Chapter 3 - The Doctor's Secret
The private parlor of the Moretti estate smelled of cedar smoke and antiseptic. The massive hearth crackled with dry oak, throwing golden light across the gilded moldings.
Dr. Christopher Finch’s hands were shaking so severely that the sterile cotton swab slipped from his grasp twice before he managed to swab the inside of the infant’s cheek. Finch had served as the Moretti family physician for twenty-two years. He had treated gunshot wounds, patched up broken bones after warehouse shootouts, and delivered the legitimate and illegitimate children of New York’s underworld elite.
He had never looked as terrified as he did tonight.
"His core body temperature has risen to ninety-six degrees," Finch reported, adjusting the miniature oxygen mask over the baby’s face. The infant was resting inside a portable warming pod set atop the antique mahogany coffee table. "Another twenty minutes in that chute, Don Rocco, and the hypothermia would have induced ventricular fibrillation. The child would not have survived the night."
Rocco stood against the mantle, a crystal tumbler of Scotch untouched in his hand. "Who delivered him, Finch?"
The doctor froze. His stethoscope remained pressed against the infant’s chest. "I... I couldn't say without reviewing hospital records, Don Rocco. The private clinic sees many high-profile clients."
Rocco set his glass down on the mantelpiece. The clink of the heavy crystal sounded like the cocking of a hammer. He walked over to Finch and rested a heavy hand on the physician’s shoulder. The fabric of Finch’s tailored wool coat bunched beneath Rocco’s grip.
"Finch," Rocco whispered, leaning down. "You have known me since I was seventeen years old. You know I do not ask questions to learn the truth. I ask questions to see if you will lie to me."
Finch swallowed hard, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the draft in the room.
"The St. Helena maternity ward was supposed to be empty," Rocco continued smoothly. "Yet this child bears the serial mark of Ward Four. Ward Four is my private wing. The wing reserved exclusively for my bloodline. The wing where Clara was placed before she died."
At the mention of Clara’s name, the air in the room seemed to plummet below freezing.
Clara Rossi. The only woman Rocco Moretti had ever truly loved. She had vanished nine months earlier, reportedly killed in a tragic vehicular explosion over the Hudson River—a hit orchestrated, according to the official report, by the rival Marcone syndicate. Rocco had spent three months burning down three rival organizations in retaliation, burying what he believed were her charred remains in the Moretti family crypt.
Three months later, under immense political pressure from his capos to secure a political alliance and produce an heir, Rocco had wed Valentina DeLuca, the daughter of his most powerful regional ally.
Finch’s knees buckled. He sank onto the edge of the leather sofa. "Rocco... God forgive me... they told me you ordered it."
Rocco’s grip tightened on Finch’s shoulder until bone ground against bone. "Who told you?"
"Marco DeLuca," Finch whimpered, naming Valentina’s older brother, the ruthless underboss of the DeLuca syndicate. "Nine months ago... Clara didn't die in that car, Rocco! She was intercepted before the bridge. Marco took her to the private estate in Westchester. They said... Marco said you wanted her hidden. He said you couldn't marry Valentina with Clara carrying your bastard!"
Rocco’s vision tinted crimson. The roaring in his ears drowned out the sound of the crackling fire. "She was pregnant."
"She was six weeks along when they took her," Finch confessed, tears spilling down his aged face. "They kept her alive in Ward Four under total sedation. They induced labor thirty-six hours ago. A boy. A healthy, perfect boy. Marco told me the child was to be brought to an orphanage in upstate New York. I swear to you on my mother’s grave, Rocco, I didn't know they brought him here! I didn't know they threw him down the chute!"
"Where is she?" Rocco’s voice was barely human. It was a low, feral growl that vibrated in the floorboards. "Where is Clara?"
"I don't know!" Finch cried, raising his trembling hands. "They moved her immediately after the placenta was cleared! Marco’s men loaded her into an ambulance. They said she was going to the docks—to Blackwater Bay warehouse three! Please, Rocco, I only signed the medical clearance because they held a gun to my grandson's head!"
The heavy oak doors of the parlor banged open.
Dante, the head of Rocco's personal security detail, stepped inside. His tactical vest was cinched tight, and his expression was grim. "Boss. We have a situation in the surveillance wing."
Rocco released Finch, letting the doctor collapse forward onto the rug. "What happened?"
"We pulled the raw footage from the master servers," Dante said. "The feeds to the scullery chute weren't cut by a glitch. They were manually overridden from the terminal inside your bedroom. But that’s not all."
Dante stepped forward and handed Rocco an iPad. On the screen was a live tracking map of the estate’s outer perimeter.
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"Two black SUVs just breached the rear utility gate from the outside," Dante said. "They bypassed the pressure sensors using an internal security pass. Boss... it's Marco DeLuca. He brought a hit team."
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