The phone buzzed again and Dante was starting to get worried that it would disturb Mila's sleep.
It was a relentless rhythm that had started an hour ago and showed no signs of stopping, but he didn't even bother to glance at it.
Tommaso had called seven times now—each call more desperate than the last, each one a small admission of weakness that Dante could feel like a physical thing.
He was squirming like a worm on a hook.
That's all Tommaso was now. Thrashing, panicking, trying to negotiate his way out of a situation he'd created the moment he'd decided to take Mila.
The soft knock at the door came at 2:00 in the morning. Dante knew the exact time because he'd been watching the clock on the nightstand, tracking the minutes, the hours, the steady rhythm of Mila's breathing.
It was Marco.
Right on schedule.
