Chapter 7 - Secrets of the Bloodline
The sun rose over Boston at 6:30 AM, casting long, gold rays across the rain-slick streets of Beacon Hill. The fog had cleared, leaving the air crisp, cold, and fresh.
The Duca mansion was silent.
The mercenary hitmen outside had been systematically eliminated by Dominic’s perimeter security team within twenty minutes of the initial assault. The estate grounds were locked down tighter than a military fortress, with dozens of loyal Duca soldiers patrolling the iron fences.
In the grand dining room downstairs, a long mahogany table was set with fresh coffee, warm pastries, orange juice, and hot porridge.
Grace Harper sat in an upholstered armchair near the fireplace, wrapped in a fleece blanket. She was still weak, but her eyes were clear, bright, and filled with overwhelming gratitude as she held her baby daughter in her lap.
Mia sat beside her mother, eating a bowl of strawberries with silver cutlery, her small feet dangling six inches above the floor. She looked clean, wearing a fresh cotton dress provided by the estate staff.
At the head of the table sat Roman Duca. Beside him sat Elena.
Elena was wearing a soft cashmere sweater belonging to Roman, her white hair neatly brushed and pinned back. For the first time in eleven years, the golden morning light fell across her face, illuminating the subtle beauty that time in the dark had been unable to destroy.
Dominic walked into the dining room carrying a thick leather briefcase. He set it on the table in front of Roman.
"It's done, boss," Dominic reported low. "Silas's accounts have been frozen. The Commission in New York called ten minutes ago—they heard about the shootout. I told them Silas tried to launch an illegal coup, and that you handled the matter internally. The Commission approved your leadership without a single dissenting vote."
Roman nodded once. "And the capos?"
"Vic and the others are lined up outside," Dominic said with a grin. "They're waiting to swear their personal oaths of loyalty to you... and to Elena."
Roman turned his head to look at his sister. "How are you feeling, El?"
Elena set her teacup down on its saucer. Her fingers were steady now. "I feel like I've been born again, Roman. But there is one last thing you need to read."
She reached into Dominic's briefcase and pulled out the old red leather ledger—the one she had guarded in her wall cell for over a decade. She opened it to the very last page, where a yellowed piece of official parchment was tucked between the bindings.
"Father didn't just lock me away because I threatened to expose his theft," Elena said quietly, her dark eyes looking into Roman's. "He locked me away because of what is written on that paper."
Roman picked up the parchment. It was a certified hospital record from 1986—the year Roman was born—bearing the official seal of Saint Margaret's Hospital in South Boston.
Roman read the lines, his eyes widening slightly.
"You aren't Anthony Duca's biological son, Roman," Elena revealed softly, her voice filled with gentle compassion. "Mother had an affair with Gabriel Moretti—the former head of the Providence family—during the 1985 peace summit. Father found out six months after you were born. He kept you... raised you as his heir... because he needed a ruthless son to fight his wars, but he hated you every single day of his life."
Dominic gasped, stepping back from the table. "Mother of God..."
Roman stared at the paper. The pieces of his tortured childhood—his father's coldness, the impossible demands, the brutal beatings under the guise of "making him strong," the absolute lack of warmth or affection—all fell into place with devastating, undeniable clarity.
He wasn't an heir to Anthony Duca's bloodline. He was a weapon created by a bitter, paranoid tyrant to fight a war against his own biological father.
Roman lowered the paper onto the table. He looked at Elena.
"Does it matter to you?" Roman asked, his voice low, testing the fragile bond between them.
Elena reached across the table and took his massive hand into hers, her grip firm and unyielding.
"You pulled me out of the dark, Roman," Elena said, tears sparkling in her eyes. "You are my brother. You are the only real Duca left in this world. Blood doesn't make a family... loyalty does."
Roman felt a cold stone inside his chest dissolve into nothingness. He squeezed her hand back, turning to look at the little girl sitting across the table.
Mia was watching him, a strawberry halfway to her mouth, her hazel eyes wise and clear.
"Mr. Duca?" Mia asked softly.
"Yes, Mia?"
"Are we going to stay here now?"
May you like
Roman looked around the grand dining room—at his sister, at Grace, at the baby sleeping peacefully, and at the brave little girl who had listened to the sound behind the wall when no one else would.
"Yes, Mia," Roman said, a genuine, warm smile breaking across his hard face for the first time in his life. "You're home."
