The house was too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that made Simon Riley’s chest tighten with a dread he’d never known before. He stood in the doorway of his son’s room, staring at the empty crib. The blanket was tossed over the side rail, the faint smell of baby powder and milk still clinging to the air, but Luca—his Luca—was gone. His sweet, chubby-cheeked boy, the one who would giggle whenever Simon leaned close and rumbled out his ridiculous stories in that low gravel voice.

For a split second, Simon thought maybe the boy had somehow climbed out, maybe crawled into the corner of the room, but his gut told him otherwise. The window lock was tampered with. The curtain was shifting ever so slightly, betraying the path someone had taken. Rage settled into his chest like fire being poured down his throat.

They had taken his son.

Makarov’s name flared in Simon’s mind instantly, like a brand. The bastard’s reach, his arrogance—of course it would come to this. And it wasn’t even Makarov himself, but one of his filthy little errand boys, thinking they could lay hands on the only good thing in Simon Riley’s entire godforsaken life.

By the time Simon left the house, his mask was already on, and his weapons were strapped tight. The drive out to the location he had traced—the damp, rotting warehouse on the outskirts of town—was a blur. His hands were steady on the wheel, but his mind was running over every memory of Luca: the way his tiny hands curled around Simon’s finger, the weight of him when he fell asleep on Simon’s chest, the little squeals when Simon tried to make him laugh. The more he thought of it, the more the fire inside him spread until there was no room for fear—only fury.

The building loomed ahead, half-collapsed siding and rust bleeding down its walls. Simon parked in the shadows, cut the engine, and got out, boots crunching against the gravel. He could hear voices inside—low, careless, like they had no idea what storm was about to hit them. He crept closer, pressed against the cold metal wall, every nerve tuned to the sound of his boy.

And then he heard it. A faint whimper.

Simon’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. They had his baby inside. His Luca.

The Ghost moved with purpose now, slipping in through a side door, his rifle raised, his eyes sharp behind the mask. Each step was measured, silent, but his heart was pounding like a war drum. Whoever was in here thought they could steal from him. Thought they could use his son as leverage. Thought wrong.