I sank to the floor of Becky’s apartment, the phone slipping from my numb fingers. I didn’t cry anymore. Tears were a luxury for a lesser grief. This was a cold, stark, absolute horror. He knew. He knew everything. And he had sent us a message, written in Isabella disappearance. A message that said, "I see your little games. And this is what happens to the pieces."
I tried to call Becky back when I was a bit calmer. But her phone was dead.
I tried calling her again 30 minutes later. “Where are you, Becky? Are you safe at home?”
“Tomorrow morning, you will have to go check on Locas's house. Pretend as if you are paying him a visit.” she replied.
“What?!” I screamed. Going into the Mafia’s house again was like sending me to the lion's den. I had vowed never to go again. “I can't, Becky.”
