"Say Sorry to My Mommy,"" the Maid's Heartbroken Toddler Told the Ruthless Mafia Boss — He Went Silent The gun was still shaking in his oldest friend's hand when the little girl's voice came through the phone — three words, barely a whisper, spoken from the backseat of a car speeding toward a warehouse no child should ever see.

Damiano stood in the dark garage of his estate, staring at the empty space where his armored Cadillac had been parked. Outside, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour, lightning tearing open the New York skyline.

He jumped behind the wheel of a matte-black twin-turbocharged sports coupe, smashing the accelerator. The vehicle roared out of the subterranean gate, tires smoking as they found traction on the wet asphalt, hurtling toward the highway at breakneck speed.

His dashboard console chimed—an incoming intercepted frequency from an unlisted secondary line.

Damiano hit the hands-free button. "Speak."

Static hissed through the high-end speakers. Then, through the crackle of bad reception and road noise, came a tiny, trembling voice.

"Uncle Marco is lying."

Damiano’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned pure white. "Lucia? Lucia, can you hear me?"

"He told the man with the scar that they aren't going to the water," Lucia’s whisper came through, punctuated by the faint hum of heavy machinery in the background. "He said... 'The old brick place with the red crane.' Mommy is sleeping. The bad man hit her head."

Damiano’s tactical mind immediately calculated the coordinates. Pier 44 was a decoy. The "old brick place with the red crane" was the abandoned Conti ironworks foundry in Red Hook, Brooklyn—the very foundry where Damiano, Marco, and Leo had grown up running errands for the old mafia regime twenty years ago.

"Lucia, listen to me very carefully," Damiano said, his voice miraculously steady despite the adrenaline surging through his bloodstream. "Where is Barnaby?"

"I lost him in the elevator," she sniffled, her bravery finally cracking into tiny, heartbroken sobs. "I'm sorry, Mr. Shiny Shoes."

"Listen to me, little warrior," Damiano commanded gently. "Barnaby is safe with me. I have him in my pocket. You did your job. Now close your eyes, cover your ears, and hold your mommy’s hand. I am coming."

"You have to say sorry to Mommy," she whispered through the static. "You promised."

"I will," Damiano swore, slamming the shifter into sixth gear as the speedometer climbed past 140 miles per hour toward Brooklyn. "I promise."