Chapter 6 - Blood Never Lies
The penthouse on Fifth Avenue was silent except for the crackle of the gas fireplace.
Dr. Jonathan Evans, the Moretti family’s private physician who had treated three generations of mobsters, pulled the cotton swab from Mia’s cheek. The little girl sat on a massive leather sofa, wrapped in a plush wool blanket, clutching a mug of warm chocolate milk that the housekeeper had made. She was exhausted, her eyes drooping as the warmth of the penthouse thawed her frozen limbs.
“I have her sample, Lucas,” Dr. Evans said quietly, holding up the sealed plastic tube. “And I already have yours on file from your last pulmonary checkup. I can run an expedited PCR test in my private lab. Three hours.”
Lucas stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass window, staring down at the city lights. He hadn't touched his scotch. “I don't just want my DNA compared to hers, Evans.”
Evans paused, adjusting his glasses. “What do you mean?”
Lucas turned around. In his hand was a small, sealed velvet box he had retrieved from the hidden safe behind his office bookcase. He opened it, revealing a brush containing strands of fine, brown hair—preserved from Isabella’s vanity table before the mansion was demolished.
“Test the child against this hair. Test her against me. And test her against Daniel’s blood sample from his pediatric records.” Lucas’s voice was as cold as iron. “I want to know who she belongs to.”
Evans’s hands shook slightly as he took the velvet box. He knew the history. He knew the grief that lived in this house. “Lucas... if this child is who you think she is... it means Isabella was alive after the fire.”
“Just run the test, Evans.”
The doctor nodded quickly and left through the private elevator.
Lucas walked over to the sofa. Mia’s head had slumped against the armrest, sound asleep. Her small fingers still held tightly to the platinum lily pendant around her neck.
Lucas carefully picked up her dirty canvas backpack from the coffee table. He unzipped the main compartment. Inside were two apples, a crumpled photograph of a park, a blister pack of asthma inhalers, and a small, worn leather journal.
Lucas’s breath caught in his throat.
He opened the journal. On the very first page, written in sweeping, elegant calligraphy that he would recognize until the day he died, were the words:
*For my daughter Mia. If you are reading this, your father has finally found you. Beware of the man who smiles with silver teeth. He lit the fire.*
Lucas stared at the ink. It was Isabella’s handwriting. Undeniable. Perfect.
A chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the winter air.
*The man who smiles with silver teeth.*
Lucas slowly closed the journal, his mind racing backward six years. To the night of the fire. To the docks. To the warehouse that had never actually been under attack.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors of his study clicked open.
May you like
Victor stepped inside. He had changed into a dry suit, but he had not taken off his leather driving gloves. And in his right hand, half-hidden behind the seam of his trousers, was a suppressed Beretta.
“You’re still awake, Lucas,” Victor said quietly, his eyes drifting over to the sleeping child on the couch. “You should have let me take her to the precinct.”
