crib stood near the window. A rocking chair sat in the corner. A shelf held three picture books, a stuffed lamb, and a cheap plastic night-light shaped like a star.
The crib was empty.
Lorenzo entered slowly.
The sheet was still warm.
On the pillow lay a single dark curl.
He picked it up between two fingers.
His breath stopped.
Rocco checked the closet, bathroom, under the bed, though no baby could hide there. Sophia covered her mouth. Emma toddled to the crib and reached through the bars.
“She was here,” the child whispered.
Lorenzo turned to the nurse.
“Where did they take her?”
The woman shook so hard the clipboard rattled in Rocco’s hand.
“I don’t know. I swear. They came at three in the morning. Mr. Vale signed the release.”
“Vale?” Lorenzo said.
“Dr. Vale’s son. Martin Vale. He handles placements.”
Helena had not mentioned a son.
Or perhaps she had chosen survival over completeness.
Sister Agnese stepped into the room, eyes scanning every corner.
“Lorenzo.”
He looked at her.
She pointed to the wall behind the rocking chair.
At first, he saw only peeling paint.
Then he saw scratches.
Not random.
Letters.
Tiny, hurried, carved low near the baseboard.
Tell L. I am close.
Below that was a symbol.
A swallow.
Isabella’s necklace.
Lorenzo touched the carving.
“She was here.”
Sister Agnese nodded.
“Recently.”
Rocco returned from the hallway with a phone pressed to his ear.
“Boss. We found the office.”
Lorenzo stood.
The office was downstairs behind a locked glass door. Inside, file cabinets lined one wall. A computer hummed on the desk. A shredder bin overflowed with strips of paper.
Rocco’s man held up a torn label.
LUCY BELL — PLACEMENT FINALIZATION
Lorenzo’s pulse pounded once in his ears.
“Finalization where?”
Rocco spread documents across the desk.
“Private adoption transfer. Buyer listed under trust name.”
“Buyer?”
The word left Lorenzo’s mouth like something unholy.
Rocco swallowed.
“Sterling Family Trust.”
Sophia frowned. “Sterling?”
Lorenzo knew the name.
David Sterling. Real estate billionaire. Public philanthropist. Private coward. A man who had tried for years to buy protection from the DeLucas and been refused because his money smelled too much like children’s hospitals and missing pensions.
“Why would Sterling buy my daughter?” Lorenzo asked.
Sister Agnese answered before anyone else could.
“Because a DeLuca heir is not a baby to men like that. She is a weapon.”
A crash sounded upstairs.
Emma screamed from the hallway.
Lorenzo ran.
He reached the stairwell in time to see Sophia struggling with a man in a gray suit. Emma was behind her, crying. The man had one hand twisted in Sophia’s hair and the other holding a knife.
Rocco raised his gun.
The man pulled Sophia in front of him.
“Back up!” he shouted.
Lorenzo stopped.
The man’s eyes flicked over him.
“Mr. DeLuca. Your uncle sends his love.”
Sophia whimpered.
Emma sobbed, “Mama!”
Lorenzo’s gaze moved from the knife to the man’s face.
“You know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know how this ends.”
The man laughed nervously.
“Not today.”
He backed toward the exit, dragging Sophia. Emma tried to run after them.
Lorenzo caught the child with one arm.
She fought him, screaming for her mother.
The man reached the door.
Then Sophia did something no one expected.
She stopped crying.
She looked at Lorenzo, then down at Emma.
And she threw herself backward with all her weight.
The knife sliced across her arm instead of her throat. Rocco fired. The man hit the wall and slid down, leaving Sophia gasping on the floor.
Emma broke free and ran to her.
Sophia wrapped her bleeding arm around her daughter and whispered, “I’m okay, baby. I’m okay.”
Lorenzo stood over the dying man.
“Where is Sterling taking the child?”
The man smiled through blood.
“Too late.”
Lorenzo crouched.
“Where?”
The man’s eyes began to glaze.
“Wedding,” he whispered.
Then he died.
Rocco looked at Lorenzo.
“Wedding?”
Lorenzo stood slowly.
David Sterling’s only son was getting married that afternoon at the Plaza.
Three hundred guests.
Press coverage.
Security.
A perfect place to introduce a privately adopted baby as a miracle heir.
Or a perfect place to trade one.
Lorenzo lifted Emma into Sophia’s arms, then turned toward the door.
“Call everyone,” he said.
Rocco’s face hardened.
“We hitting the Plaza?”
May you like
Lorenzo looked at the sunrise.
“No,” he said. “We are attending a wedding.”
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