Tears between us

New York never slept, but that night, the Ricci household did. The penthouse, usually filled with laughter, music, and the scent of fresh espresso, had fallen into an eerie silence. The soft hum of the baby monitor sat unnoticed on the bedside table. No one heard the creak of the nursery door. No one noticed the absence of breath from the bassinet.

By morning, the world had changed.

Three year old Alessandro Ricci was gone.

The first scream came from Valentina, the eldest daughter. She was the one who found the empty crib, the soft blue blanket discarded on the floor. Then came the chaos-the panic in their father's voice as he barked orders in rapid Italian, the trembling in their mother's hands as she clutched the baby's last-worn onesie. The police swarmed in, news cameras soon followed, and for days, the Ricci's were a family under siege.

A family in mourning.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. The trail went cold. The whispers began-speculations, doubts, cruel insinuations that an influential family like theirs should have been able to protect their own. But the Ricci's knew the truth.

Someone had taken Alessandro.

And three years later, as the city moved on, they never did.

Because somewhere out there, their baby brother was waiting to come home.