Chapter 6 - THE BLOODLINE
The manila folder slipped from my hands, scattering the papers across the worn Persian rug.
“Hannah?” Teresa asked, her voice trembling as she stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t look at her. I stared at the photograph of the little boy, the dark hair, the birthmark.
Luca Moretti wasn’t Frank and Teresa’s son.
He was Lorenzo Bellini. The child Frank had stolen to protect his own daughter.
Thirty-six years ago, Frank had taken his enemy’s son, faked a car bombing to make Carlo believe the child was dead, and then raised the boy as his own. He raised Luca to hate the Bellini family, never telling him that the blood running through his veins belonged to the man he despised most.
And Teresa didn’t know.
Frank had lied to his own wife. He must have told her she was pregnant, or they adopted him in secret. The betrayal was so deep, so absolute, it made me sick to my stomach.
“Hannah, tell me,” Teresa pleaded, reaching for my arm.
Before I could answer, the sound of heavy fists pounded against the barricaded apartment door.
“Open the door!” a muffled voice yelled from the hallway.
Carlo’s men were outside.
George grabbed the revolver from the sofa. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, aiming the gun at the door.
The heavy oak bookcase rattled as the men on the other side slammed their shoulders against the wood. It wasn’t going to hold for long.
“Where’s Luca?” Teresa cried, panic completely taking over. “He should be here! He said he was going to the Bellini estate!”
“He’s walking into a trap,” I realized, my blood running cold.
If Luca went to the Bellini estate looking for Carlo, he wouldn’t find him. Carlo was here, downstairs. Luca’s men would be ambushed by whatever guards Carlo had left behind.
But worse… if Carlo somehow found out who Luca really was…
A loud crack echoed through the apartment.
The doorframe splintered.
“The fire escape!” George yelled, grabbing Teresa’s hand. “Hannah, go!”
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the file from the floor, shoving the papers back inside, and ran toward the kitchen window that Michael had left open.
The rain was still pouring outside, slicking the metal grates of the fire escape.
I climbed out first, the cold wind biting through my uniform. I reached back and helped Teresa through the window. She was shaking, her lavender dress soaked instantly.
George climbed out last, keeping the revolver pointed toward the kitchen.
Just as his feet hit the metal grating, the apartment door completely gave way.
Three armed men burst into the living room.
They saw George.
“There they are!” one of them shouted, raising his weapon.
“Get down!” George roared.
He shoved Teresa and me flat against the metal stairs.
Gunfire erupted.
The bullets pinged off the brick wall and the iron railing, missing us by inches.
George fired back blindly, two loud shots echoing in the alleyway. One of the men inside shouted in pain, dropping out of sight.
“Move!” George ordered, pulling us down the steep, slippery steps.
We scrambled down three flights of stairs into the dark, rain-flooded alley behind the restaurant.
My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst. Teresa was sobbing, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
“Where do we go?” I asked, wiping the rain from my eyes.
George looked down the alley. “My car is parked two blocks away. We have to get there before they surround the building.”
We ran.
I supported Teresa, practically carrying her as we splashed through the puddles. The alley was pitch black, illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning.
We reached the end of the alley and spilled out onto the empty street.
George’s dark green sedan was parked under a broken streetlight.
“Get in,” George said, unlocking the doors.
I pushed Teresa into the backseat and climbed in beside her, still clutching the manila folder. George jumped into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life just as two of Carlo’s men emerged from the alley.
They raised their guns, but George slammed on the gas.
The tires squealed against the wet pavement, and we tore down the street, leaving the men behind in the rain.
Teresa collapsed against the leather seat, weeping hysterically.
“Frank… oh God, Frank,” she cried, burying her face in her hands. “Why did this happen? Why is Carlo doing this?”
George gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He looked at me in the rearview mirror.
“Hannah,” George said quietly. “What was in the file?”
I looked down at the soaked manila folder in my lap.
I looked at Teresa, the woman who had treated me with nothing but kindness for two years.
How could I tell her that her entire life was a lie? How could I tell her that the son she loved more than anything in the world belonged to the monster who had just tried to kill her?
“It’s about Luca,” I said, my voice trembling.
Teresa looked up, her eyes wide. “Luca? Is he in danger?”
“Teresa,” George said gently, keeping his eyes on the road. “You need to prepare yourself. Frank kept a lot of secrets.”
Teresa shook her head violently. “I don’t care about secrets! I care about my son!”
I slowly pulled the photograph of the little boy out of the folder.
I handed it to her.
“Mrs. Moretti,” I whispered. “Look at the birthmark.”
Teresa took the photo with trembling hands. She stared at the little boy’s face.
She traced her finger over the small mark on his jawline.
Her breath hitched.
She looked up at me, the confusion slowly turning to absolute horror.
“This is Luca,” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
She turned the photo over.
On the back, written in Frank’s handwriting, was a single sentence.
Carlo’s son is dead. Mine lives.
Teresa dropped the photo. She let out a scream so loud, so filled with agony, that it made my ears ring.
“No!” she wailed, clutching her chest. “No, it’s not true! I carried him! I gave birth to him!”
George slammed on the brakes.
The car skidded to a halt in the middle of an empty intersection.
He turned around in his seat, looking at Teresa with complete shock.
“Teresa, what are you talking about?” George asked. “Frank told me Luca was adopted. He said you couldn’t have any more children after Michael.”
Teresa shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face.
“He lied!” Teresa cried. “I was pregnant! I gave birth to a baby boy thirty-six years ago!”
I froze.
If Teresa gave birth to a baby boy…
And the boy in the photo was Carlo’s son…
“Where is your baby, Teresa?” George asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Teresa looked at us, her eyes wide with a terrifying realization.
“Frank took him,” she whispered. “The night he was born. He said the baby was sick. He said he had to take him to a specialist in New York.”
She covered her mouth, sobbing uncontrollably.
“He brought Luca back a week later. He said it was our son.”
My mind raced, trying to put the pieces together.
If Frank didn’t blow up Carlo’s son… and he didn’t blow up Sofia…
Who was in the car?
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
It was Luca.
I answered it immediately. “Luca! Where are you?!”
“Hannah,” Luca’s voice came through the speaker, tight and strained. “I’m at the Bellini estate. It’s empty.”
“Carlo is at the restaurant!” I yelled. “He tried to kill us! We barely escaped!”
“Is my mother safe?” Luca demanded.
“Yes, she’s with me and George.”
I heard Luca exhale sharply. “Thank God.”
Then, his voice changed.
“Hannah. I found something in Carlo’s office.”
“What is it?” I asked, my heart pounding.
“It’s a DNA test,” Luca said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
I stopped breathing.
“Vanessa didn’t go to Carlo to give him the ledger,” Luca continued softly. “She went to him to give him a blood sample she took from me.”
“Luca…” I whispered.
“Carlo knows, Hannah,” Luca said. “He knows I’m his son.”
And before I could say anything else, Luca dropped a bombshell that completely shattered everything we thought we knew.
“And he also knows who Frank actually put in that car thirty-six years ago.”
May you like
Luca paused.
“Frank didn’t blow up Carlo’s child, Hannah. He blew up his own.”
