Chapter 2 - THE BLOODSTAINED ADOPTION RECORD
My father stood in front of the heavy oak door of my private study, his arms crossed over his tailored suit. For thirty years, Antonio DeLuca had been the undisputed king of the Chicago underworld. He was a man who commanded respect with a single glance. But he had retired five years ago, handing the empire to me. He seemed to have forgotten that the crown on my head was no longer a metaphor. It was a reality backed by three hundred armed men who answered only to me.
"Move, old man," I said. My voice was dangerously quiet, barely rising above the distant sound of Christmas carols drifting from the living room.
I was still holding Renee. Her small arms were wrapped tightly around my neck, her face buried in my shoulder. She was shivering. The sight of my daughter’s red, raw hands from scrubbing dishes in a house full of ungrateful relatives sent a wave of cold, calculated fury through my veins.
"Michael, be reasonable," my father said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. His eyes darted nervously toward my mother, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, clutching her crystal glass like a lifeline. "That letter is a mistake. Some bureaucratic error from a low-level clerk. Your mother opened it to protect you from the headache. Let it go."
"A law firm doesn't send confidential courier packages on Christmas morning by mistake," I replied. I took a deliberate step forward. I was four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than the man who raised me. "And my mother doesn't scream in terror over a bureaucratic error. Step aside. Now."
My father’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, I saw the old mob boss calculate the odds of defying me. But when he looked into my eyes, he saw exactly what the rest of Chicago saw: a man who would burn the city to the ground for his family. He slowly lowered his arms and stepped away from the door.
"You're making a mistake, Michael," my mother whispered from the kitchen. Her voice was shaking. "Some doors, once opened, can never be closed."
I didn't answer her. I turned my attention to Renee, softening my voice instantly. "Princess, Daddy needs to look at some boring paperwork for a minute. Can you do me a huge favor and wait right here on the leather sofa?"
I set her down gently on the hallway couch. She looked up at me with those wide, innocent green eyes—eyes that had haunted me since the day I first saw her in the orphanage. "Are we going home soon, Daddy?"
"Very soon, sweetheart. I promise."
I pushed open the door to my study and stepped inside, locking it behind me. The room smelled of old paper and leather. My desk was a massive slab of dark mahogany. Sitting dead center on the polished wood was the torn courier envelope.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached for it. I pulled out a thick stack of documents. The first page was a standard legal cover letter from Sterling & Vance, the firm that had handled Renee's adoption four years ago. But the second page wasn't a standard adoption form. It was a certified DNA registry report.
I scanned the medical terminology until my eyes locked onto a highlighted section at the bottom of the page.
Biological Mother: Clara Moretti. Match Probability: 99.9%.
The paper slipped from my fingers, fluttering down to the desk.
Clara.
My lungs seized. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe. Clara Moretti was the only woman I had ever truly loved. She wasn't Mafia. She was a brilliant, fiery schoolteacher who had shown me a life outside the violence of my family. We were secretly engaged seven years ago. But my parents had despised her, calling her a liability.
Then came the night that destroyed me. Clara’s car was run off a cliffside road in a storm. The police called it a tragic accident. Her body was never recovered from the fiery wreckage. I had spent six years mourning a ghost, pouring all my broken love into a little orphaned girl with bright green eyes.
Renee’s eyes. Clara’s eyes.
A massive, staggering reversal hit me like a physical blow. Clara hadn't died before we could start a family. She had been pregnant. Renee was my biological daughter.
But the adoption agency had told me Renee was surrendered by a drug-addicted stranger. I had paid them a fortune to find me a child. They had handed me my own flesh and blood, completely by "coincidence."
No. There are no coincidences in the Mafia.
I reached into the torn envelope to see if anything else remained. My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic. I pulled it out.
It was a charred, silver engagement ring. The exact ring I had placed on Clara's finger the night I proposed.
May you like
But as I turned the soot-stained metal in the dim light of my desk lamp, my blood ran absolutely cold. There was an engraving on the inside of the band. I hadn't put an engraving on the ring.
I held it up to the light and read the tiny, etched words: They took her. Ask your sister.
