Chapter 1 - The Little Girl Who Called Me Daddy
The little girl I kidnapped to break my greatest enemy walked through a warehouse full of armed killers, wrapped her tiny arms around my leg, and called me “Daddy.” Then she showed me a bracelet belonging to the woman I had buried eight years ago.
My name is Adriano De Luca.
In this city, men whispered my name before pulling a trigger. Politicians accepted my money, judges avoided my gaze, and rival families surrendered territory rather than force me to take it.
But Ricardo Vasquez refused to kneel.
He burned one of my warehouses, murdered seven of my men, and sent their bloodstained jackets to my home with a message:
Your empire is next.
I answered by taking his daughter.
My men intercepted her armored vehicle outside the city. The guards were disarmed, the driver was dragged from his seat, and within four minutes, the girl was brought to an abandoned warehouse near the river.
I expected tears.
Instead, she stepped from the SUV holding a stuffed rabbit against her chest.
She was no older than seven, with dark curls, bright green eyes, and a calmness no child should have possessed. She studied the guns, the masked men, and the blood on the concrete without making a sound.
Then she saw me.
Her eyes widened.
“Daddy?”
Every man in the warehouse froze.
She dropped the rabbit and ran straight toward me.
Victor, my second-in-command, moved to stop her, but I raised one hand. The girl wrapped her arms around my leg before anyone could touch her.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
I had watched men die without blinking. I had ordered executions while eating dinner.
But that one word nearly brought me to my knees.
I looked down at her.
“Who told you I was your father?”
“Mommy.”
My chest tightened.
“What is your mother’s name?”
The girl hesitated, suddenly frightened.
“She said I’m not supposed to tell strangers.”
A few men glanced away, hiding their reactions.
“I’m not a stranger,” I said carefully. “You called me Daddy.”
She studied my face, then pointed at the silver wolf ring on my hand.
“Mommy showed me a picture. You were wearing that.”
The air left my lungs.
Only one woman had known the story behind that ring.
Elena.
Eight years earlier, Elena had been carrying my child when the safe house exploded. I arrived in time to see flames tearing through the roof and windows collapsing into the street.
Two bodies were recovered.
I buried them beside each other.
One coffin held the woman I loved.
The smaller one held the child I never met.
At least, that was what I had believed.
The girl pushed up her sleeve.
A silver bracelet circled her wrist.
My hands began to tremble before I even touched it.
I had given that bracelet to Elena the night I asked her to leave the criminal world with me. Inside it, engraved in my own handwriting, were five words:
Until my last breath, Elena.
“Where did you get this?” I demanded.
The girl flinched.
I softened my voice.
“Please. Tell me.”
“Mommy gave it to me this morning,” she whispered. “She said if the bad men took me, I had to find you.”
Before I could ask where her mother was, my private phone began to ring.
Only four people had that number.
The screen displayed Ricardo Vasquez’s name.
I answered.
His low laughter filled the warehouse.
“Tell me, Adriano. Did the child recognize you?”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What have you done?”
Ricardo laughed again.
Then a woman cried out somewhere behind him.
The sound was distant, broken—and horrifyingly familiar.
“Elena?”
The girl's face changed.
“Mommy!”
She clutched my coat.
I stared at the phone.
“Where is she?”
Ricardo said nothing.
I heard a woman breathing rapidly.
Then Elena's voice came through.
“Adriano…”
I almost dropped the phone.
Eight years.
Eight years of grief.
Eight years of rage.
Eight years of standing over a grave and convincing myself that the world had ended because she had.
Yet there she was.
Alive.
“Ricardo,” I whispered, “if you've hurt her—”
“You did this to yourself.”
“Where is she?”
“You took my daughter.”
“She isn't your daughter.”
His laughter vanished.
“She is exactly what you think she is.”
A pause.
Then he said the words that changed everything.
“Ask her who her father is.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
The little girl was crying now.
I crouched.
“What’s your name?”
“Lucia.”
“Lucia what?”
“Lucia Elena Vasquez.”
Elena.
Her middle name.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Victor stepped closer.
“Boss?”
“Get everyone out.”
Victor stared.
“What?”
“Everyone except you.”
The men moved.
Within seconds, the warehouse emptied.
Victor remained.
He looked from me to the child.
“Is that Elena's daughter?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“Then Ricardo lied to us for eight years.”
I looked at Lucia.
“No.”
I remembered the night of the explosion.
The smoke.
The bodies.
The funeral.
Ricardo had stood at the back of the cemetery.
He had not cried.
He had watched me lower the coffin.
Now I understood why.
He had wanted me to believe Elena and our child were dead.
Why?
The question burned.
I knelt again.
“Lucia, where is your mother?”
“With Ricardo.”
“Did he hurt her?”
She nodded.
“He said you would kill him if he told you she was alive.”
I stared.
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Did your mother tell you anything else?”
Lucia looked at the floor.
“She said you were good.”
My chest tightened.
“Your mother said that?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you who your father is?”
Lucia nodded.
“You.”
The word hit harder than any bullet.
Victor turned away.
I couldn't speak.
I had wanted Ricardo to suffer.
I had taken his daughter because I believed destroying what he loved would make him understand my pain.
Instead, I had found what I had lost.
My daughter.
The enemy I had spent years trying to crush had been raising my child.
I stood.
“Victor.”
“Yes?”
“Find the location of every property Ricardo owns.”
“We have most of them.”
“Not most.”
I looked at Lucia.
“He has Elena.”
Victor understood.
“You want a rescue operation?”
“I want everything.”
He waited.
I continued.
“Men. Vehicles. Surveillance. Lawyers. Doctors. Every contact we have.”
He nodded.
Then Lucia touched my hand.
I looked down.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to save Mommy?”
I stared at her.
I had killed for money.
For power.
For territory.
Tonight, I would kill for something different.
“No one keeps your mother from me again.”
And for the first time in eight years, I allowed myself to believe that maybe the grave I had visited every week had never belonged to Elena at all.
But as Victor turned to leave, my private phone buzzed again.
A message appeared.
You have three hours.
Come alone.
Bring the child.
And beneath it was a photograph.
Elena was tied to a chair.
Blood covered her forehead.
But she was alive.
Her eyes were open.
And around her neck hung the matching half of my wolf pendant.
The one I had buried with her.
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Someone had been lying to me for eight years.
And now I intended to find out exactly who.
Related Stories
