Kidnapping the Billionaire's Baby

Amara nodded, relieved he was handling things, and that he always took care to think ahead. A good man to have around in an emergency, she thought. Then realized she already had ample evidence of that.

Quint was a rock, a solid foundation in a shaky world. And she loved him for it.

“What about our things at the condo?” she asked.

“I’m sending someone there right now to pack everything up and take it to the airport. You brought your passport with you tonight as I asked, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He made a call to his people back in the states. Amara wandered around the room and tried not to think about how close Hampton might be. Could he be here, somewhere in the rambling villa, perhaps?

No, Gabriela would have known if he were here, surely.

Where, then? Somewhere in Montevideo? Another city? Not another country, no. Frederik would have kept Hampton in Uruguay.

She thought she heard something, a wail, perhaps, distant and high pitched. She looked at Quint.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Yes.”

In her gut, Amara knew it had to be Frederik’s mother. She felt sick, sick at all the suffering Frederik had caused. Being a mother herself now, she couldn’t imagine getting the news Frederik’s mother had just received.

She finally sat and tried not to think.

It seemed a lifetime elapsed before the door finally opened. A regal, older man stepped inside, his head held high and proud.

He was a refined-looking man, and it was difficult to say how old he was with any confidence. His salt and pepper hair was neatly cut and combed, more salt at the temples than pepper. He wore a red velvet smoking jacket and white pants with gold-trimmed slippers.

This man had to be Frederik’s father. He was what Frederik would have looked like one day.

Amara hopped up, and Quint came to stand beside her.

Gabriela followed the man into the room, her cheeks streaked with fresh tears, looking more distraught than ever. She held her head high, though, like the dignified man who was currently inspecting Amara and Quint.

“This is my father, Don Rodolfo Orlando,” she said.

They greeted the older man, and Gabriela introduced them to her father. Amara and Quint offered their condolences to the Orlando family. Everyone chose a seat and sat, Amara and Quint side by side on a sofa that was likely several hundred years old.

“We have been told the news of our son,” Rodolfo said. “My wife is … she must be excused for not joining us.”

“Yes, of course,” Amara said quickly.

“We don’t wish to keep you for long,” Quint said. “Gabriela told you why we’re here?”

“Yes, you want to know where the child is, no?”

“Yes, please. I miss my son,” Amara said, unashamed of letting her need show.

Rodolfo looked at Gabriela, who stared back with a pleading expression.

He brushed a hand down his lapel. “It is bad, this affair. I am sorry, but I cannot help you.”

Amara gasped, and Quint took her hand in his.