Chapter 145
POV Gabriel
We left the Moretti mansion at eight that night in three unmarked black SUVs.
Dad rode in the first with two of his men and Alejandro. I was in the second with Mateo and two others. The third carried the rest of the team Dad had assembled over the past two hours through short calls I wasn’t allowed to hear.
Eleven men in total. Plus the four of us.
Before leaving, Dad divided the properties in the study with the efficiency of a general deploying troops. A map of Connecticut spread across the desk. Five points marked in red pen. The three properties William had given him, plus two additional ones Andrés’s investigator had uncovered in the last forty minutes by digging through offshore records.
“Group one with me and Alejandro. Greenwich. The ghost one.”
“Group two with Gabriel and Mateo. The inland Connecticut property William mentioned first. If she’s not there, move to the coastal one forty minutes away.”
“Group three, my men only. Aspen is out due to distance. You cover the two additional properties Andrés’s investigator found. One in Westport, the other in New Canaan.”
“If anyone finds her, report immediately. No one acts alone. No one goes in without confirming with the other groups. Clear?”
“Clear,” we all said.
Dad held my gaze before getting into the SUV.
“Gabriel.”
“What.”
“Your son and Lucía are in one of these five properties. If they’re not in any of them, we’ve got a much bigger problem. But they’ll be in one. I know it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Victoria is William’s daughter. And William only knows how to hide things in properties he already owns. He doesn’t buy new ones. He doesn’t rent. He doesn’t improvise. He’s a man of patterns. And his daughter is the same.”
I nodded because I didn’t have the energy to question the logic of a man who had spent forty years reading enemies like contracts.
We got into the SUVs and drove off.
The inland Connecticut property was an hour and forty minutes from Manhattan via I-95.
We didn’t speak during the drive. Mateo sat beside me in the back seat, checking his phone every three minutes to see if any of the other groups had reported something. Dad’s two men sat up front—the driver focused on the road, the other reviewing a property layout they had pulled from county records.
I stared out the window without seeing anything.
Every mile was either one mile closer to Lucía or one mile wasted in the wrong direction. And there was no way to know which until we got there.
Matías.
My son’s name was Matías.
He was eleven months old. He’d turn one in two weeks. And right now he was somewhere in Connecticut with his mother kidnapped, held by a woman capable of anything, using him as leverage.
Eleven months.
Eleven months of first smiles I hadn’t seen. Of sleepless nights Lucía had faced alone. Of teething, fevers, that first time a baby grabs someone’s finger and squeezes with a strength something that small shouldn’t have.
Eleven months I would never get back.
But the next thirty years—I could still have those.
If I got there in time.
“Gabriel.”
“What.”
“We’re almost there. Five minutes.”
The property appeared at the end of a side road lined with trees. A large colonial-style house with a gray slate roof and dark windows. Wide lawn. Iron perimeter gate. No visible lights. No cars in the driveway. No movement.
Nothing.
The driver stopped two hundred meters from the gate with the headlights off. One of Dad’s men got out first, walked up to the gate, and checked the lock.
He came back two minutes later.
“Rust on the padlock, sir. It hasn’t been opened in months. The alarm panel is visible from outside—the light’s red. Armed. No one’s deactivated anything. The property’s empty.”
I closed my eyes.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir. I checked the front and side windows. Dust on the frames. Curtains haven’t moved in months. No one’s there.”
Mateo touched my arm.
“Next. The coastal one. Forty minutes.”
“Let’s go.”
We moved again.
Forty minutes that felt like forty hours. Every red light was torture. Every curve in the road a chance that Lucía was farther away instead of closer.
The coastal property was different. More modern. More exposed. Facing the sea, with a long, open access road—no trees, no cover. Worse for hiding. Worse for holding someone captive without neighbors noticing movement.
Same procedure. Dad’s man got out. Walked up. Checked.
He came back three minutes later.
“Empty, sir. A landscaping service was here today. Grass was just cut. The gardener left an invoice in the mailbox dated today at two p.m. If anyone were inside, the gardener would’ve noticed something.”
Empty.
Two out of five.
I slammed my bandaged fist into the front seat, pain shooting up to my elbow.
“Fuck.”
“Gabriel.”
“Two empty, Mateo. Two. And my son’s been kidnapped for over thirty hours.”
“Three properties left. And your father has the one William said was most likely.”
“And if William lied?”
“He didn’t lie. He had a bat on his shoulder and three men around him. He didn’t lie.”
“And if he was wrong?”
“Then we keep searching. We don’t stop until we find them.”
My phone vibrated.
Message from group three.
Westport empty. Current owner is an investment fund that uses it as a seasonal office. Closed since September. Confirmed with the night guard in the adjacent building.
Three out of five.
Two left. Group three’s second in New Canaan. And Dad’s in Greenwich.
I stared at my phone, waiting for the next message like my life depended on every second it took to arrive.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Eight minutes.
The phone vibrated again.
Group three.
New Canaan empty. Property under renovation. Scaffolding on the facade. Workers left tools inside, but no signs of occupancy. Confirmed.
Four out of five.
Only Greenwich remained.
Only Dad.
I dialed his number with my bandaged hand shaking so much I had to steady the phone with the other.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Son.”
Dad’s voice sounded different. Low. Controlled. The voice he used when he was focused on something requiring absolute precision.
“Dad, the four are empty. Tell me you’ve got her.”
“I’ve got her.”
Air rushed back into my lungs all at once.
“Confirmed?”
“Confirmed. Greenwich. The ghost property. Three hectares of dense forest at the end of an unnamed road. The house has lights on on the main floor. Two black SUVs parked in the back. Armed men on the perimeter. We counted three outside. Could be more inside.”
“Dad, we’re heading there.”
“Wait. Listen to me. Don’t come in like a madman, Gabriel. This place is heavily guarded. Victoria brought serious people. The men outside have visible weapons and move in patterns. They’re not amateurs. They’re professionals. If we go in wrong, this turns into a massacre.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to come with your full group. All four. And I need group three to come too. If they’re clear from New Canaan, have them move here. I need to surround the property from all four sides before we go in. No one moves until I give the order.”
“How long until we get there?”
“From where you are, I estimate forty-five minutes.”
“Dad, in forty-five minutes Victoria can do anything.”
“In forty-five minutes Victoria will still be inside, believing no one has found her, because this property doesn’t exist in any record and because her father would never betray it voluntarily. She feels safe, Gabriel. And a person who feels safe doesn’t act out of desperation. We still have a window. But that window closes if we go in unprepared and give her a reason to feel cornered.”
I breathed in.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to shout that my son had been captive for over thirty hours and that every minute of “window” he calculated so coldly was a minute Matías could be crying without anyone to comfort him.
But Dad was right.
Victoria feeling safe meant Victoria predictable. Victoria cornered meant Victoria dangerous.
“Forty-five minutes, Dad. Not one more.”
“Forty-five minutes. I’ll send the exact location now. When you arrive, park five hundred meters south of the road. Alejandro will be waiting there to coordinate positions. No lights. No noise. No phones except for text messages in the group I’m creating right now.”
“Understood.”
“And Gabriel.”
“What.”
“Your son is in there. I know it. And we’re going to get him out. But I need you to keep a cool head. Can you do that for me?”
“I can.”
“You sure?”
“Dad. It’s all I’ve got left. If I lose my head, I lose everything. I’ll stay cold. I promise.”
“Good, son. I’ll be waiting.”
I hung up.
Mateo was already giving instructions to the driver. Group three had confirmed they were on their way from New Canaan. Eleven men plus the four of us converging on a point in the woods of Greenwich where a deranged woman was holding my son and the woman I loved in a soundproof basement.
Forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes of dark road, staring out the window, seeing nothing but the face of an eleven-month-old baby I didn’t know—but who carried my blood and my last name, even if no one had told him yet.
Matías.
Hold on, son.
Dad’s coming.
We reached the meeting point at ten forty that night.
A small clearing beside a dirt road five hundred meters south of the property. Two SUVs already parked among the trees with their lights off. Alejandro stood beside the first, wearing a black tactical vest someone had given him, fitting him like he’d worn it his whole life.
I stepped out. Alejandro came to meet me.
“Brother.”
“Alejandro. What do we have?”
“Your father has the property fully mapped. Three hectares of forest. The house is in the center. Two stories, stone. Four visible access points. Main door to the north. Service door to the east. A basement window to the south, blocked from the inside. And a back door to the west that opens onto a wooden deck connected to the forest.”
“How many of Victoria’s men?”
“Four confirmed. Three rotating the outer perimeter and one stationed at the front door. Armed with semi-automatics. They move in fifteen-minute shifts. Every fifteen, one of the three on the perimeter goes back inside to report and another comes out. The one at the door doesn’t move.”
“Victoria?”
“Inside. Your father saw her pass by a second-floor window twenty minutes ago. Alone. Drink in hand.”
“Lucía?”
“No visual confirmation. If she’s in the basement like William said, we won’t see her from outside. But the west back door is the weakest point in the perimeter. Only one guard covers it, and he has a three-meter blind spot between the corner of the house and the deck.”
“We go in there.”
“Your father says yes. He goes in from the east with his men to distract the perimeter. We go in from the west with Mateo’s group. Group three covers north and south so no one gets out.”
“How long?”
“Your father wants to wait for the next guard rotation. Fifteen minutes. When the perimeter guard goes inside to report, we have a ninety-second window to cross the woods and reach the back door unseen.”
“Ninety seconds.”
“Ninety seconds, Gabriel.”
Mateo stepped closer.
“I’m ready. My group is ready. When your father gives the order.”
The three of us stood there in the clearing, staring into the dark forest that separated us from the property. Five hundred meters of trees and silence between us and Lucía. Between us and my son.
My phone vibrated.
Message from Dad in the group.
Guard rotation in twelve minutes. Positions.
Alejandro looked at me.
“Ready, brother-in-law?”
“Ready.”
“Cool head?”
“Cool head.”
“Then let’s go.”
We moved through the trees. No flashlights. No sound. Ten men advancing through the forest in the darkness of a November night with one instruction: not a single noise until Gael Moretti gave the order.
Five hundred meters to the property.
Three hundred.
Two hundred.
One hundred.
And then I saw it.
The stone house among the trees. Lights on the second floor. A shadow moving behind a curtain. Black SUVs parked in the back. A guard standing by the front door, a cigarette glowing in the dark like a tiny red dot.
My son was inside.
Lucía was inside.
And in the next fifteen minutes, I was going in to get them out—or die trying.
My phone vibrated one last time.
Dad.
Guard rotation in ninety seconds. On my signal.
I breathed.
One.
Two.
Three.
And waited.