Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Twelve Years
By noon, the rain had replaced the snow, washing away the tire tracks along the service path.
Gabriel sat behind the massive walnut desk in his third-floor study. The room was lined with leather-bound books, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty Hudson River, and monitors displaying real-time security feeds from every corner of the property.
Downstairs, Claire Bennett was nursing Daniel with formula provided by Dr. Shaw. The baby was warm, fed, and sleeping peacefully in a temporary bassinet set up in Gabriel’s private quarters.
On Gabriel’s desk lay a thick, worn leather journal.
It was his medical record from twelve years ago.
Gabriel opened it to a highlighted page dated August 14, 2014. The letterhead belonged to the New York Memorial Oncology Center.
Subject: Moretti, Gabriel. Diagnosis: Stage III Testicular Cancer. Notes Post-Chemotherapy & Surgical Intervention: Severe bilateral testicular atrophy. Semen analysis indicates zero viable sperm count (Azoospermia). Natural conception probability: less than 0.01%. Patient advised on alternative family planning options.
For twelve years, those numbers had been his gospel. They had shaped every decision he made regarding his personal life. They were the reason he had never married, the reason he had resisted long-term relationships, and the reason he had allowed his ruthless uncle, Victor Moretti, to posture himself as the undisputed heir to the family syndicate.
A heavy knock sounded at the door.
Dr. Shaw walked in, carrying a sealed white envelope. Her face was grave.
"The lab just finished the expedited comparative analysis," she said, placing the envelope in the center of the desk. "They ran your DNA profile from the private registry against the child's swab."
Gabriel didn't touch the envelope. He sat motionless, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
"Read it to me, Elizabeth," he said softly.
Dr. Shaw broke the red wax seal, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and adjusted her reading glasses.
"The probability of paternity is 99.998 percent," she read, her voice steady. "Gabriel... Daniel is your biological son. Mechanically, medically... it is a miracle. That 0.01 percent chance happened."
Silence settled over the room like lead.
Gabriel leaned back in his leather chair, closing his eyes. The breath he let out was long, ragged, and filled with twelve years of suppressed grief, anger, and sudden, overwhelming light.
He was not hollow. He was not broken. He was a father.
"Who else knew about my diagnosis twelve years ago, Elizabeth?" Gabriel asked, his eyes opening, dark and calculating.
Dr. Shaw frowned. "It was strictly confidential. Only myself, your primary oncologist Dr. Harrison, and..." She paused, her eyes widening in sudden realization.
"And my uncle, Victor," Gabriel finished the sentence for her.
"Victor was your legal medical proxy while you were under anesthesia during the emergency surgery," Dr. Shaw whispered, a chill settling over her voice. "He had access to your medical chart before you even woke up."
Gabriel stood up slowly, stepping toward the window overlooking the wet stone courtyard.
Twelve years ago, when Gabriel was thirty-two and battling for his life in a hospital bed, Victor Moretti had been the one to deliver the prognosis to him. Victor had sat by his bedside, squeezing his hand with apparent sorrow, telling him that the doctors had confirmed he would never have an heir.
“It’s a tragedy, nephew,” Victor had said with crocodile tears in his eyes. “But don’t worry. The Moretti name will live on through my branch of the family. You just focus on running the business.”
It had all been a lie.
Victor hadn't just delivered bad news; he had inflated a remote medical possibility into an absolute certainty, ensuring Gabriel would never seek a family of his own, leaving Victor’s son, Julian, as the sole heir to a billion-dollar criminal enterprise.
And now, a baby boy had been left near a dumpster on Gabriel’s estate.
"He tried to kill my son before I even knew he existed," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a register that made Dr. Shaw take a step back.
"Gabriel, you don't know if Victor—"
The study door flew open without a knock.
Cole Mercer stepped in, his shirt stained with rain, his expression grim. In his hand, he held a burn phone wrapped in an evidence bag.
"We tracked the dark sedan, boss," Cole said, breathing hard. "It was dumped in an abandoned lot two miles south of here. Burned to the frame. But we found this on the pavement twenty yards away. It belonged to Natalie."
May you like
Gabriel grabbed the evidence bag. "Where is she, Cole?!"
"We pinged the last tower location from her phone before it was dropped," Cole said, his voice dropping. "It pinged near an abandoned warehouse complex on the docks in Newark. A facility owned by a shell company registered to your uncle, Victor Moretti."
