Chapter 3 - The Bloodline Verified
The grandfather clock chimed three times.
Lorenzo walked behind his massive mahogany desk and sat down in his leather armchair, setting Mia down on the polished blotter in front of him. The girl immediately reached for a heavy brass paperweight shaped like a falcon, turning it over in her hands with fascination.
Lorenzo opened a private drawer, retrieved a small satellite phone, and tapped an encrypted speed dial.
"Dr. Bianchi," Lorenzo spoke into the receiver. "Bring the genetic sequencing kit to my primary residence. Now. Use the private underground garage entrance."
He hung up without waiting for an answer.
Elena lunged forward, placing both hands on the edge of the desk. "No, Lorenzo! Don't do this! You don't need a test! What are you going to do with her?!"
Lorenzo looked up, his expression hardening back into the granite composure that commanded the five boroughs. "The test is not for me, Elena. I knew she was my blood the second she looked at me with those eyes. The test is for my council. If a child enters the Moretti household bearing my name, every soldier, every underboss, and every allied family must know that her claim is absolute, untouchable, and backed by undeniable biology."
"Bearing your name?" Elena gasped, her breath catching. "She is not taking your name! She is Mia Voss!"
"Her name is Mia Moretti," Lorenzo corrected, his voice dropping into that chilling, unyielding tone of absolute decree. "And she will never sleep in the servants' quarters again."
Before Elena could scream another protest, the library doors unlocked from the outside.
Marco stepped into the room, followed by an elderly man with silver hair carrying a specialized aluminum medical case: Dr. Antonio Bianchi, the Moretti family’s private physician for over thirty years. Behind them stood two towering security guards who immediately took positions flanking the entrance.
"Boss," Marco said, eyeing the toddler who was now tapping the brass falcon against Lorenzo’s glass coaster. "Dr. Bianchi is here."
Bianchi bowed his head slightly toward Lorenzo, then looked at Elena with a mixture of surprise and ancient recognition. "Elena... Lord in heaven, it has been years."
"Hello, Antonio," Elena whispered, crossing her arms defensively over her chest, stepping closer to her daughter.
"We need a standard buccal swab from the child," Lorenzo instructed, leaning back in his chair. "And a sample from me. Full mitochondrial and chromosomal verification. I want the preliminary markers confirmed within twenty minutes."
Bianchi set the aluminum case on a side table, snapping the latches open. He pulled on a pair of sterile purple nitrile gloves and extracted two sealed cotton swabs.
Mia looked at the purple gloves with sudden wariness, leaning away from the desk toward Lorenzo’s arm. "No shots?" she whimpered, her lower lip trembling.
Lorenzo’s hand moved instantly, his fingers gently stroking her soft hair, his voice dropping into a low, soothing hum. "No shots, little bird. Just a soft cotton brush against your cheek. Like a feather. Look at me."
Mia turned her head, locking her hazel eyes onto Lorenzo’s.
Lorenzo held her gaze, steady, unblinking, and magnetic. While the child was transfixed by his eyes, Dr. Bianchi leaned in smoothly, swabbed the inside of her cheek twice with practiced efficiency, and sealed the sample inside a sterile tube.
"Good girl," Lorenzo murmured, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, foil-wrapped chocolate square—something he never kept on his person, something he must have taken from the dining room tray hours ago. He peeled back the silver paper and offered it to her.
Mia’s face lit up with instant, joyful recognition. She grabbed the chocolate with both hands, taking a big, messy bite that left brown smears across her cheeks and chin.
Bianchi then swabbed Lorenzo’s inner cheek, sealed the second vial, and connected both samples to a portable desktop PCR centrifuge and genetic analyzer from his case. The machine began to hum with a low, rhythmic whir, its digital screen displaying progress bars against a black background.
"Fifteen minutes for the rapid marker match, Don Lorenzo," Bianchi said, stepping back.
Silence descended upon the library once more.
Marco stood near the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze shifting between the little girl eating chocolate on the executive desk and the Don who was watching her with an expression that bordered on reverent awe.
"Marco," Lorenzo said quietly without looking up.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call the interior design team in Manhattan. Have them clear the entire third-floor guest wing. The master suite adjoining mine is to be converted into a child’s bedroom by nightfall. Bring in the best pediatricians from Columbia University, order a complete wardrobe from Paris, and place twenty additional men on the estate perimeter."
"Lorenzo, stop this!" Elena cried out, her voice breaking. "You’re acting like she’s a piece of territory you just conquered! She is a little girl, not a shipping dock!"
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Lorenzo slowly stood up from his desk. He walked around the mahogany perimeter, stopping inches from Elena.
"She is my daughter, Elena," Lorenzo whispered, his eyes blazing with a fierce, protective fire that made her tremble. "And in my world, what belongs to me is guarded with an army. Because if my enemies find out that Lorenzo Moretti has a heart... they will try to cut it out."
