Chapter 10 - THE CHILD DE LUCA WANTED
Nothing about Sofia’s story made sense at first.
Then the records arrived.
Years before I was born, my mother had undergone fertility treatment after several miscarriages.
Embryos had been created.
My father Antonio believed all used his genetic material.
Apparently one stored embryo did not.
According to the old clinic file, Marcus DeLuca had somehow been listed as biological contributor.
Was it genuine?
Fraudulent?
A mislabeled sample?
Nobody knew yet.
But DeLuca knew the file existed.
That explained his obsession with old Rossi reproductive records.
Power in my family did not only flow through companies.
It flowed through blood.
Names.
Children.
Succession.
Mother stared at the record.
“I never authorized this.”
For once, she was the person whose reproductive information had been manipulated.
Grace looked at her.
The irony was not lost on anyone.
“Do you believe me?” Mother asked.
Grace answered:
“I believe you deserve an independent investigation.”
Not trust.
Evidence.
Good.
Sofia explained my father discovered the frozen embryo years later while cleaning up St. Agatha’s records.
He feared DeLuca intended to use it to manufacture a biological claim against the Rossi family.
So Antonio removed it from the clinic.
Why implant it through Sofia?
That was the part I hated.
He didn’t.
Not originally.
According to Sofia, the embryo was transferred without her full understanding during fertility treatment.
She believed it was created using anonymous donor material.
Years later, Antonio discovered the truth.
Again, a woman’s consent had been compromised by someone else’s hidden agenda.
Sofia gave birth to a girl.
Emma.
Eight years old.
She loved her.
Biology did not change that.
Antonio created protection for Emma too.
Then DeLuca learned she existed.
Why did he care?
If the embryo truly involved his DNA and Isabella’s egg, Emma would be DeLuca and my mother’s biological daughter.
My half sister.
Eight years old.
And under certain outdated Rossi trust definitions, another direct descendant of Isabella.
DeLuca could try to use her identity to manufacture control.
That was the “child” he wanted.
Not Grace’s baby.
Not Adrian.
Emma.
A legal lever with a pulse.
I felt sick.
“Does Emma know any of this?”
“No,” Sofia said.
“Good.”
“DeLuca knows where we live.”
Not good.
Canadian authorities increased protection around Sofia’s family.
Grace was discharged from the hospital under strict medical guidance.
We did not return to the Rossi estate.
Not immediately.
I rented a quiet home nearby.
No barred windows.
No family staff.
Only people Grace approved.
My mother moved out of the estate under legal restrictions while investigations continued.
She did not ask to see Grace.
That was one boundary respected.
Ferraro surrendered his medical license pending proceedings and cooperated with authorities.
He admitted following Mother’s instructions on some matters.
DeLuca’s on others.
He admitted forging no signatures personally, but knowingly using documents he suspected were false.
Consequences would follow.
Vale cooperated after arrest.
DeLuca remained missing.
Then Grace went into labor.
Naturally.
Three weeks later.
At 2:14 in the morning, she woke me.
“Luca.”
I sat up instantly.
“What?”
“My water broke.”
Every threat.
Every trust.
Every file disappeared.
For one night, nothing mattered except her.
At the hospital, independent medical team.
No Ferraro.
No Rossi employees.
Grace made every decision.
I asked before touching.
Before calling anyone.
Before telling Mother.
Grace said:
“Tell her after.”
Okay.
Our son was born at 8:42 a.m.
Healthy.
Loud.
Furious.
Perfect.
Grace cried.
I cried.
The nurse handed him to her first.
As it should be.
Then she asked:
“Dad?”
I held my son.
Not an heir.
Not thirty-four percent.
Not a trigger.
My son.
We named him Antonio Thomas Rossi.
Antonio after my father.
Thomas after Grace’s.
Complicated men.
Not perfect ones.
Men whose children could hopefully do better.
Two days later, Sofia allowed me to meet Adrian in person.
Public park.
No bodyguards beside us.
Security stayed far enough away not to turn childhood into a military operation.
Adrian kicked a soccer ball toward me.
“You play?”
“Badly.”
“Mom says you think you’re good at everything.”
“She already understands me.”
He laughed.
We played.
I did not ask him to call me Dad.
He called me Luca.
Good.
Sofia later introduced me to Emma by video.
I did not explain biology.
Not mine to dump onto a child without preparation.
She showed me a drawing of a horse.
I told her it was better than anything I could draw.
She agreed immediately.
Lucia’s mother in California agreed to gradual contact with our family too.
Not because of trust rights.
Because Lucia deserved the choice to know her father’s relatives.
Mother wrote letters to both families.
Unsent until the mothers chose whether to deliver them.
Progress.
Then the Rossi governance transition happened.
My temporary five-year control activated under Dad’s original trust.
I used the first board meeting to propose the thing Mother had spent years preventing:
End single-family-member control early.
Independent board.
Transparent audits.
No succession tied automatically to marriage or children.
No medical records used in governance.
No minor listed as mandatory future officer.
The vote passed.
Not easily.
But it passed.
The Rossi companies would survive without a Rossi emperor.
I thought that was the happy ending.
Then, one month after Antonio was born, a package arrived.
No return address.
Inside was Grace’s wedding ring.
The real one.
I stared.
“But we already have it.”
Grace walked over.
The ring I found in the crib had been hers.
Or so we believed.
She compared them.
Identical.
Almost.
Then she noticed the engraving.
Our real ring contained:
L + G — HOME IS WHERE YOU RETURN.
The ring from the crib had no engraving.
Fake.
Mother had planted a duplicate.
Meaning Grace’s real ring had never been in the estate nursery.
Who took it?
Inside the package was a photograph.
Marcus DeLuca.
Standing beside a little girl.
Emma.
Taken recently.
My blood went cold.
Sofia had security.
How had he reached her?
Then I flipped the photograph.
Handwritten message:
YOU THINK EMMA IS THE CHILD I NEEDED.
YOU’RE WRONG.
Grace read over my shoulder.
Another card slid from the envelope.
DNA LABORATORY REPORT.
Subject A:
LUCA ROSSI.
Subject B:
ANTONIO ROSSI — NEWBORN.
I stopped breathing.
“What is this?”
Grace grabbed the page.
The report claimed:
PATERNITY EXCLUDED.
Impossible.
We had not authorized any external DNA collection after birth.
Then I noticed collection date.
The day our son was born.
Hospital.
Someone had taken a sample.
Grace whispered:
“It’s fake.”
“Probably.”
But then I saw the laboratory.
Not Rossi.
Not St. Agatha’s.
Independent.
Accredited.
Real.
My hands began shaking.
At the bottom:
SECOND PATERNAL COMPARISON: MATCH CONFIRMED.
Name redacted.
Grace looked at me.
“Who did they compare him to?”
The final page answered.
PATERNAL RELATIONSHIP CONSISTENT WITH:
MATTEO ROSSI.
My dead brother.
Grace stopped breathing.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
Unless the report was another sophisticated fraud.
Unless someone had used stored DNA.
Unless—
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Marcus DeLuca’s voice.
Calm.
“Congratulations on your son, Luca.”
My entire body froze.
“What did you do?”
He laughed softly.
“Wrong question.”
“Where are you?”
“Ask Grace about the embryo transfer.”
I looked at my wife.
Her face went white.
“What embryo transfer?”
Grace shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
DeLuca continued:
“You think your mother began this when you left for Europe.”
Pause.
“She didn’t.”
My blood turned cold.
“This began before Grace ever became pregnant.”
“What are you saying?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Your wife conceived naturally.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Grace grabbed my arm.
DeLuca whispered:
“Ask Dr. Ferraro what he did during Grace’s fertility procedure fourteen months ago.”
The line went dead.
Grace stared at me.
Fourteen months earlier.
Before Europe.
Before the pregnancy.
One procedure.
A minor uterine examination after we struggled to conceive.
Performed at—
St. Agatha’s.
My stomach dropped.
Grace whispered:
“No.”
I pulled her close.
Not because I knew what was true.
Because I knew one thing absolutely.
Our son was hers.
He was loved.
Whatever blood test appeared next would not turn him into a trust clause.
But somewhere outside our home, Marcus DeLuca was still holding one secret powerful enough to reopen every question we thought we had answered.
May you like
And if the report in my hand was real, then the darkest secret inside the Rossi family was no longer what my mother had done to Grace.
It was what somebody had done to create our child before either of us knew we were being watched.
