Chapter 3 - THE HIDDEN DISC
Vincent’s bodyguards shifted their positions silently. The two men near the galley took half-steps forward, their eyes locked onto Leah’s small fingers. Marco leaned over the headrest of the adjacent seat, his hand resting flat against his hip coat pocket. The air in the cabin grew instantly thick, heavy with an unspoken, violent potential.
Leah ignored them completely. She didn't look at the armed men surrounding her; her focus was absolute, centered entirely on the folds of the cream blanket.
With incredible delicate care, her small fingers slid beneath the edge of the hem near Luca’s left ribcage.
The baby let out a sharp, agonized screech the moment her fingertips grazed the fabric.
"Careful," Vincent warned, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it sounded like grinding stones. A dark vein throbbed along the side of his tattooed neck.
"I am," Leah whispered.
She didn't pull the blanket away entirely. Instead, she gently parted two layers of the fine cashmere wool, peeking into the shadow between the blanket and the child’s white dress shirt.
Her light-gray eyes widened slightly. Her breath hitched in her throat, a tiny, barely audible sound that Vincent caught immediately.
"What is it?" Vincent demanded, leaning down further, his massive frame hovering over both the child and the girl.
Leah didn't answer right away. She pinched her thumb and forefinger together, reaching deep into the fold of the blanket, right against the child’s ribs where the fabric pressed tightly into his delicate skin.
Her fingers closed around something hard, cold, and smooth.
She pulled her hand back slowly.
Wedged into the inner seam of the blanket—pressed directly against Baby Luca’s skin so that every breath he took jammed the hard surface into his tiny ribs—was a small, metallic object.
It was a tiny black disc, no larger than a coin, but significantly thicker. Its surface was made of brushed matte-black metal, seamless and featureless, with no visible brand, no wires, and no blinking lights. It caught the daylight streaming through the oval window, absorbing the glare rather than reflecting it. It looked impossibly cold, engineered with a sinister, high-precision minimalism.
As soon as the black disc was lifted away from the infant’s skin, freeing his ribs from the continuous, localized pressure, Baby Luca’s screams faltered.
The baby let out one last, shuddering cry, his small chest expanding fully for the first time in hours. He gasped, taking in a deep breath of cool cabin air, his tiny hands unclenching from their tight fists. Within seconds, his frantic writhing slowed. His cries faded into small, wet whimpers, and his tear-stained face began to relax against Vincent’s arm.
The sudden drop in noise was deafening. The continuous, flat thrum of the jet engines filled the cabin, making the silence feel almost unnaturally loud.
Vincent didn't look at his son, who was finally settling down against his chest.
His eyes were glued to the tiny black object held between Leah’s small fingers.
Every trace of exhaustion, brain-fog, and physical fatigue vanished from Vincent Moretti’s face in an instant. His sharp features hardened into a terrifying mask of absolute, predatory focus. The color drained from his jaw, leaving his stubble stark against pale skin, while his dark eyes burned with an icy, lethal fire.
"Marco," Vincent said. The word was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of an execution order.
"Sir?"
Vincent reached out his hand, palm up. His broad, tattooed palm hovered in front of Leah. His fingers were perfectly still, locked in iron discipline.
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"Give it to me," Vincent told the girl.
Leah looked at his large hand, then up into his dark, terrifying eyes. Without a word, she dropped the tiny black disc onto his open palm.
