The Friday afternoon sun cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Upper West Side penthouse, casting long, geometric shadows across the polished white marble floor.

By Sunday evening, Hannah was back in the penthouse. The argument with David had left a dull, persistent ache in her chest, but walking through the front doors and hearing Mateo’s bright, excited laugh from the playroom instantly grounded her.

"You're back!" Mateo shouted, running down the hall and launching himself into her arms. "Dad made pancakes! Real pancakes with chocolate chips!"

"Did he burn them?" Hannah asked, lifting him up.

"Only the first one!" Lucas’s voice came from the kitchen doorway as he walked in holding a spatula, looking remarkably domestic in a gray crewneck sweater and jeans.

For the next three days, life in the penthouse resumed its rhythm, but an undercurrent of tension hummed beneath the surface. Lucas was working late into the night, secure reports arriving on his tablet every hour. Victor Thorne had gone underground following his humiliation at the Plaza, which, in Lucas’s experience, meant he was planning something desperate.

It happened on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

Hannah and Mateo were returning from a neighborhood bookstore, walking up the front steps of their apartment building under a large black umbrella.

Before the doorman could open the glass doors, a silver van pulled up abruptly to the curb. The side doors slid open with a metallic rattle, and two masked men jumped out.

Before Hannah could scream, a heavy cloth bag was thrown over her head, plunging her into darkness. Strong arms grabbed her by the waist, wrenching her away from Mateo.

"Hannah!" Mateo screamed, his voice piercing through the rain.

"Mateo!" she yelled, kicking and thrashing wildly, but her arms were pinned to her sides. She heard the sound of a scuffle, a dull thud, and then Mateo’s cries were abruptly cut short as a second muffled sound echoed against the pavement.

They were both thrown into the back of the van. The engine roared to life, and the vehicle peeled away from the curb, racing south into the rain-slicked traffic of Manhattan.

Inside the dark, bouncing van, Hannah’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Adrenaline surged through her veins, overriding her fear with pure, unadulterated fury. They had taken Mateo. They had taken a four-year-old boy to get to Lucas.

"Mateo!" she shouted into the darkness beneath the hood. "Mateo, are you there?"

A small, muffled sob came from the corner of the van floor. "Hannah! I’m scared!"

"Don't look at them! Look at my voice!" she yelled, struggling against the plastic zip-ties binding her wrists behind her back. "We're going to be fine. Your dad is coming. Do you hear me? Your dad is coming!"

"Shut her up," a harsh voice growled from the front seat.

A hand reached back, ripping the cloth hood off Hannah’s head.

The harsh overhead light of the van’s cargo bay blinded her for a second. When her eyes adjusted, she saw two masked thugs sitting on crates, and tied up in the corner was Mateo, tears streaming down his face, his little hands bound with tape.