Chapter 2 - The House of Mirages
The private medical wing in the east wing of the Moretti mansion had been converted from a ballroom three years prior, equipped with state-of-the-art diagnostic machinery that rivaled high-end private clinics.
Dr. Vance sat strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. Blood trickled from his lower lip where Captain Marco had struck him during the initial interrogation downstairs. Standing beside him was Dr. Aris Thorne, the Moretti family’s trusted personal physician, who was currently drawing a tiny vial of blood from the newborn’s heel.
Rocco stood against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his shadow stretching long across the polished tile floor. Sophia and her mother, Elena, sat in the corner on a leather sofa. Rocco had refused to let them leave his sight—not to punish them, but because he knew that in this house, witnesses had a habit of suffering lethal accidents before morning.
“Speak, Julian,” Rocco said quietly.
Dr. Vance swallowed hard, his voice shaking violently. “Eight years ago... when your wife Isabella went into labor, Valentina approached me. You weren't married to Valentina then, Don Moretti. She was Isabella’s cousin, living in the estate as a guest.”
Rocco’s knuckles turned white. “Go on.”
“She knew that if Isabella bore you a living son, Isabella’s position as the matriarch of the Moretti family would be permanent, and any future children Valentina might have with you—should she ever win your heart—would be secondary heirs,” Vance confessed, tears spilling over his bruised cheeks. “Valentina offered me two million dollars and a surgical clinic in Geneva. She told me to drug Isabella during the delivery to induce cardiac failure.”
Elena let out a horrified gasp from the sofa, pulling Sophia tightly against her side.
Rocco’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle in his cheek twitched. “My wife didn't die of natural complications.”
“No,” Vance wept. “It was a synthetic potassium overdose. It mimicked an amniotic fluid embolism. But... but the child didn't die, Don Moretti! The baby boy was born healthy!”
“Then where has he been for eight years?!” Rocco roared, stepping forward and seizing Vance by the throat, lifting the doctor two inches off the floor. “WHERE IS MY SON?!”
Vance choked, kicking his legs frantically. “She... she didn't let me kill the baby! She was afraid of the blood curse! She made me place the boy in a private medical sanatorium in the mountains near Aosta! He’s been kept there under heavy sedation, raised by private nurses who were told he was an orphaned ward of the state!”
Rocco threw Vance back into the chair, the heavy wood groaning under the impact.
“If my son is eight years old in Aosta,” Rocco breathed, his mind racing through the impossible logic, “then who is this baby? Why does this newborn have his bracelet?”
Vance looked up, his eyes filled with profound pity and terror. “Because two days ago, the boy in Aosta got sick. Severe pneumonia. The sanatorium called Valentina, telling her the child was dying and that his blood work showed a rare genetic bone marrow failure—a failure that required an immediate match from a biological sibling or parent.”
Rocco’s eyes narrowed into terrifying comprehension. “A sibling.”
“Valentina knew that if the boy died in Aosta, the medical board would review his origins, and the paper trail leading back to St. Helena would be exposed,” Vance whispered. “So she searched for a solution. She found a pregnant woman in the lower city—a woman carrying a child fathered by one of your estranged cousins, a child with matching Moretti lineage blood markers. She arranged a secret birth, stole the infant, and attempted to use its umbilical stem cells to save your firstborn in Aosta!”
“And when she finished extracting the stem cells two hours ago?” Rocco asked, his voice deathly soft.
Vance looked down at the floor. “The newborn was no longer useful to her. A live infant with Moretti blood markers left in a clinic would raise questions. She wrapped him in a blanket, tagged him with your firstborn’s original hospital ID band from her safe to confuse any future investigation, and ordered her driver to dispose of him.”
Rocco turned slowly to look at the newborn resting in Dr. Thorne’s arms.
The baby wasn't just a random child dumped in the garbage. He was a sacrificial lamb—a child stolen from the city, bled for his marrow, and thrown into a trash bin like medical waste to cover up a murder that had begun eight years ago.
Dr. Thorne raised his head from his microscope, holding a printed strip of DNA sequencing paper.
“Don Rocco,” Dr. Thorne said, his voice trembling with gravity. “The blood analysis is complete. This newborn carries fifty percent of your genetic markers through your late brother’s bloodline. But more importantly... the hospital ID band’s code matches the central registry in Aosta. Your firstborn son—your heir—is alive right now in a mountain clinic thirty miles away. But he is dying.”
Rocco turned toward the door.
“Marco,” Rocco called out to his head of security.
May you like
“Yes, Don Rocco?”
“Take five cars. Secure Valentina in the basement wine cellar. If she speaks, gag her. If she resists, break her legs.” Rocco’s eyes burned with a dark, apocalyptic fire. “We are going to Aosta.”
