The group boarded a small plane, which took them to Nice. From there, they took a helicopter east. Finding out where they were headed, Francesco felt oddly at ease. Nicholas was indeed behind his mother's kidnapping.131Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiPzI3MyVk8
131Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz5pPIKPdF3
When they arrived at the villa, Nicholas greeted them half-dressed. Annoyed, drunk, and hardly coherent, he struck the leader of the men several times, calling him an idiot.
"You had one job... Why did it take so fucking long? Huh? " Nicholas stumbled away, mumbling to himself and arguing with an invisible figure. His sense of awareness returned, and he turned around. "How hard was it...to pick up one brat...that it took you eight hours!"
"Sorry, sir."
Still arguing with his ghost, he stumbled over to Francesco and Stella. Seeing Stella, Nicholas laughed. He walked around her, watching her from every angle, nodding approvingly, and debating her with his ethereal companion. "At least you brought us a little something."
"What do you want us to do with the boy, sir?"
Nicholas turned his attention to Francesco. As he leaned down to look at the boy, he burped. The sour stench of alcohol filled Francesco's nostrils.
"Adam." Nicholas snorted. "Put him in the room with them. One last family reunion." He laughed, stumbling away.
The guards separated Stella and Francesco, escorting the boy through the villa. His heart raced with every step. Every door and corner gave him false hope. This was it; she was here. After more than six months of no contact, he would meet his mother again. The world around him slowed as they stopped at a door. One of the men reached for the knob; he was slow. Far too slow. The world stopped. His breath caught in his throat as the eternity of the door opening crept by.
Mom.
The door cracked open.
Mom.
Wider.
Mom!
He could see inside the room.
MOM.
Wider still. The boy's eyes frantically searched and double-checked every inch of the room visible to him.
MOM!
In the dim incandescent glow of the lights, a bed came into view, with a figure under the blanket. Francesco's heart stopped and refused to beat. His chest tightened, and his vision darkened. The black almost took over his sight when the tightness suddenly released, his heart coming alive again, racing, and his breath in short, sharp gasps.
He had intended to, but didn't remember taking the steps. His feet had carried him to the bedside in an instant. Memories of the day he woke up in her arms consumed his mind.
Like that morning, Aurora lay on her side. But her closed eyes sat in dark, sunken pits. Her short auburn hair hung about her head like the tendrils on an old mop. Purple and blue bruises marked her face and neck. Her hands were thin and bony. Her lips were cracked, fine grey lines. She looked older and tired—lifeless.
Francesco laid a hand on her head, gently brushing the tendrils from her face as she often did with him. "Mom." He whispered.
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