Chapter 8 - THE SON I HAD NEVER MET
I wanted to get on a plane immediately.
Grace stopped me.
Not physically.
With one sentence.
“Think before you become exactly what DeLuca expects.”
I stared.
My son was missing.
Every instinct told me to mobilize every Rossi resource.
Cars.
Planes.
Security.
Contacts.
Pressure.
DeLuca knew that.
He had spent years studying our family.
If I moved like a Rossi boss, he could predict me.
So we did something my family almost never did.
We called the police.
Canadian authorities.
Border services.
Federal contacts through attorneys.
Sofia’s husband provided security footage.
The men who took Adrian wore uniforms resembling Rossi private security.
But badges were fake.
Vehicle plates cloned.
Professional enough to misdirect.
Not perfect.
One man’s face appeared briefly.
Sofia recognized him.
Not Rossi.
Vale’s assistant.
The European negotiator’s network.
Adrian Vale had not taken my son personally.
But his people were involved.
Why?
DeLuca needed the original trust papers Sofia held.
Kidnap Adrian.
Force exchange.
Simple.
Cruel.
Then Sofia finally called.
She had been meeting police.
Not taken.
Thank God.
Her voice shook.
“I should have told you years ago.”
“That is not today’s problem.”
I surprised myself.
Old Luca would have demanded explanation while danger was active.
Today had one priority.
Find Adrian.
“What did they ask for?”
“The originals.”
“Where?”
“Not yet.”
Then a message arrived to Sofia.
Photo.
A boy sitting in a chair.
Hands free.
No visible injury.
Terrified.
Dark hair.
My eyes.
My son.
I had never heard his voice.
Never seen him walk.
Never watched him blow out a candle.
And the first photograph I received was proof he had been taken.
I walked into the hospital bathroom and threw up.
Grace found me.
She did not tell me to be strong.
She simply stood beside me.
Then the second message:
MIDNIGHT. OLD ROSSI FREIGHT TERMINAL. DETROIT.
Bring originals.
No police.
Of course.
We did not obey the no-police part.
But we also did not storm anything.
Authorities built the operation.
My involvement was limited.
I hated it.
That was probably healthy.
Sofia brought certified decoy documents.
Originals stayed secured.
At 11:40 p.m., we reached the area under law-enforcement supervision.
I was not allowed into the terminal initially.
Then a phone call came.
Adrian Vale.
“Luca.”
“You took a child.”
“I did not.”
“Your people did.”
“DeLuca’s people.”
“You worked for him.”
“Yes.”
“Where is my son?”
A pause.
“He is alive.”
“Why call me?”
“Because DeLuca plans to kill me after the exchange.”
I almost laughed.
Professional loyalty.
Temporary as always.
Vale wanted immunity guarantees I could not give.
I told him:
“Talk to prosecutors.”
“I need protection.”
“That is their decision.”
Silence.
Then he gave us information.
Adrian—my son—was not inside the terminal.
Decoy.
He was in a motel five miles away with one guard.
Police moved.
Twenty-three minutes later, the call came.
Found.
Safe.
Alive.
Sofia cried.
I sat down on the pavement.
Grace’s voice came through my phone.
“Luca?”
“They have him.”
She started crying too.
Then DeLuca realized Vale had betrayed him.
He fled the terminal.
Police arrested Vale.
DeLuca escaped.
Again.
But my son was safe.
I did not meet Adrian that night.
Sofia asked me not to.
He was terrified.
Confused.
He knew nothing about me except that I was his biological father.
That was enough trauma.
I agreed.
Hardest yes of my life.
Two days later, Sofia asked if I wanted a video call.
I sat in a plain room.
No guards behind me.
No Rossi crest.
No suit.
Grace helped.
“Less terrifying.”
“I’m wearing a sweater.”
“You still look like you’re about to acquire a bank.”
Fair.
The screen opened.
Adrian appeared.
Ten.
Thin.
Serious.
He stared at me.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re Luca?”
“Yes.”
“My mom says you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Did you know after she told you?”
“Yes.”
“That was like… two days before I got kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
He considered.
“So your timing is bad.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“Yes.”
He smiled a little.
Then:
“Are you mafia?”
My entire body tightened.
Sofia covered her face offscreen.
I answered carefully.
“My family has been involved in criminal things. I’ve been trying to move our businesses away from that.”
“Did you shoot people?”
Not the conversation I imagined.
“No.”
Technically and truthfully.
“Do you have bodyguards?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
I thought about the ridiculous stories involving children and bodyguards that apparently follow men like me.
“Too many.”
He smiled again.
Then:
“Do I have to be a Rossi?”
“No.”
That answer came instantly.
He looked surprised.
“Really?”
“You don’t owe me my name.”
Grace had taught me something.
Children were not succession plans.
Adrian asked:
“Can I meet you someday?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“If Mom says yes.”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay.”
The call lasted eleven minutes.
Best eleven minutes of my life.
Then my attorney interrupted afterward.
DeLuca’s recovered server contained one more document.
My father Antonio’s original succession plan.
Not the trust.
A private letter.
It mentioned Adrian by name.
My son.
Meaning Dad had known.
Then one line:
If Luca ever discovers Adrian, tell him the boy is not the only child Isabella kept from him.
I stared.
Not the only child.
Grace went still.
“What does that mean?”
I had no idea.
Then Mother called.
She sounded broken.
“Luca.”
May you like
“What?”
“I need to tell you about Matteo.”
