Chapter 8 - THE FIRST DATE THAT WASN'T ABOUT DNA
Our first date was terrible.
Not catastrophically.
Ordinarily.
Which made it wonderful.
Luka chose an expensive restaurant.
I hated it.
Too quiet.
Too many people recognizing him.
A waiter nearly dropped a tray when Luka Moretti asked for sparkling water.
I whispered:
“Do people think you drink blood?”
“Only after eight.”
“Not funny.”
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
He smiled.
Halfway through dinner, Emma’s babysitter called.
Fever.
We left immediately.
No complaint.
No “stay another hour.”
No performance.
By the time we reached my apartment, Emma’s temperature was mild.
Teething.
Luka sat on the floor with her for two hours.
She chewed his tattooed knuckle.
“Is that hygienic?” I asked.
“No.”
“Move.”
“She likes it.”
“She likes electrical cords too.”
Fair.
That became our real first date.
Takeout noodles.
Baby monitor.
No makeup.
No strategy.
Months passed.
Slowly.
Lily visited during school breaks.
She called me Claire.
Not Mom.
That was right.
Sometimes she slipped and said “my birth mom” to friends.
Also right.
Anna and Rebecca became extended family in the strangest way.
We celebrated Lily’s eighth birthday together.
Three mothers.
One biological father unknown.
That issue remained.
The paternal side of Lily’s DNA had never been identified.
Then federal labs completed a deeper analysis.
Victor came to tell me.
He looked nervous.
“What?”
“Lily’s biological father.”
I froze.
“Who?”
He sat.
“Matteo.”
My heart stopped.
Luka’s dead brother.
“So Lily and Emma are…”
“Half sisters through you, and genetically connected through the Moretti line differently.”
I tried to process.
“Why Matteo?”
“Vincenzo selected him.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Did Matteo know?”
“No.”
Luka stood near the kitchen.
His eyes filled.
“My brother had a daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Lily.”
I looked toward her school photograph on the refrigerator.
Luka smiled sadly.
“She has his eyebrows.”
I laughed through tears.
“She hates tomatoes.”
“So did he.”
That broke him.
He turned away.
For all the children created by theft, Matteo had never knowingly become a father.
Now his daughter was seven.
Loved.
Safe.
That mattered.
When we told Anna and Rebecca, they agreed Lily deserved the information gradually.
At nine, she learned her biological father had died.
At eleven, she learned his name.
At twelve, she asked Luka:
“Was he nice?”
Luka thought.
“Sometimes.”
Lily laughed.
“Bad answer.”
“He was annoying.”
“Better.”
“He was brave when it mattered.”
That mattered most.
Luka gave Lily photographs.
Not inheritance.
Not claims.
History.
Matteo at nineteen.
At twenty-five.
Bald during chemotherapy.
Laughing with Luka on a fishing boat.
Lily kept one by her bed.
Then came Victor.
His relationship with Luka changed too.
DNA confirmed Victor was Luka’s biological father.
Vincenzo had known.
Luka asked Elena Moretti—his mother’s old medical records could not answer much because she had died—but Victor told the story.
He and Luka’s mother, Sofia Moretti, had loved each other briefly before she married Vincenzo.
Pregnancy followed.
Vincenzo chose to raise Luka.
Why?
Part pride.
Part revenge.
Part need for an heir.
Victor accepted being pushed out because he believed proximity would endanger them.
Another man who chose secrecy.
Luka was not impressed.
“You could have told me after he died.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Fear.”
Luka laughed bitterly.
“Our family has one language.”
Victor nodded.
“I’m learning another.”
They began again.
Not father and son instantly.
Two men.
Coffee.
Anger.
Therapy.
Yes, Luka went to therapy.
He hated the word.
Called it “scheduled argument.”
I did not correct him.
Then Emma turned two.
She looked exactly like Luka around the eyes.
Unfortunately, she inherited my stubbornness.
Or fortunately.
Luka became “Daddy Luka” after she heard Lily call him Luka and became confused.
We did not force it.
One morning she simply ran into his arms and shouted:
“Daddy Luka!”
He froze.
Then cried in my kitchen.
Denied it later.
I had video.
Our relationship became serious.
That frightened me.
Not because Luka was dangerous.
Because trust was.
Ryan had once been ordinary.
Safe-looking.
No tattoos.
No feared surname.
He lied anyway.
I learned danger does not come with costume.
Trust must be behavior.
Luka gave me access to his schedule.
Not because I demanded it.
Because he wanted no mystery.
He told me before meetings involving family money.
Asked before increasing security around the apartment.
Never touched my phone.
Never opened my mail.
Never said “I’m doing this for your protection” when he meant “I’m deciding for you.”
When we argued, he stayed.
That was new.
One night, we fought about Emma’s preschool.
He wanted private security.
I wanted normalcy.
Voices rose.
Then I became quiet.
Too quiet.
Luka stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
I looked at him.
“Ryan used to punish silence and arguments differently. I’m still figuring out what happens after disagreement.”
Luka’s face softened.
“What happens?”
“I don’t know.”
He sat.
“We order food.”
“What?”
“And argue tomorrow.”
I laughed.
“That’s your conflict strategy?”
“For tonight.”
We ordered pizza.
Nobody disappeared.
Nobody cheated.
Nobody forged a document.
Progress.
Two years after Emma’s birth, Luka asked me to marry him.
I said no.
He stared.
“No?”
“No.”
“You love me.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“We live together.”
“Yes.”
“I’m already Emma’s legal father.”
That had been completed after a careful court process.
“Yes.”
“So?”
“I’m not ready.”
Luka looked hurt.
Then:
“Okay.”
No pressure.
No punishment.
He kissed my forehead.
The next morning, nothing changed.
That was why I eventually said yes.
Six months later.
Not after another proposal.
I handed him a ring box during breakfast.
He frowned.
“What?”
“Ask again.”
His face changed.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m wearing sweatpants.”
“Very romantic.”
Emma sat in a high chair throwing blueberries.
Luka got down on one knee.
Emma screamed:
“Daddy fell!”
I laughed so hard I cried.
He asked.
I said yes.
The wedding was small.
Lily came.
Anna and Rebecca.
Victor.
Vanessa did not.
That would have been weird.
But she sent flowers.
Yellow.
Ryan sent nothing.
Fine.
At the ceremony, Emma carried rings.
Dropped them twice.
Lily stood beside me.
Not daughter exactly.
Not not daughter.
Family.
Before vows, Luka whispered:
“No DNA reports today.”
“Excellent.”
“No secret trusts.”
“Better.”
“No surprise siblings.”
“Don’t tempt fate.”
He smiled.
We married.
No empire.
No succession deal.
Our prenup was forty-eight pages.
I read every word.
Luka encouraged it.
That might have been the most romantic thing he did.
Then, six months later, I became pregnant.
Naturally.
We verified everything ourselves.
I laughed at the absurdity.
Luka did not.
He checked the lab chain of custody twice.
Old wounds.
Our son, Michael Matteo Moretti, was born healthy.
Named for both men who died trying to expose the truth.
My father.
Luka’s brother.
At the hospital, I stood in the same hallway where Ryan once walked away.
Luka held our son.
Emma held my hand.
No mistress.
No stranger.
No secret envelope.
Then a nurse approached with paperwork.
“Father’s signature?”
I looked at Luka.
He smiled.
“Should I?”
I handed him the pen.
“Try not to commit fraud this time.”
The nurse looked horrified.
Luka laughed.
“Long story.”
May you like
He signed.
This time, the line meant exactly what it said.
