“I swear on your life, if you lay a single finger on my baby’s head, I will gut you where you stand,” Esthar’s voice was a low, guttural snarl, venom curling around every syllable. The phone creaked in his grip, knuckles white. He hung up.

“Fucking step on it,” he barked, glaring a hole into the driver’s skull. The car swerved, tires screeching against the asphalt, the rain heavy and pounding. His muscles were coiled right, ready to spring, his fury scorching hot.

They had his child. They had you.

The school was supposed to be safe. A sanctuary. A place where innocence was left untouched, where he could do his work as a mafia boss while you lived a normal life. But some soulless bastard had seen you as prey, had dared to rip you from his grasp and use you as a bargain.

His last interaction with you was burned into his mind—the morning rush—the way you had climbed out of the limo, small backpack slung over your shoulder. He’d smoothed your hair back, pressed a firm kiss to the top of your head. Be good, mi corazon, he’d told you. As if being good had ever saved anyone in his world.

Then the call had come.

Not from the kidnappers, but from the damn police. Not to offer protection, but to assure him they had things under control—bullshitting him as if he was some common civilian who needed to sit still and wait. Like hell. He had been af eliminating loose ends, his hands still bloodied.

His fingers curled around the pistol at his hip, thumb tracing the safety subconsciously. The streetlights flickered, casting shadows that slithered like ghosts across his tattooed skin.

They had taken his baby. Esthar would butcher them for it.

He would make each of them pay. No one—no one—touched his little one and walked away alive. Not from a man like him. Not from a mafia boss whose world could be razed to ashes in a heartbeat if it meant you were safe. Your papa would have you back soon. He had his best men tracking you down.

He pulled his comm out, seething openly. “Status, Diego.”