Chapter 7
The hallway was still covered in a fine layer of white drywall dust. The heavy wooden panel lay discarded on the floor, exposing the dark, gaping wound in the wall. Ryan took off his tailored suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his dark dress shirt.
He knelt by the opening and clicked on the flashlight app on his phone, casting a harsh, bright beam into the cavity.
The space was horrifying in its intimacy. It was a makeshift prison designed for a child. There were several empty water bottles, a stack of protein bar wrappers, and a small, dirty plastic bucket in the corner. But what caught Ryan’s attention was the bedding. It wasn't just random rags. It was a high-end, monogrammed blanket.
Ryan reached in and pulled the blanket out into the hallway light. He shook the dust off it and examined the embroidery in the corner. It was a dark blue crest, featuring a silver falcon clutching a sword.
Ryan’s breath caught in his throat. It was the crest of the Falcone family—his oldest, most bitter rivals in the syndicate. But the Falcones had been eradicated five years ago in a brutal turf war. Ryan had personally seen to it that their leadership was dismantled.
"They're dead," Ryan whispered to himself, tossing the blanket aside. "They're all dead."
He crawled halfway into the wall, ignoring the claustrophobic tightness of the wooden studs pressing against his broad shoulders. He swept his flashlight across the floorboards. Tucked beneath the shredded pillows was a small, worn leather pouch.
Ryan grabbed it and backed out of the wall. He sat on his heels in the hallway, his heart pounding, and untied the leather string. Inside was a stack of faded, crinkled photographs and a folded piece of heavy parchment paper.
He pulled out the first photograph. It was a picture of him, taken perhaps seven or eight years ago. He looked younger, harder, standing outside a restaurant he used to own. Next to him in the photo was a woman. She had fair skin, a brilliant smile, and messy brown hair that blew across her face in the wind.
It was Maria.
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Ryan closed his eyes, a wave of profound grief and shock washing over him. Maria was his first love, a woman he had hidden from the mafia life. She had disappeared eight years ago without a trace. He had spent millions trying to find her, eventually assuming she had been murdered by his enemies to punish him.
He opened his eyes and looked at the second photograph. It was Maria, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a pink hospital blanket. On the back of the photo, written in Maria’s elegant handwriting, were two words: Your daughter.
