Chapter 7 - The DNA Test That Couldn’t Be True
Adrian refused to believe it.
Elena refused harder.
“Sophia is Miguel’s daughter.”
“I know.”
“You don't know. I do.”
She stood between Adrian and the child instinctively.
Adrian noticed.
It hurt him.
But he didn't argue.
Dante examined the DNA report.
“Could be forged.”
Reynolds looked at the laboratory.
“Possible.”
“Who ordered it?”
“Isabella.”
Elena turned.
“When?”
The date was six months before Isabella died.
Before Sophia was conceived.
Everyone stared.
Then Dante laughed without humor.
“This isn't Sophia.”
The label had been changed.
Child: Sophia Castillo.
But the original test preceded her existence.
“So whose test was it?” Adrian asked.
They pulled metadata.
The report had been edited three weeks earlier.
Someone changed the child’s name to Sophia.
Original patient identifier:
AM-01.
Adrian’s expression shifted.
“A?”
Dante searched the archive.
They found a birth certificate.
Anthony Moretti.
Born seven years earlier.
Mother:
Isabella Russo Moretti.
Father:
Adrian Moretti.
Adrian sat.
“I don't have a son.”
Apparently, he did.
Isabella had become pregnant after a final fertility procedure.
She never told Adrian.
Why?
Because by then she had discovered the succession conspiracy.
A child would become a target.
She secretly carried the pregnancy while Adrian traveled for nearly five months managing a prolonged crisis overseas.
Elena could barely understand how that was possible.
Dante answered quietly:
“She stayed at the Rhode Island house most of that year.”
Adrian remembered.
Isabella had claimed severe autoimmune complications.
He visited when allowed.
Doctors—Reynolds included—helped conceal the pregnancy.
“You all lied to me.”
Reynolds looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
Anthony was born.
Then hidden.
Raised under another name.
Where?
The archive gave one address.
A farmhouse in Vermont.
Dante sent a team.
The property was empty.
Recently abandoned.
A child’s room upstairs.
Seven years of toys.
Schoolbooks.
Photographs deliberately removed.
One picture remained behind a dresser.
A little boy.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
Adrian’s face.
Adrian held the photograph with shaking hands.
Titan sniffed it.
Then whined.
“He knows him,” Sophia said.
Everyone turned.
Of course.
Titan had been with Isabella.
Perhaps trained to protect Anthony too.
Adrian looked toward the dog.
“You knew I had a son.”
Titan simply stared.
It was absurd.
And somehow painful.
Then the kidnapping message changed.
Miguel wasn't merely leverage for Sophia’s memory.
Whoever held him likely also had Anthony.
Dante found another file.
A monthly payment route.
The farmhouse had been funded through an education trust.
The most recent payment was intercepted three weeks earlier.
By a company controlled by Vincent.
“He found Anthony.”
Adrian’s voice went flat.
Dangerously flat.
Elena recognized the change.
“Don't.”
He looked at her.
“Don't what?”
“Become exactly what Isabella was afraid you'd become.”
That landed.
Adrian looked toward Sophia.
The child watched him with complete trust.
Slowly, his anger changed into something colder.
Controlled.
“Then we do this her way.”
They traced Vincent’s company.
A warehouse.
Private dock.
Three vehicles.
But Miguel’s photograph contained a clue.
Behind him was a red industrial pipe stamped with a manufacturer code.
Dante identified the site.
An abandoned cannery north of Gloucester.
They prepared to move.
Elena demanded to go.
“No,” Adrian said.
“My daughter is the key they want.”
“Which is why you stay.”
“My husband—”
“Miguel isn't your husband.”
“You know what I mean.”
Adrian did.
Before leaving, he crouched beside Sophia.
“I need you to stay with your mom.”
“Are you getting my daddy?”
“Yes.”
“And the boy?”
Adrian paused.
“My son.”
Sophia smiled.
“Get him too.”
Adrian looked like he might break.
“I will.”
Hours later, Dante’s team entered the cannery.
They found Miguel.
Alive.
Beaten.
Weak.
They did not find Anthony.
Instead, tied to Miguel’s wrist was a note.
ADRIAN CHOSE THE WRONG CHILD.
Then Miguel woke.
He looked directly at Adrian.
“Vincent doesn't have your son.”
Adrian grabbed his shoulder.
“Who does?”
May you like
Miguel whispered:
“Your mother.”
