Chapter 1 - Unraveling the Lies
The grand dining hall of the Moretti estate felt colder than a family vault. Silence hung thick in the air, heavy with the stench of betrayal and rain.
I held the tiny, squirming bundle tightly against my chest, feeling the weak yet persistent thrum of my newborn son’s heartbeat. His cries were faint, muffled by the dirty towel he had been wrapped in, but to me, they were louder than thunder. Beside me, Sophia stood shivering, her small, mud-stained feet leaving dark footprints on the white Italian marble.
Across the long mahogany table, my younger brother Matteo looked as if he had seen a ghost. His hand trembled as he reached for his glass, missing it entirely before it shattered on the floor. His eyes darted from the crying baby to Valentina, then back to the sliced plastic band resting in the center of Sophia’s palm.
Valentina’s face had lost every trace of color. The grieving mother routine she had performed so flawlessly for the past three days melted away, replaced by pure, naked panic.
“Lorenzo!” I called out, my voice cutting through the room like a blade.
The double doors swung open immediately. Lorenzo, my chief of security and a man who had served my late father for twenty years, stepped into the room with four armed guards behind him.
“Boss?” Lorenzo asked, his eyes widening as he spotted the baby in my arms.
“Lock down the estate,” I commanded, never taking my eyes off Matteo and Valentina. “Nobody leaves this room. Cut the phone lines. Collect every mobile device on the table. If anyone tries to move without my permission, shoot them.”
Valentina gasped, clutching her throat. “Julian, please! You’re not thinking clearly! You’re in shock—we don’t even know whose baby that is! It could be a trick, a street child someone dropped off to scam you—”
“Shut up,” I said quietly.
The absolute coldness in my voice froze her mid-sentence. I looked down at the identification tag around my son’s tiny wrist.
St. Helena Private Hospital. Patient: Baby Moretti. ID: #8804-B.
It was identical to the number stamped on the death certificate sitting beneath my hand on the table. The same document Matteo’s lawyers had urged me to sign only five minutes ago.
“And this?” I held up the second band Sophia had brought me. “Care to explain this, Valentina?”
Valentina opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
The name printed on the second band was indeed Valentina Moretti. But the tracking number below it belonged to a medical record that had been closed twelve years ago—the night Lucia Vance died in the emergency ward of St. Helena.
Lucia Vance was Matteo’s mother. The mistress my father had kept hidden in the hills until her mysterious death in a hit-and-run accident.
Matteo stood up so fast his heavy leather chair scraped violently against the floor. “Julian, listen to me! This is crazy! Someone is setting us up! Why would I want to hurt my own nephew? You know how much I loved him already!”
“You didn’t love him,” I said, stepping closer to him. My hand tightened around the baby, cradling his small head against my shoulder. “You wanted my throne. And you couldn’t wait for natural causes to take it from me.”
I turned to Lorenzo. “Take Matteo and Valentina to the cellar rooms. Separate them. Strip them of everything they carry, including their watches and jewelry.”
“Julian! You can’t do this to your wife!” Valentina shrieked as two guards grabbed her arms. “I gave birth to your son! I suffered for nine months!”
“Did you?” I whispered, leaning in close as she struggled against the guards. “Or did you just play the part while someone else’s child was prepared for the trash?”
Her eyes flared with terrified realization. The guards dragged her out, her screams echoing down the long corridor until the heavy oak doors clicked shut. Matteo didn't scream. He only stared at me with pure venom before Lorenzo pushed him out into the hall.
I turned to Sophia and her mother, Teresa. Teresa was weeping, clutching her daughter’s wet shoulders.
“Teresa,” I said gently, my voice softening for the first time. “Take Sophia to the kitchen. Get her warm clothes, food, and whatever she wants. You saved my son’s life today. Both of you.”
“Mr. Moretti,” Teresa sobbed, nodding frantically. “The poor sweet angel... he was shivering in that awful bag. God was watching over him.”
“God was watching,” I agreed. “And now I am.”
I carried my son upstairs to the master suite. My hands, which had signed million-dollar contracts and ordered the destruction of rival syndicates without a tremor, were shaking as I unpinned the dirty blanket.
May you like
He was tiny, red-faced, and hungry, but beneath the dirt, he was intact. A small dark birthmark shaped like a crescent moon sat just below his left collarbone—the exact same mark I carried, and my father before me.
He was a Moretti. He was my blood. And someone was going to pay for every second he had spent in the cold.
