Chapter 4 - Blood Never Lies
Forty minutes later, the air inside Rocco's private study on the third floor was thick with medicinal antiseptic and tension.
Dr. Lucian Rossi, a gray-haired physician who had patched up gunshot wounds for the Moretti family for three decades, pulled a sterile swab from the infant’s mouth and placed it into a portable, high-speed centrifugal analyzer on Rocco’s desk.
Baby Leo—named after Rocco's grandfather—lay sleeping on a cashmere throw atop the leather sofa. His breathing had evened out. A heated saline pouch warmed his tiny limbs, and he had eagerly sucked down two ounces of sterile formula provided by the medical kit. Sophia sat cross-legged on the rug beside him, watching his chest rise and fall as if guarding the crown jewels of an empire.
*Beep. Beep. Whirrr.*
The analyzer flashed a sequence of green diagnostics on its LED screen. Dr. Rossi adjusted his spectacles, leaned down, and let out a long, shuddering breath.
"Well, Lucian?" Rocco demanded from the shadow of the window.
"Don Rocco..." Lucian's voice was hoarse with awe and horror. "The paternal markers are unmistakable. Ninety-nine point nine-eight percent direct lineage. This child is your biological son. The late Clara's son."
Rocco’s heart, frozen since the day Clara had allegedly died from hemorrhage in the clinic’s isolation wing, hammered against his ribs like a sledgehammer against steel. He had mourned them both. He had burned with a quiet, hollow rage for ten long days, believing his entire bloodline had been snuffed out.
"And the medical report of death?" Rocco asked, his tone deceptively tranquil.
"Falsified," Lucian said plainly. "The digital signature belonged to Dr. Vance at St. Helena. Vance owes four million dollars in offshore gambling debts to the Atlantic City bookmakers. It wouldn't take much to buy his pen."
Rocco turned slowly toward the corner of the study.
Valentina sat handcuffed to an iron floor ring originally installed for interrogation eighty years ago. Her makeup was ruined by streaks of angry tears, her silk robe torn at the sleeve. Standing guard over her was Matteo, his face carved from dark granite.
"You took Clara’s boy," Rocco whispered, walking over to her. He did not yell. He did not pull his firearm. The utter absence of loud fury made him infinitely more terrifying. "You paid Vance to fake the cardiac arrest. You intended to dispose of him then, didn't you? But Vance couldn't bring himself to kill a newborn with his bare hands."
"He got cold feet," Valentina spat suddenly, her aristocratic mask crumbling entirely, replaced by venomous spite. "The coward kept the brat hidden in an incubator in the basement storage! He called me tonight saying he couldn't keep him past midnight—that the state auditors were arriving tomorrow! He drove the child here in an unmarked laundry van and dumped him on me!"
"And you," Rocco said, "threw him into the compactor bin."
"He wasn't supposed to exist!" she screamed, thrashing against the chains. "Your father’s will leaves seventy percent of the syndicate's operational trusts directly to a biological male heir! If you had no son, the control reverted to the joint council—which my family controls! With Clara dead, our marriage would have made me the most powerful woman on the eastern seaboard! Why should some gutter-born bastard take everything that belongs to the Marcone bloodline?!"
"Clara was my wife in God’s eyes," Rocco said, kneeling before her, his gaze devoid of pity. "And that boy is my soul. You are going to tell me everything Vance did. And then you are going to tell me who inside the Castiglione family helped you coordinate the payoff."
May you like
Valentina laughed, a ragged, hysterical sound. "It doesn't matter what I tell you, Rocco. It’s midnight. Look out your window. Did you really think I didn't have an insurance policy?"
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