Eighty-seven minutes of nonstop crying had turned first class from irritated to completely defeated. Then I left premium economy, walked past passengers wealthy enough to buy almost anything they wanted, and told the most intimidating man on the plane that his six-month-old baby didn't need another expensive bottle.

I froze, instantly slouching down in the vinyl booth, pulling Maya toward the shadow of the tall seat back. My hands were shaking so violently that the tea in my paper cup sloshed over the rim, burning my skin, but I didn't dare make a sound.

How had he found us? Rome was a city of nearly three million people.

Marcus didn't scan the room like a frantic policeman. He walked with a calm, methodical pace directly toward the barista, showed a high-resolution photo on his smartphone, and handed the man a crisp hundred-euro note. The barista instantly pointed his finger toward the corner booth. Toward us.

I stood up abruptly, prepared to grab Maya and run for the back exit, but Marcus was already standing at the edge of our table. He didn't reach for us, nor did he look aggressive. He simply folded his hands in front of his coat, his face completely devoid of hostility.

"Miss Vance," Marcus said, his deep voice calm and measured. "Or whatever your real name is. Running through an international airport terminal with a three-year-old isn't as stealthy as you think it is."

"Leave us alone," I said, putting my body between him and Maya, who was rubbing her eyes, startled by the intrusion. "We haven't done anything wrong. If you touch us, I'll scream."

"You could scream," Marcus agreed neutrally. "And in five minutes, the Carabinieri—the Italian police—will arrive. They will ask for your parents, check your entry documents, realize you are two minors traveling alone without legal guardians, and place you in a state shelter until you are deported back to the United States."

Every word he spoke hit me like a physical blow. He was right. That was my ultimate nightmare.

"What do you want?" I whispered, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Mr. Vance wants to talk to you," Marcus replied. "He spent the last four hours having his intelligence team figure out why a ten-year-old child possessed the medical intuition of a pediatric nurse, why you were carrying a fake name, and why you vanished into Trastevere. He knows Beatrice Rossi was admitted to a clinic in Milan three months ago. He knows you have nowhere to go."

I swallowed hard, looking down at Maya, who was clutching my coat tail in terror.

"He isn't going to hurt you," Marcus added, his voice softening slightly. "Mr. Vance doesn't owe many debts in life, but he believes he owes you one. His son slept for six straight hours thanks to you. Outside is a car. You can come with me, eat a warm meal, and listen to what he has to say. Or you can stay here, run out of money in three days, and take your chances with Italian child protective services."

It wasn't a choice. It was a golden cage versus an absolute abyss.