“You look hurt… do you need a hug?” the maid’s six-year-old daughter asked me—the most feared mafia boss in New York
The second result arrived moments later.
Vittorio was.
The room turned silent.
I stared at the page.
Vittorio closed his eyes in satisfaction.
Sofia looked sick.
Isabella whispered, “Elena never told me.”
I wanted to tear the world apart.
Vittorio had not merely controlled Elena.
He had violated every boundary that should have protected her.
Lily looked at me.
“You said blood doesn’t matter.”
I knelt before her.
“It doesn’t.”
“Then you’re still my dad?”
“Yes.”
“Even if he is my grandfather and my father?”
Vittorio flinched.
He finally understood how monstrous the truth sounded when spoken by a child.
I took Lily’s face gently in my hands.
“He is nothing to you.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
The third laboratory result arrived.
It contained a note.
Paternity probability: 99.998% — Alessandro Moretti.
I stared at the conflicting reports.
“One test says Vittorio. Another says me.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed.
“The Circle switched one of the samples.”
“Which one?”
The doctor examined the genetic markers.
Then his face changed.
“Neither.”
“What does that mean?”
“The samples labeled Alessandro and Vittorio are nearly identical.”
Vittorio looked away.
I stepped toward him.
“Explain.”
He refused.
Isabella searched the file.
“There’s only one way this is possible.”
I already knew.
But I needed to hear it.
She looked at me.
“Vittorio is not your father.”
The final sealed record in Elena’s archive opened automatically.
A birth certificate appeared.
My original birth certificate.
Father: Marco DeLuca.
Mother: Lucia Moretti.
Marco—the man who had tried to take Lily in the alley.
The man I had shot.
The man who had served Vittorio my entire life.
My biological father.
Vittorio had raised me as his heir because my mother’s blood gave me legitimacy.
He had owned my childhood, but not my blood.
The laboratory error had occurred because Marco’s old sample remained in the family database under Vittorio’s name.
The true result became clear.
Lily was my daughter.
I turned toward her.
She smiled through tears.
“I knew it.”
“How?”
“You have the same sad eyes.”
I laughed.
It was the first real laugh of my adult life.
Then Isabella’s phone began ringing.
