I stared at the heavy parchment in my hands.

Surrender of physical custody.

Psychiatric facility.

The signature looked exactly like Adrian’s. But if Adrian had signed this, he wouldn’t have just demanded the car service logs in front of thirty people.

Someone had forged the mafia boss’s signature to legally lock a nine-year-old deaf boy inside a medical institution.

Lucy stepped up beside me. She looked at the paper.

“What is it?” she signed.

I quickly folded it and shoved it into my apron pocket.

“Just school papers,” I signed smoothly. “Don't worry.”

A heavy knock rattled the bedroom door.

“Rachel. It’s Adrian.”

I unlocked the door. Adrian walked in, his tuxedo jacket gone, his tie pulled loose. The absolute authority he carried downstairs was still there, but now there was a dangerous, jagged edge to it.

“The cameras were wiped,” Adrian said, his voice flat. “Someone erased the servers between one and three o'clock. Marcus is pulling the backup drives.”

He looked at Lucy. He knelt in front of her again.

“Did you see the car that took him?”

Lucy shook her head.

“I was in my room. The lady came and got him.”

“What lady? Brielle?”

“No,” Lucy signed. “The lady with the red bracelet. She said she was a nurse.”

Adrian froze.

He looked up at me. “Did Brielle have a nurse here today?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Just the catering staff.”

I reached into my apron. My heart was hammering against my ribs. You don't hand a man like Adrian Marzano proof of a betrayal unless you are ready for the explosion.

But I am a mother. I thought of my own daughter, sleeping safely in our tiny apartment.

I handed him the folded parchment.

“I found this in Owen’s coat pocket in the closet, sir. I think you need to read it.”

Adrian took the paper.

He unfolded it.

I watched his eyes scan the medical letterhead, the custody transfer, and finally, his own forged signature at the bottom.

The silence in the bedroom was suffocating.

Adrian’s thumb brushed over the ink of the signature.

“Answer one question, open two,” Adrian muttered, his voice terrifyingly quiet.

“Sir?”

“This isn't Brielle’s doing,” Adrian said. He looked up at me. “Brielle doesn't have the access or the intelligence to forge my signature on a secure medical document. And she definitely doesn't have the clearance to wipe my security servers.”

Reversal.

Brielle was a terrible stepmother, but she wasn't the mastermind. She was a pawn.

“Then who did this?” I asked.

Adrian stood up. He walked over to the mahogany desk in the corner of Lucy’s room.

He opened the top drawer.

He moved a few files, searching for something.

Then, he stopped.

“My wife’s watch,” Adrian said, his back still turned to us.

“What about it?”

“I keep Sarah’s gold watch in this drawer. It’s been here for three years. Lucy likes to look at it when she misses her.”

He turned around. The drawer was empty.

“It’s gone.”

He looked at the forged document again.

“Thomas,” Adrian said, the name tasting like poison in his mouth. “Brielle’s brother.”

“Brielle said Thomas arranged the car,” I offered.

“Thomas is a degenerate gambler,” Adrian said coldly. “He owes a lot of money to some very bad people in Chicago. If he stole Sarah’s watch, he’s desperate for cash. But kidnapping my son...”

Adrian’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out.

The caller ID was blocked.

He answered it, putting it on speaker so I could hear.

“Adrian,” a voice said. Rough. Heavy Chicago accent. “I hear you’re looking for your boy.”

Adrian didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten.

“If you touch him, I will burn your entire syndicate to the ground.”

The man laughed.

“We don’t want the kid. Thomas Ashton gave him to us as collateral for his debts. He said you’d pay three million to get him back.”

Adrian closed his eyes.

“Where is Thomas?”

“Thomas is dead,” the voice said casually. “He tried to run when we took the boy. So now, the debt is yours. You have two hours to transfer the funds, or the kid goes into the medical facility permanently. And with your signature on the custody papers, the cops can’t do a damn thing about it.”

The line went dead.

TITLE: THE ROSARY IN THE RAIN