Chapter 3 - The Bloodline Test
The word hung in the air of the study like a velvet trap.
My wife.
I took a step back, breaking his touch, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it would shatter them. "Are you out of your mind? I don't know you! You're a criminal boss, and I'm—"
"You are the mother of my heirs," Damian cut in smoothly, his expression unbothered by my sudden retreat. "In my world, Clara, legitimacy is everything. The Falcones know Elena died giving birth. If they discover the children aren't genetically hers, they will declare my control over their northern territory invalid. They will start a war."
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the edge of his desk.
"A war means blood in the streets," he continued, his tone entirely pragmatic. "It means my children—your children—will have targets on their backs for the rest of their lives. But if I marry you, if I declare to the Syndicate that you are my new wife and the legitimate mother of the Marchetti heirs, no one can touch them. No one can take them from you ever again."
"You want me to fake a marriage to protect your empire?" I asked, my voice rising in disbelief.
"I want to give you absolute protection, unlimited wealth, and your children back," Damian corrected, his dark eyes locking onto mine with ruthless clarity. "In exchange, you give my heirs a mother who actually loves them, and you give me the legal and social standing to crush the Falcones completely."
I swallowed hard. Everything in me screamed that this was insane. I was a diner waitress being offered a throne in an underworld empire. But then I remembered the way my daughter had clung to my neck in the rain, the way my sons had buried their faces in my sweater, and the fourteen months of agonizing emptiness I had suffered because of rich monsters who thought they owned the world.
"First, the DNA test," I said, setting my jaw firmly. "Then we talk about terms."
Damian’s lips twitched upward into a small, approving smirk. "Fair enough."
At 7:00 AM the following morning, Dr. Harrison—a sleek, middle-aged physician bound by strict non-disclosure agreements—arrived at the estate with a mobile lab kit.
The children were in the playroom on the main floor. Scylla was sitting on a plush velvet rug, playing with a set of wooden blocks, while the two boys, whom I had learned were named Leo and Julian, were aggressively racing toy cars across the floor. The moment I walked into the room, all three stopped what they were doing and scrambled to their feet.
"Mama!" Julian cheered, tumbling over a oversized teddy bear in his hurry to reach me.
I caught him in my arms, laughing softly despite the anxiety twisting my stomach. Leo wasn't far behind, wrapping his arms around my right leg, while Scylla crawled into my lap the second I sat down on the floor.
Dr. Harrison stood nearby, holding three sterile buccal swabs. His eyes were wide as he observed the children’s reaction to me. "Remarkable," he muttered under his breath. "Don Marchetti told me, but I didn't quite believe it. These children have been notoriously distant with staff."
"They know who brought them into the world, Doctor," I said softly, stroking Leo’s soft curls.
The cheek swabs took less than two minutes. The boys fussed slightly at the strange cotton sticks, but as long as I held them and sang quietly, they permitted Dr. Harrison to complete the samples. I gave my own cheek swab last.
"I have a high-speed sequencer in my mobile lab unit outside," Dr. Harrison explained, carefully sealing the samples in sterile vials. "With Don Marchetti’s priority mandate, I will have the comparative genomic analysis completed in four hours."
"Four hours," I repeated, feeling cold sweat slicking my palms.
"Four hours," Damian confirmed from the doorway. He was dressed in a tailored navy suit, looking impeccably sharp and terrifyingly calm. "Dr. Harrison, run the comparison against my DNA profile as well."
I glanced up at him in surprise. "Your DNA?"
"If Elena faked the surrogate process entirely," Damian said, stepping into the room, "we need to know if I am the biological father, or if she sourced an entirely outside donor to complete her deception."
The thought sent a shiver down my spine. If Damian wasn't the father either, it meant Elena had completely fabricated the entire lineage of the Marchetti heirs.
The four hours felt like four centuries.
I spent the morning in the nursery with the children. I fed them breakfast—pancakes with sliced bananas, which Julian promptly smeared all over his high chair while laughing hysterically. I helped Scylla learn how to stack three blocks without knocking them over, and I read Leo a storybook about a little bear lost in the woods.
Every second I spent with them, the phantom ache in my chest healed a little more. I didn't need a lab report to tell me these were my babies. I felt it in the bone-deep warmth that spread through my hands whenever I held them. I knew the exact curve of their noses, the slight dimple on Julian’s left cheek, the tiny strawberry birthmark hidden behind Scylla’s right ear—a birthmark I had caught a fleeting glimpse of right after she was born, before the nurses snatched her away.
At precisely 11:30 AM, Viktor appeared at the nursery door.
"Miss Vance," Viktor said with a polite bow of his head. "The Don is waiting for you in the study. Dr. Harrison has the results."
My heart plummeted into my shoes. I stood up slowly, smoothing down my sweater. I kissed each of the children on the forehead, promising them I would be right back, and followed Viktor down the long hallway.
Inside the study, the heavy velvet drapes were drawn against the mid-day sun. Dr. Harrison stood before the mahogany desk, holding a printed thick dossier with red confidential stamps across the cover. Damian was standing by the window, his glass of scotch untouched on the table beside him.
As I walked in, Dr. Harrison turned to me, his expression mixture of profound shock and professional awe.
"Miss Vance," Dr. Harrison began, clearing his throat. "I have completed the full autosomal DNA comparative analysis."
"Tell me," I demanded, my voice trembling.
Dr. Harrison opened the folder. "The maternal probability between you and the three infants—Leo, Julian, and Scylla Marchetti—is 99.999%. Legally and biologically, you are their mother. There is no doubt. You carried these children, and they share 50% of your genetic profile."
A choked sob escaped my lips. I covered my mouth, tears instantly blurring my vision. Hearing it confirmed—officially, scientifically, undeniably—felt like a dam bursting inside my chest. They were mine. I hadn't lost them. They were alive.
"And the paternal match?" Damian’s deep voice cut through the heavy emotional silence. He hadn't moved from the window, but his posture was impossibly tense.
Dr. Harrison turned a page in the file. He took a deep breath before speaking.
"The paternal comparison between Don Damian Marchetti and the three infants yielded a 0% genetic match," Dr. Harrison revealed softly. "You are not their biological father, sir."
Silence descended upon the room like a heavy iron vault slamming shut.
I held my breath, terrified of how Damian would react. He was a mafia boss. He had raised these three children for fourteen months believing they were his bloodline, his legacy, the heirs to his empire. To learn they were complete strangers to his bloodline was a devastating blow to his pride and his power.
Damian slowly turned away from the window. His face was a mask of cold, unreadable granite. His dark eyes flicked from Dr. Harrison to me, burning with an unholy light.
"Who was the paternal donor?" Damian asked, his voice dripping with lethal quietness.
"The genetic markers indicate a match from a private donor database," Dr. Harrison replied cautiously. "A high-profile profile registered under the Falcone family's medical network in New York. Sir... the biological father of these children is Julian Falcone."
My eyes went wide. Julian Falcone. The younger brother of Damian’s late wife, Elena.
"My late wife’s brother," Damian whispered, a terrible, dark realization dawning on his face. "Elena didn't just steal a poor girl's babies. She used her own brother's sperm to ensure the children carried Falcone blood, while convincing me they were mine."
"They wanted your empire," I realized, the twisted plot unravelling in my head. "If you believed those babies were yours, you would eventually pass the Marchetti syndicate to them. But they would secretly be Falcones by blood! They were planning an internal coup from the very beginning!"
"A long game," Damian agreed, his hands slowly clenching into fists at his sides until his knuckles turned ghost-white. "Elena and her father planned to eliminate me once the children reached adulthood, leaving the entire city in the hands of a Falcone heir."
He walked toward Dr. Harrison, taking the printed dossier from the physician’s hands.
"Dr. Harrison," Damian said calmly. "You will destroy all digital copies of this test. If a single word of these results leaks outside this room, I will have your tongue."
"Understood, Don Marchetti," Dr. Harrison said, pale as a sheet. He gathered his medical kit and bowed quickly before fleeing the study.
Once the door clicked shut, Damian turned to me. The rage in his eyes was staggering, a fiery storm of betrayal, pride, and vengeance.
"They used my name," Damian growled, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. "They used my home. They made me love three children that belonged to the man I hate most in this world."
My heart froze. A wave of cold terror washed over me. "Damian... please. They are just innocent babies! They didn't choose this! Please don't hurt them—"
Before I could finish my sentence, Damian crossed the room in two massive strides. He grabbed me by the waist, pulling me firmly against his hard chest, staring down into my eyes with an intensity that took my breath away.
"Hurt them?" Damian rasped, his eyes burning into mine. "I spent fourteen months waking up at 3:00 AM to rock them to sleep when they were sick. I held them when they took their first steps. I don't give a damn whose sperm created them, Clara. They are my children. And I will burn the entire Falcone family to ash before I let anyone take them from us."
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I gasped, looking into his fierce, unyielding eyes. In that moment, I saw not just a ruthless mob boss, but a father who loved those three babies with every fiber of his dark, protective soul.
"So," Damian murmured, his dark gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to mine. "Are you ready to become Mrs. Marchetti, Clara? Because tomorrow, we go to war."
