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“Wait.” Raphael holds up his hand. “The police will need to know the facts, as many details as possible. What actually happened? Do you know?” He glances between me and Papa.
I want to tell him this is a family matter, that we don’t need his help, but despite my feelings of hatred and revulsion for him, I know that Raphael loves Micah and as the most impartial person here, he may think logically rather than emotionally like the rest of us.
“We’re still trying to make sense of it all,” says Papa, sitting down next to Connie again. He repeats the same questions as before, imploring her to think carefully about whether she saw anyone or anything out of the ordinary, either in the playground or on the street. Raphael stands beside her, hands on his hips.
“It happened so quickly, Papa,” she says, her face crumpling.
“What about the other parents collecting their kids, might they have seen something?” asks Raphael.
“I…I don’t know. We were a bit late leaving because Micah forgot his lunch box. He often does,” she says, glancing at me. I nod at her sadly; it’s true. Would those few minutes have made any difference as to whether my son was snatched or not? “I sent him back inside to get it. Everyone had gone when he came back out. I couldn’t call for help afterwards because my phone smashed.” She retrieves it from the pocket of her shorts and places it on the table. The screen is a cobweb of cracks. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and Papa puts a comforting arm around her shoulders, which makes her wince. Maria disappears again, mumbling about forgetting the first aid kit. She looks as worried as the rest of us; I know she’s attached to Micah too.
“So it might just be a random incident?” asks Raphael. “Someone saw that Connie and Micah were by themselves and took a chance. Connie isn’t hard to overpower.” He looks down at my sister. “No offence, Connie,” he says. She doesn’t respond.
“What difference does that make?” I ask.
“It means that Micah may not have been a target. Someone just saw an opportunity and took it. Took him.”
I glare at him, tears blurring my vision. “Whether it was targeted or opportunistic, someone still has him!”
“I’m just saying, let’s try and consider all possibilities before involving the police.”
“I’ll contact Micah’s friends’ parents. See if anyone saw anything.” I stand, wiping the fallen tears from my cheeks, bizarrely grateful to have something useful to do.
“I’ll drive to the school and speak to Micah’s teachers, check all the streets on the way,” says Michael, appearing at my side, car keys already in hand. “I’ll call Gianni too, ask him to patrol the area and ask around.”
“The school staff will have gone home by now,” says Raphael. “And Cece, do you really want to panic all the other parents? Let’s think about this.”
“What’s there to think about?” I cry. “Someone has snatched my little boy! We can’t just do nothing!” As I say the words the reality of the situation hits me and all at once I see cinematic flashes of abhorrent possibilities: Micah in the back seat of a car, scared and crying. Micah in the trunk of a car, drugged and unconscious. Micah being dragged into a house by bad people with terrible, terrible intentions. I can’t bear it. I have to do something or the hysteria building within me will soon explode.
“Michael, we’ll both go to the school. I’ll ring the other parents on the way. And if we don’t find out anything more, then I’ll ring the police.” I look pointedly at Raphael, and he holds his palms up in a conciliatory gesture.
Maria rushes back into the kitchen holding the first aid kit in one hand and proffering a large manila envelope in the other. “Miss Cecelia, this was on the floor in the hallway, addressed to you. It’s been delivered by hand.”
I frown in confusion then snatch it from her and rip it open. There’s a single sheet of unfolded paper inside bearing three lines of typed words:
Warehouse 11, Industrial District, midnight.
€2,000,000
Luciano brings the money in exchange for Micah.
The words swim before my eyes, twisting and elongating like a child’s kaleidoscope. I let go of the paper and it slips to the floor, settling on the tiles. I let out an almighty, guttural scream so fierce it feels like it’s ripping my throat open. I’m aware of the men frantically scrabbling to pick up the piece of paper and read it, then I feel arms around me, offering both physical and emotional support as my legs give way beneath me. But as the arms tighten, I realize they’re not Michael’s but Raphael’s and then Michael is behind him, yanking him off me, pushing him away, taking his place. I cling to him as sobs wrack my body.
Eighteen
MICHAEL
Cecelia clings to me as she sobs, and I tighten my arms around her. She feels so fragile, yet I know she’s strong enough to withstand this horror. But am I? I’ve only just found my son. How cruel the twist of fate would be if anything were to happen to him. Just moments ago, I was considering Lombardi’s suggestion that maybe this was just random, terrible luck. That poor Micah —and Connie—were victims of nothing more than circumstance. But now the ransom demand has arrived, I know this is connected to me. But who could have taken him?
As Cece cries into my chest, I wrack my brain, mentally rifling through everyone I’ve ever crossed, or anyone who might want to make me pay for my past mistakes, but the only name that makes any sense is Ricci. Yet he’s long gone, and I’ve already paid the price for him. Has someone else now taken his place as the boss of his outfit? Have I chopped off his head, so to speak, only for another to sprout in its place, wanting revenge for years gone by? Guilt engulfs me.
“Lombardi, go and check outside. If that envelope was delivered by hand, they may still be in the grounds,” I order. Surprisingly, he does as I ask without question.
Cece’s cries give way to sniffs and hiccups as the shock mutes her. I usher her over to the chair she was sitting on before and ask Maria to bring her and Connie some water. Both sisters sit like waxworks, stupefied. Dante and I exchange a concerned look, united for the first time thanks to this grim situation.
“I think we should consider involving the police now,” says Dante. His shoulders are slumped, and he looks like he’s aged ten years in the space of ten minutes.
“With all due respect, I don’t think we should just give in to the ransom demand,” I reply. “From this note we can assume that Micah’s alive, and they want him to stay that way. We’ve got time to be strategic. I’ll contact my men and we’ll do everything in our power to find out where he is before midnight.”
