Within 15 minutes, he had gathered five of his most trusted men. Those who had served the Moretti family for many years and knew how to work in the shadows without asking too many questions. Two black SUVs cut through the snowstorm toward the abandoned industrial zone in the south of the city where Isabella had been found. The dashboard clock showed 2:00 in the morning.

The outside temperature was -23° and still falling. Marco knew they were racing against time because if that woman had truly walked barefoot in this weather, she might already be dead. They reached the place where Isabella had been left, an empty lot among crumbling factories where even the homeless did not want to go.

Snow was still falling thickly, covering everything and erasing all traces. Marco ordered the team to spread out, turn on their flashlights, and begin searching. The security cameras in the area had been broken for a long time. No footage had been recorded. There were no witnesses, no clues, only white snow and darkness. It was Marco who found the first trace.

At the edge of the lot near a pile of rubble, there were footprints in the snow. Two kinds of footprints. One was a small sneaker print, Isabella’s. The other made Marco stop and look more closely, barefoot prints. The footprints of a woman, small and narrow, pressed deep into the snow. Marco crouched, shone his flashlight, and saw something that made even a man who had killed without hesitation feel a tightening in his throat.

Barefoot prints in snow at -23°, no shoes, no socks, only naked skin against frozen ground, leading south. Marco stood, waved to the team, and they began to follow the trail. At first, the prints were steady, purposeful, heading toward the distant old factory buildings. But the farther they went, the more the prints changed.

The steps began to stagger. The distance between them grew shorter. Then Marco saw a large hollow in the snow where someone had fallen. Hand prints, knee prints. Then the footprints continued. The person had stood up and kept going. Fell a second time, stood again. Marco called for more men, split the team into two groups.

One continued following the trail, the other drove around the roads to cover the area. He knew that every minute passing brought the woman closer to death. The footprints led them through a dark alley, through a scrapyard, through a vacant field full of weeds killed dry by the cold. Nearly 2 miles in a snowstorm, and the woman had walked barefoot.

Marco could not imagine it. He had seen many things in his life, had witnessed brutal tortures, had carried out merciless executions with his own hands. But this quiet courage, this endurance without a single complaint, filled him with respect. Then the footprints began to change color. Red, blood.

The woman’s feet had begun to bleed. Her skin cracking from the cold, and she kept going. Kept going, did not stop. Finally, after nearly an hour of searching, the trail led to an old factory, a crumbling brick building with broken windows and a rusted metal roof. The prints went around the back, down a worn concrete staircase, and stopped in front of a heavy iron door leading into the basement.

Marco signaled the team to stop, drew his gun, and slowly pushed the door. It opened with the creak of a rusted hinge, revealing a space as dark as ink inside. He turned on his flashlight, stepped in, and what he saw made him freeze. This was not an abandoned basement. This was a home. A home where someone was living. And in the farthest corner of the basement, on a torn mattress, a figure lay motionless.

Marco stepped into the basement, his flashlight sweeping through the dark space, and each detail revealed itself before him like a portrait of absolute poverty. The basement was about 20 square meters, its brick walls stained with patches of mold, its ceiling so low he had to duck in places. There was no electricity, no water, no warmth beyond what a human body could create on its own.

In the left corner, a torn sleeping bag lay on flattened cardboard. Beside it, a few opened cans of food, a bottle of water frozen halfway, and an old backpack holding a few sets of clothes folded with a care that was almost painful to see. A rope was stretched across one corner with two shirts and a pair of faded jeans hanging from it.

This was someone’s home. This was where a human being had lived, had tried to survive, had fought with life one day at a time. Marco turned the flashlight toward the farthest corner where he had seen the figure, and his heart seemed to miss a beat. A woman lay curled on a thin mattress, her body drawn in on itself as if trying to keep the last trace of warmth.

She wore only a thin sweater and jeans, soaked through from melting snow. Her bare feet were exposed, and Marco had to swallow hard when he saw them. The skin had turned a dark purplish black, cracked and frozen, dried blood clinging to the wounds. He hurried forward, knelt, and turned her onto her back. Her face was pale like wax, her lips deep purple, her eyes tightly shut.

Her cheekbones stood out sharply, her jawbone visible beneath fragile skin. This was the face of someone who had been starving for a long time, who had been fighting for a long time, and who was now losing. Marco placed two fingers on her neck to find a pulse. 1 second, 2 seconds. He held his breath. Then he felt it, faint, slow, like a small bird trying to beat its wings one last time before giving up.

Alive, but not for long. Marco immediately took off his jacket and covered her. Then pulled out his phone and called Vincent. His boss answered on the first ring. Found her, Marco said, his voice rougher than usual. But boss, she is dying. Where is she? In the basement of an abandoned factory on the south side. Boss, she has been living here.

There is nothing. No electricity, no water, no food. She gave your daughter everything she had. The other end was silent for a long moment. Marco could hear Vincent’s breathing, steady but heavy. Then his boss’s voice came, and Marco had to pull the phone slightly away from his ear to be sure he had heard correctly. Bring her to my house.

Call Dr. Vasquez immediately. Marco blinked. Boss, what did you say? I said, bring her to my house, Vincent repeated, his voice not wavering at all. She saved my daughter’s life by nearly giving up her own. She will not die in a cold hospital or on the street like a homeless person. Bring her here. Marco did not ask another question.

In 20 years of following Vincent Moretti, he had learned that there were moments when no explanation was needed, only action. He bent down, gently slid his arms beneath the woman’s back and knees, and lifted her. She was frighteningly light, as if her body were made of nothing but bones and will.

Her head fell against Marco’s chest, and he heard a weak whisper escape her cracked lips. Lily. She called someone’s name in her delirium, her frozen hand unconsciously clutching Marco’s coat as if clinging to life. Marco carried her out of the basement, up the stairs, and into the SUV waiting with the heater running at full power.

He did not know who this woman was, did not know her story, did not know who Lily was, but he knew one thing. Vincent Moretti never brought anyone into his home. Never had. And tonight, everything was changing. While Marco was bringing the unknown woman to Vincent’s house, another team had completed the second task. Brandon Ashford was not hard to find.

He was at a party in his friend’s penthouse apartment in the Gold Coast area, where rich kids gathered to drink expensive liquor and brag about things they had never had to work to obtain. Brandon was sitting on a sofa, one hand holding a glass of whiskey, the other draped around a blond girl, laughing loudly as he told his friends about his achievement.

You should have seen that girl’s face, he slurred drunkenly. Who did she think she was? A mafia boss’s daughter or not, she dared to refuse me in front of everyone. So I taught her a lesson she will never forget. His friends burst into laughter, none of them knowing that the real lesson was coming, and that it would not be for Isabella.

At 10:00 in the evening, the lights in the apartment suddenly went out. The laughter cut off, replaced by panicked screams and chaotic sounds of collision. When the lights came back on 30 seconds later, 10 men dressed in black were standing scattered around the room, faces cold as ice, guns in their hands.

Brandon’s friends shrank into the corners. The blond girl screamed and cried, but none of the men in black even looked at them. All of them were looking at Brandon, Brandon Ashford. One man stepped forward, his voice low and cold. Come with us. Brandon tried to stay calm, tried to remember that his father was Senator Richard Ashford, one of the most powerful men in Illinois.

Do you know who I am? My father will Your father will do nothing, the man cut in. And you have 10 seconds to walk out that door on your own or we will drag you out. Your choice. Brandon did not get to choose. Two men grabbed him, dragged him out of the apartment, shoved him into the elevator, then threw him into the back of a black SUV.

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