Chapter 36 - The Little Bird's Code
Inside the cavernous, humid belly of the abandoned laundry plant, the air was suffocatingly warm, thick with the smell of mildew, stale detergent, and stagnant water.
Rows of massive industrial washing drums—huge iron cylinders ten feet in diameter—lined the central aisle like iron cages. Pipes hissed steam into the rafters, obscuring the ceiling in swirling clouds of white vapor.
Dante moved with terrifying stealth, cutting through the shadows, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning every catwalk and iron grate. Maya crept behind him, her sneakers silent on the slippery concrete floor.
Suddenly, Dante stopped. He raised a closed fist, signaling the team to halt.
He pointed down at the floor.
On the gray concrete, half-hidden beneath an overturned iron sorting bin, was a streak of wax.
Yellow.
Maya’s breath caught in her throat. She dropped to her knees, examining the marking. It wasn't an accidental scrape. It was a crude, deliberate drawing: a small, triangular beak, two stick legs, and two round eyes.
A bird.
The exact bird Maya had shown Sofia how to draw on the paper placemat at Bellanote two days ago.
"She’s here," Maya whispered, her eyes wide with hope and terror. "She had a crayon in her pocket. She left this for us."
"Ten meters ahead," Dante muttered, his jaw clenched tight. "The foreman's office on the elevated mezzanine."
Above them, through the hiss of the steam pipes, a voice echoed down from the metal catwalk:
"I told you he’d come! I told you the bastard wouldn't wait for the pier!"
High above, on the metal walkway overlooking the floor, three men appeared with automatic rifles. In the center stood Marco Cavallo—the nephew whose arm Dante had noted—his left forearm wrapped tightly in blood-soaked bandages, a heavy pistol gripped in his right hand.
And beside Marco, strapped to an iron chair bolted to the catwalk floor, was Sofia.
The little girl was pale, her face bruised, her dark curls plastered to her forehead with sweat. A thick strip of duct tape sealed her mouth, and her small wrists were bound to the iron arms of the chair with zip-ties.
Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Maya and Dante standing on the floor below.
A muffled, desperate cry escaped her throat behind the tape.
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"Step back, Blackwood!" Marco screamed, his eyes wild with terror and fury, pressing the barrel of his gun against Sofia’s temple. "Drop your weapons or her brains end up on your shoes! I swear to God, I’ll pull the trigger right now!"
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