“Tomorrow,” he said, “we make it seven.”
That evening, I went home to Oliver.
He was asleep beneath his blue blanket, his breathing soft and even.
I sat beside him and placed two fingers against his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin.
I had entered Sebastian Lombardi’s mansion believing I was there to save my son.
In the end, one frightened mother, one suspicious guard, and one movement no wider than a coin had exposed nineteen years of betrayal.
I had not performed a miracle.
I had simply touched the place where the truth was still alive—and refused to let anyone call it dead.
