Chapter 1 - The Bloodstained Nursery
The heavy oak front door clicked shut with a sickeningly hollow finality, but Gabriel Costa didn’t hear it over the deafening silence of his own estate. Outside, the freezing Chicago November rain hammered against the bulletproof glass like an accusing fist, soaking through his coat and chilling his skin. Yet, the ice spreading through his chest had nothing to do with the weather.
Gabriel was the undisputed kingpin of the Costa syndicate—a man who ruled the streets through unyielding violence, political blackmail, and calculated terror. But tonight, he was merely a man returning home at dawn after spending a cowardly, dissolute night in a downtown high-rise hotel with his mistress, Bianca.
He had convinced himself that his absence was justified. For months, his pregnant wife, Norah, had grown chillingly distant, her eyes looking through him with a quiet, devastating disappointment that made his skin crawl. Unable to face the suffocating reality of his own failures, Gabriel had turned off his phone at midnight and fled into the warm, uncomplicated arms of another woman.
Now, stepping into the mansion’s sprawling foyer at 5:15 a.m., a wave of nausea hit him. The scent of cheap vanilla perfume—lingering stubbornly on his collar from Bianca’s apartment—turned his stomach. He unbuttoned his coat, letting it slide to the marble floor.
Then he stopped.
A dark, rust-colored smear stained the white Italian marble near the base of the grand staircase.
Gabriel’s breath hitched. He stepped closer, his boots making a soft echo in the cavernous hall. It was dried blood.
Panic, sharp and blinding, surged through his veins. He didn’t bother calling out. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. The master bedroom door stood wide open. The king-sized bed was completely unmade, the expensive silk sheets stripped bare and tossed into a damp, tangled heap on the floor.
He rushed into the en suite bathroom. Every light blazed brilliantly. The massive soaking tub was half-filled with lukewarm, pale pink water. Piles of blood-soaked towels and discarded medical gauze wrappers littered the expensive tile, filling the humid air with the sharp, metallic tang of iron and rubbing alcohol.
Gabriel staggered backward into the hallway, his hands trembling violently. He followed the trail of dark smears down the corridor until they ended abruptly at a pair of double doors painted a soft, calming gray.
The nursery.
He pushed the door open. The room was a masterpiece of luxury—soft pastel walls, designer furniture, and two pristine white bassinets sitting side by side in the center of the room. Gabriel stumbled toward them, his vision blurring.
Both bassinets were completely empty.
No sleeping infants. No exhausted, radiant mother resting in the rocking chair. No sounds of life whatsoever.
May you like
Gabriel grabbed the edges of the bassinet, his knuckles turning white as he stared down into the empty white blankets. The horrific truth crashed down upon him with the force of a tidal wave. While he had been tangled in motel sheets, ignoring seventy-four missed calls and thirty desperate text messages, his wife had gone into labor. Alone. She had delivered his children in a freezing bathtub, bleeding out on the bathroom tiles while he was miles away, trading his family for a cheap distraction.
And now, she had vanished, taking his children with her.
