I pressed closer to the glass, breath fogging a tiny oval.

They met him halfway, like they’d rehearsed it. Lucas in the middle, Matteo a half-step back, Martino watching everything.

My father didn’t raise his chin. Didn’t square up. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, and spoke so low I almost couldn’t catch it.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” he said. “And I know one of you has her.”

My fingers tightened on the curtain until silk cut my skin.

He paused ...