Chapter 2 - The Emergency DNA Swab and the Trembling Maid
The silence in my office was thick enough to suffocate a man.
Dominic immediately stepped past Elena, closing the heavy mahogany doors, clicking the deadbolt into place, and standing with his broad back against the wood. Lorenzo was still shivering on the floor, forgotten in the sudden, earth-shattering shift of reality.
“Dominic,” I commanded, never taking my eyes off Elena.
“Boss?”
“Take Lorenzo to the sub-basement cells. Lock him in Holding Three. If he speaks a single syllable about what he witnessed in this room, cut his tongue out.”
“Understood, Boss.” Dominic grabbed Lorenzo by the collar of his shirt, hauled him to his feet like a sack of grain, and dragged him through the private side exit into the secure corridor.
The room was left with only three people: myself, the trembling maid, and the baby happily playing with the gold Rolex on my wrist.
I walked over to the velvet sofa, sat down, and placed Leo gently on the cushion beside me. The baby immediately grabbed my thumb again, gurgling with delight.
“Sit down, Elena,” I ordered, pointing to the leather armchair across from me.
Elena stood frozen for five seconds, her hands twisting the white lace trim of her apron into tight knots. Slowly, like a prisoner walking toward the executioner’s block, she crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the chair, keeping her head bowed.
“Look at me,” I said softly.
She lifted her head, her hazel eyes swimming with tears, terrified of the man whose name made federal prosecutors and cartel leaders sweat through their suits.
“Three years ago,” I began, my voice steady, low, and laced with suppressed volcanic emotion, “a bomb destroyed the third floor of St. Jude’s Pediatric Clinic. My newborn son, Mateo, was in the neonatal intensive care unit. The coroner delivered dental records and ashes. I held a funeral. I buried an empty box.”
I leaned forward, pointing to the crescent birthmark beneath Leo’s ear.
“This baby has my father’s jawline. He has my mother’s eyes. And he carries the exact genetic birthmark that has appeared on the firstborn son of every Moretti generation for one hundred and twenty years.”
Elena squeezed her eyes shut, a soft sob escaping her lips.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Elena,” I said, my eyes boring into her soul. “And if you lie to me, I will tear this entire city apart brick by brick until I find the truth. Is this child Mateo?”
Elena buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently.
“His real name is Mateo,” she whispered through her fingers, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner. “He is your son, Mr. Moretti.”
The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
Even though my eyes had seen it, even though my heart had recognized him the second his tiny hand touched mine, hearing the words spoken aloud felt like an electric shock straight through my chest.
I pulled out my phone, pressed speed-dial 1, and held it to my ear.
Dr. Ronald Bell, the Chief of Genetics at Columbia University Medical Center—a man whose entire research laboratory had been funded by the Moretti Foundation—answered on the second ring.
“Dante?”
“Ronald,” I said, my voice commanding and absolute. “I need you at my private estate within twenty minutes. Bring a portable rapid-sequencing polymerase chain reaction diagnostic kit for immediate paternal DNA verification.”
“Dante, it’s nine o'clock on a Friday night—!”
“Ronald,” I interrupted, my tone leaving zero room for debate. “If you are not at my gates in twenty minutes, I will send Dominic to fetch you by helicopter. This is the single most important task of your entire career.”
“I’m leaving right now,” Ronald replied, hanging up.
May you like
I set the phone on the table, turned back to Elena, and leaned back against the cushions, holding my son’s tiny foot in my palm.
“Now, Elena,” I said, my gaze sharp and unwavering. “Start talking. Tell me why my son was presumed dead, why you brought him into my house, and who is trying to kill him.”
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