Page 156 of Secret Heir

Seraphina has vanished.

Finally, Maksim calls for the security footage. We gather in his office, crowding around the monitors as he pulls up the feeds from the outside cameras.

The footage shows Daniel playing with the girls. Nora stumbles and Daniel helps her to the slide. Seraphina runs toward the back wall of the property, chasing a butterfly or just burning off energy the way toddlers do.

Emma moans in terror.

Then three figures appear from behind the wall. A strangled scream is in my throat as I see the masked men climb over. One grabs Seraphina, his hand covering her mouth before she can scream. Another provides cover. The third appears to be recording or monitoring something.

They’re over the wall with Seraphina in less than thirty seconds. The little girl’s yellow dress is the last thing visible before they disappear.

Emma makes a sound like an animal dying and her knees bend. Leo catches her before she collapses, his own face gray with shock and fury.

“Who the fuck are they?” Cillian demands, his accent thickening with rage.

“I don’t know,” Maksim says, his voice hard as iron. “But we’re going to find out. And we’re going to get her back.”

Leo is already making calls to every contact he has. His voice is cold, but I can see the terror underneath. He keeps looking at Emma like he’s afraid she’ll shatter. I hear him talk to someone named Connor and although I can’t hear what Connor says, I can hear his tone and I’ve never heard a man sound so angry and scared in all my life.

Emma is basically catatonic. Valentina and I sit with her, trying to offer comfort that feels hollow and useless.

What do you say to a mother whose child has been taken?

Hours pass with no word. The sun sets completely. Still nothing.

Daniel is inconsolable, blaming himself despite everything we’ve said. I try to reassure him, but my son doesn’t listen. Cillian is coordinating with Brennan family resources while Nikolai has every Bratva contact searching. Maksim is calling in every favor he’s ever accumulated.

But there’s nothing. No leads. No sightings. No demands.

Just silence.

Then, around midnight, several phones start to buzz. Leo, Maksim, Cillian, and Nikolai all look down and dive for them. Leo is faster.

He looks at the screen, and his face goes even paler than it already was.

“What is it?” Maksim demands.

Leo turns the phone so we can all see.

It’s a text message from an unknown number:

We have the child. This is just the beginning.

EXTENDED EPILOGUE: NICO

The text arrives at 7:30 p.m.

We have the Santoro child.

I don’t respond immediately. I set down my whiskey and study the photograph pinned to the wall of my private office.

Dr. Katerina Sokolov.

The photo was taken two years ago, outside Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.

She’s caught mid-stride in the late afternoon sun, still in her scrubs, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. I trace the curve of her cheek.

She’s beautiful in that effortless way some women have by just existing in her own competence. She’s looking down at her phone, completely unaware she was being photographed.