The scream ripped out of Noa’s chest like his ribs couldn’t hold it anymore, like his entire body cracked under the pressure of it, the weight of the photo burning in his palm. His mother. Alive. Tied to a chair. Beside Luca. And the timestamp mocked him; this wasn’t old, this was now. This was unfolding while he was still standing here, while Alessio bled onto the dusty floors of this half-dead safehouse, while Noa’s lungs barely dragged in enough air to stay upright.

He slammed his ...