Chapter 1

The Wrong Number

At eleven o’clock on a Thursday night, six men sat around Matteo Ricci’s table and waited for him to decide which one of them would still have a business by morning.

No one spoke above a murmur in the private room overlooking Boston Harbor. Beyond the smoked glass, rain blurred the city into streaks of white and red. Inside, the only sound was the slow turning of a silver lighter between Matteo’s fingers.

“You lost two shipments in one month,” he said.

The man across from him swallowed. “There were complications.”

“Complications are expensive. Excuses are free.”

Matteo set the lighter down. At forty-seven, he had learned that silence frightened men more efficiently than shouting. He never needed to raise his voice. His name carried enough noise of its own.

His private phone vibrated against the walnut table.

Every head turned.

Only three people had that number. Vincent Moretti, his lieutenant. Dr. Elizabeth Chen, who had stitched more of his wounds than either of them cared to count. And the attorney who made inconvenient facts disappear from official records.

The number on the screen belonged to none of them.

He opened the message.

He is hitting my mom. Please help me.

Matteo stared at it without moving.

“Problem?” Vincent asked from his right.

“Wrong number.”

He should have locked the screen. People sent traps in many forms—photographs, links, pleas for money, frightened messages designed to provoke a response. Matteo had survived this long because he distrusted anything that asked for his sympathy.

Another message appeared.

I’m hiding. He said he’s going to kill her.

The man across the table began speaking again, mistaking Matteo’s silence for permission.

Matteo lifted one finger. The room went still.

He typed with his thumb.

Who is this?

The answer came after twelve seconds.

Emma.

How old are you, Emma?

Eight.

The lighter stopped between his fingers.

Twenty-five years vanished in a single breath. For one brutal instant, he saw dark curls spread across a hospital pillow and a hand much smaller than his slipping cold inside it.

He pushed the memory down.

What is your address?

Three dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again.

I’m not supposed to tell strangers.

It was such an ordinary answer that he believed her.

You’re right. Don’t tell strangers unless you need emergency help. Do you know how to call 911?

He took Mommy’s phone. He’ll hear me if I talk.

Matteo looked around the table. Men who had ordered beatings and buried betrayals were watching him with growing unease. None of them had ever seen their boss hesitate over a text.

Can you text 911 where you live?

I don’t know. Please don’t leave.

The last four words tightened something beneath his ribs.

He rose.

The man across from him went pale. “Mr. Ricci, I can explain the shipments.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You said this had to be settled tonight.”

Matteo slipped the phone into his palm and buttoned his charcoal coat. “Something else has to be settled first.”

Vincent stood with him. “Where are we going?”

“You’re staying here.”

That answer alarmed Vincent more than an order to bring weapons would have.

Matteo crossed the room, typing as he moved.

Emma, send me the address. You don’t have to make a sound.

The reply arrived before he reached the elevator.

It was a house number in Dorchester, followed by a street name and the words upstairs closet.

Matteo sent the address to the navigation system in his car. Twenty-two minutes in the rain. He could make it in twelve.

“Boss.” Vincent caught the elevator doors before they closed. “At least take a driver.”

“No.”

“Then tell me what this is.”

Matteo showed him the screen.

Vincent read the messages, and the hard line of his mouth changed. “Could still be a setup.”

“Then someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to sound eight years old.”

“I’ll send two cars behind you.”

“Not yet. I don’t want engines outside that house if she’s hiding.” Matteo stepped into the elevator. “Keep your phone open. If I send you anything, preserve it.”

“Anything else?”

The doors began to close.

“Find out who lives at that address.”

Vincent held the doors a second longer. “And if it’s bait?”

Matteo met his eyes.

There were protocols for bait. A lead car, a second route, armed men at both exits. There were protocols for threats against his businesses, his money and his life. None of them accounted for a child whispering through text because a spoken word might get her mother killed.

“Then I’ll deal with whoever set it,” Matteo said. “But if it isn’t, every minute we spend protecting me belongs to her attacker.”

Vincent let the doors close.

For the first time in years, Matteo descended alone—without an escort, without a plan built around his own survival, and without any certainty about what waited at the other end.

The underground garage smelled of concrete and cold metal. Matteo slid behind the wheel of a black sedan and pulled out before the gate had fully risen.

Rain struck the windshield in silver needles. He took the first turn too fast, tires biting wet pavement, and pressed the call button for Dr. Chen.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I may have a woman with blunt-force trauma. Possibly unconscious. I don’t know the extent yet.”

The irritation vanished from her voice. “Where?”

“I’ll tell you when I confirm it.”

“Call 911, Matteo.”

“I will.”

There was a pause. “You actually mean that.”

“Keep your phone on.”

He ended the call and checked the screen at a red light.

Emma had sent another message.

I can’t find Mommy anymore. There is blood on the floor.

The light was still red. Matteo drove through it.

Where is the man now?

Downstairs. I think.

Do you know his name?

Derek.

Is the closet door locked?

No. I put a chair there but it keeps moving.

Matteo’s hand tightened around the steering wheel.

Listen carefully. Turn your phone sound all the way off. Don’t come out, even if you hear someone. I will tell you when it’s me.

How will I know?

My name is Matt. I’ll say your name first.

For several seconds there was no reply.

Then:

Are you really coming?

The city outside became a tunnel of headlights, rain and distance he could not erase quickly enough.

Yes.

He wanted to give her something stronger than that. Something a child could hold onto while a violent man moved through the rooms below her.

I’m already on my way.

The navigation system announced fourteen minutes remaining.

Matteo pushed the car faster.

His phone lit again. This time, there were only three words.

He found me.