Chapter 2 - The Bloodline Ledger
The warmth of the Moretti estate grand salon was overwhelming compared to the biting February air outside. A roaring fire crackled in the floor-to-ceiling limestone fireplace, casting flickering amber light over silk rugs and dark mahogany paneling.
In the center of the room, Dr. Elizabeth Shaw, the Moretti family’s private physician for over fifteen years, knelt on a plush velvet sofa. Her hands were swift and practiced as she stripped away the damp blue blanket from the infant’s tiny body.
Gabriel stood three feet away, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his posture rigid as iron. His dark eyes didn't leave the child for a single second. Every instinct refined by years of navigating high-stakes criminal warfare screamed at him to maintain control, but beneath his immaculate tailored suit, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Claire Bennett, Sophie’s mother, was hovering nervously by the doorway, her hands clutching a hot washcloth. Sophie sat on a nearby ottoman, swinging her legs, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and childhood awe.
"His core temperature is low, around ninety-four degrees," Dr. Shaw said, her tone sharp, professional, and devoid of panic. "Mild hypothermia. But he’s strong, Gabriel. His lungs are clear, and his reflexes are sharp. He was left out there no more than thirty to forty minutes ago."
"Whoever left him knew the service gate guard changes shift at 5:45 AM," Cole Mercer interjected from the shadow of the doorway, his radio buzzing quietly on his belt. "They timed it to avoid the main gate cameras. Ray only found him because Sophie wandered toward the renovation yard."
Gabriel turned his head slowly toward Cole. "Security footage?"
"We’re pulling the perimeter feeds now," Cole replied smoothly. "A dark sedan lingered near the south service wall at 5:50. No plates. Headlights turned off. The driver knew exactly where our blind spots were."
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. The Moretti estate was a fortress. The security protocols were designed by former military intelligence operatives. The only people who knew the blind spots along the south service wall were his internal security detail—and a handful of high-ranking associates within the Moretti syndicate.
"Gabriel," Dr. Shaw called out gently, holding up a small swab. "I need to perform a rapid buccal DNA swab on the child. If we use our private lab in Manhattan, I can have certified genetic confirmation within six hours."
Gabriel looked down at the baby. The infant had stopped crying. Wrapped in a dry, warm cashmere throw from Gabriel’s study, little Daniel opened his eyes. They were a striking, deep shade of stormy blue—the exact color of Gabriel’s own eyes, a trait that had passed down through three generations of Moretti men.
A sharp, visceral knot tightened in Gabriel’s gut.
"Do the test," Gabriel whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Then call the private clinic. I want a complete toxicology screen on the boy, and I want Natalie’s medical records pulled from every hospital in the state of New York."
"Gabriel..." Dr. Shaw paused, her expression softening. "If Natalie sent him here, she must be in severe danger. She knew what bringing a child into your world meant. She would never have left him near a trash receptacle unless her back was against a wall."
Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out the Polaroid photograph again. The blue ink on the back caught the firelight.
Gabriel, if I cannot bring Daniel to you myself, please believe one thing long enough to test it. He is your son.
He remembered the night that photo was taken. March of last year. A rooftop charity event in Manhattan. Natalie had worn a midnight-blue silk dress, her dark curls pinned up, her soft brown eyes shining with an intelligence that had drawn Gabriel out of his perpetual gloom. She was a curator for an international art foundation—completely untainted by the bloody business that paid for Gabriel’s life.
For six months, she had been his sanctuary. The one place where he wasn't Gabriel Moretti, the feared syndicate leader of New York, but simply Gabriel—a man who liked espresso at two in the morning and read historical biographies.
Then had come the sudden, brutal break.
A rival syndicate, the Valenti crime family, had ambushed Gabriel’s convoy in Brooklyn. Two of Gabriel’s men died. The message was clear: anyone close to Gabriel Moretti was a target.
The next morning, without explanation, Gabriel had walked into Natalie’s apartment, dropped a key on her table, and told her it was over. He had called her an inconvenient distraction. He had watched the light die in her eyes, forced himself to ignore her tears, and walked out, believing he was saving her life by breaking her heart.
He had believed he was protecting her from his world. He had never imagined she was carrying his child.
"Cole," Gabriel commanded, turning away from the fireplace.
May you like
"I’m here."
"I want Natalie found. Mobilize every soldier we have from Westchester to Montauk. Check her apartment, her office, her sister’s house in Vermont. Check every motel within fifty miles of this estate." Gabriel’s voice grew colder, sharp as a razor. "If anyone touches a single hair on her head, I will burn this city to the ground."
