I stared at the charred remains of the West Wing—or what was left of it. The sight of the blackened stone and the acrid, scorched scent of burnt timber made my blood boil. Somewhere under that wreckage was my son's room. Somewhere in there, my child was hurt, and the rage inside me was threatening to tear my spill open.
“Sir... Young Master Finn wasn't evacuated with the rest of the staff. It’s presumed he is still inside the building,” Gabriel’s voice reached me, but it sounded like he was underwater.
My mind raced through a thousand scenarios, each darker than the last. This had to be a joke. Some sick, twisted game played by my enemies.
“How?” The word was a jagged glass fragment in my throat. How did this happen? How could I lose him now, just as I was learning what it meant to be a
