Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Blood and Silk
Julian Vance.
My closest friend since our days at Harvard. The godfather to my children. The man who had wept at Clara’s funeral, who had poured the bourbon into my glass on the nights I held a loaded pistol to my temple, who had stood by my side as we grew Moretti Logistics into a multi-billion-dollar global empire.
He hadn't just betrayed me. He had orchestrated the living hell that consumed my life.
"Parker!" I shouted, never taking my eyes off the children.
Parker burst through the basement door, gun drawn, two tactical guards behind him. "Boss?"
"Call Dr. Mercer. Have the entire private medical wing at the Bel-Air estate prepped immediately. Bring two ambulances to the end of the block—no sirens. We move right now."
Elena let out a wet, rattling sigh. "Mr. Moretti... don't let him... don't let him hurt my babies..."
"They’re safe now," I said fiercely, reaching out. "And you’re coming with us. You kept them alive."
As Parker called the medical transport, I stepped toward the girls. Rose instantly bared her teeth, stepping in front of Lily like a tiny wolf cub.
"Get away from her!" Rose screamed, swinging a rusted tin can at my arm.
The edge of the tin sliced across my palm, a line of crimson welling up instantly. I didn't even flinch. I let the blood drip onto the floor, keeping my eyes soft, my body relaxed.
"You're a brave girl, Rose," I said gently. "You've done an amazing job keeping Lily safe. But nobody is going to hurt either of you ever again. Look at me. I’m not here to take her away from you. I’m taking both of you."
Lily peaked out from behind Rose’s shoulder. Her green eyes—identical to the eyes in the portrait hanging over my fireplace—stared at the blood on my hand. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a dirty, torn piece of a fast-food napkin.
Step by tiny step, she walked up to me and pressed the greasy paper against my cut.
"It will stop the hurt," she whispered.
A sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it down, refusing to show weakness when they needed a fortress. "Thank you, sweetheart."
Within twenty minutes, Elena was stabilized on a stretcher by my private medical team and loaded into the discreet medical van. I carried Lily in my left arm; she was so light she felt like a sparrow, her tiny ribs pressing against my forearm. Rose refused to be carried, walking right beside my leg, her fingers locked into the fabric of my suit jacket with a death grip.
We pulled up to the iron gates of my Bel-Air estate forty minutes later.
The security gates parted silently. The long, winding driveway cut through acres of sculpted gardens, waterfalls, and towering palms. For six years, this mansion had felt like a lavish mausoleum. A five-hundred-million-dollar monument to grief.
When the car stopped at the grand entrance, Maria, my housekeeper who had been with my family for thirty years, stood on the limestone steps. The moment she saw the two little girls emerging from the back of the SUV, she put her hands over her mouth and dropped to her knees, weeping openly.
"Mother of God..." Maria cried in Italian. "Signor Dante... it's her. It's our Marie."
"Maria, run a warm bath," I commanded, carrying Lily inside while Rose tracked mud across the pristine imported marble floors. "Bring clean clothes. Soft ones. Call the kitchen—scrambled eggs, fruit, warm milk. Nothing too heavy."
We took them up to the master suite. The girls moved through the towering corridors with wide, terrified eyes. They looked at the crystal chandeliers, the priceless artwork, and the gilded mirrors as if they had stepped onto an alien planet.
When Maria brought a silver tray of fresh scrambled eggs, toast, and berries, Rose didn't eat. Instead, she took the warm buttered toast, wrapped it in a napkin, and shoved it under the heavy feather pillow.
My chest constricted so violently I had to look away.
"Rose," I said gently, kneeling beside the plush armchair she was curled into. "You don't have to hide the food. There is always food here. As much as you want, whenever you want it."
Rose glared at me with guarded suspicion. "That’s what the lady at the shelter said before the bad men came and kicked the doors down. Food goes away."
"Not here," I promised. "Never here."
Dr. Mercer, my chief physician, entered quietly. "Dante. The buccal swabs are ready. We can have a rush PCR panel done within forty-five minutes in the lower lab."
I nodded. Lily sat quietly as Mercer gently swabbed the inside of her cheek. Rose fought it until I let Mercer swab my cheek first to prove it didn't hurt.
Forty-five minutes later, I stood in the corridor outside the lab, staring out over the sprawling lights of Los Angeles.
Mercer walked out, holding a manila folder. His face was pale, his eyes wide.
"Dante," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "Lily is a 99.99% direct genetic match to you and Clara. She is Marie."
I closed my eyes. A single tear escaped, burning hot against my skin.
"And Rose?" I asked.
Mercer took a breath. "Rose shares 50% of your DNA and 50% of Clara’s. They are fraternal twins. Dante... you had two daughters that night. Someone altered the hospital records before you landed in the city."
I looked through the glass door into the adjacent room. Lily and Rose were sitting on a massive velvet couch, wearing oversized cashmere sweaters Maria had found. Lily was sound asleep, her head resting in Rose’s lap. Rose was staying awake, her tired eyes glaring at every guard who walked past the door, fiercely protecting her sister.
My daughters. Both of them.
Suddenly, Parker’s phone buzzed. He answered, listened for three seconds, and his jaw hardened.
He looked at me, lowering the phone. "Boss. We just got a ping from the warehouse district. Skid Row."
"What happened?"
"A team of six armed men in unmarked tactical gear just breached the basement cellar where Elena was staying. When they found it empty, they burned the building to the ground."
My eyes turned to ice. "Julian Vance thinks he's cleaning up loose ends."
"He doesn't know you have them," Parker said.
May you like
"Good," I replied, my voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute lethal intent. "Let him think the fire did the job. Because when I take his empire and his life from him, I want it to be the last thing he ever sees coming."
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