Chapter 3 - The Bloodline That Came KnockingThe first bullet shattered the monitor.
For half a second, the security room went black.
Then the emergency screens flickered back to life, revealing a different camera angle: the eastern corridor, where two of Lorenzo’s men were dragging an injured guard behind a marble pillar while gunfire tore through the hallway.
I couldn't move.
Brody was alive.
Brody, who had disappeared three months earlier with our rent money, my emergency savings, and the little silver bracelet my mother had left me.
Brody, who had promised he would find work in another city and send for me.
Brody, who had left me standing outside a pharmacy with a positive pregnancy test in my shaking hand.
He was alive.
And he had just looked into a camera and claimed my baby belonged to someone else.
“Emily.”
Lorenzo's voice cut through the noise.
I turned toward him.
“Look at me.”
I tried.
His face was composed, but his right hand had tightened around the pistol until his knuckles turned white.
“Is there anything you haven't told me about Brody?”
The question hurt because I understood why he was asking.
He was a man who had survived by assuming that everyone had a price and every secret could become a weapon. To him, a pregnant woman who had shared a bed with an unknown man was not merely a victim. She was also a possible weakness in his defenses.
I couldn't blame him for being suspicious.
I could only tell him the truth.
“I knew he lied about money. I knew he gambled. I knew he sometimes disappeared for a day or two when he was frightened of the people he owed.” I swallowed. “I didn't know he was involved with your family.”
“Did he ever mention Salvatore?”
“No.”
“Giovanni?”
“He never mentioned your father.”
“Did he know you were pregnant before he disappeared?”
I looked down at my stomach.
“Yes.”
Lorenzo's expression hardened.
“What did he say?”
“He asked me whether I was certain.”
“And?”
“I told him I had taken three tests.”
“Did he want you to end the pregnancy?”
The question was so blunt that I stared at him.
“No. He said we would figure things out.”
Lorenzo gave a humorless laugh.
“Men who say that usually have no intention of figuring anything out.”
“Perhaps you should tell me about that sometime,” I replied before I could stop myself.
His eyes returned to mine.
For one dangerous second, I thought he might be angry.
Instead, something almost like recognition crossed his face.
Then another explosion shook the ceiling.
One of his men burst through the steel door.
“Boss, the western entrance is compromised. Salvatore's people have taken the courtyard. We have six men pinned in the east wing.”
“How many intruders?”
“Fourteen confirmed. Possibly more.”
“And Brody?”
The guard hesitated.
“Moving toward the main staircase. He's carrying a woman.”
“Mrs. Gable?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo glanced at Giovanni.
His father had become unnaturally still.
“Papa, do you know why Salvatore came here tonight?”
Giovanni tapped the armrest four times.
“Because of the letter?”
Three taps.
“The archive?”
Four.
Lorenzo looked toward the open folder on the desk.
“Because of what my mother wrote?”
Four taps.
His jaw tightened.
“Then tell me what she knew.”
Giovanni's lips moved.
Nothing emerged.
He tried again, and the muscles in his neck strained.
“Sa…”
Lorenzo knelt beside him.
“Salvatore?”
Four taps.
“Is he my biological father?”
Four taps.
For the second time that night, Lorenzo looked as if the foundations of his life had collapsed beneath his feet.
But he did not retreat from the truth.
He stood, folded the letter, and placed it inside his jacket.
“Get my father to the secure room.”
The guard nodded.
“And Emily?”
“She's coming with me.”
“I can walk,” I said.
“Good. Then walk.”
It was the sort of answer I would have hated from anyone else.
From Lorenzo, it was almost reassuring.
He wasn't treating me like glass. He was treating me like someone who needed to survive.
We left through a narrow passage behind the archive. One of the guards carried Giovanni while the rest of us followed a route that led beneath the old kitchen and into the estate's western service wing.
The walls were bare concrete. Pipes ran overhead. Every few seconds, we heard muffled gunfire from somewhere above.
I kept one hand against my stomach.
“Lorenzo,” I whispered.
He slowed without turning.
“What?”
“Why does Brody want my baby?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why are you taking me with you?”
He stopped so abruptly that I nearly collided with him.
“Because the man who wants your child has just entered my home with armed men. Because someone has been suppressing my father's recovery for five years. Because a woman who worked here for thirteen years has been dragged through my foyer at gunpoint. And because my mother left a letter warning me that the truth about my bloodline could destroy me.”
He looked directly at me.
“Until I understand how those things are connected, I won't put you somewhere I can't protect.”
I wanted to believe him.
That frightened me more than the gunfire.
We reached a reinforced door at the end of the corridor. Two guards opened it, and we entered a room containing a medical bed, a communications console, bottled water, and a wall of security monitors.
The door closed behind us.
For the first time since the lights had gone out, I could hear myself breathe.
Dr. Russo hurried to Giovanni, who was settled carefully onto the bed. The doctor checked his pulse and adjusted his blanket.
Lorenzo turned to his security chief, a broad-shouldered man named Marco.
“Give me the situation.”
“Salvatore's men have taken the main entrance and the courtyard. They're trying to reach the basement archive.”
“Do they know what's in it?”
“They seem to know the room exists. We intercepted two messages mentioning Elena's documents.”
Lorenzo's gaze sharpened.
“Who sent the messages?”
“One came from a number registered to a company in Palermo. The other came from inside the estate.”
“Inside?”
Marco nodded grimly.
“We haven't identified the device yet.”
Lorenzo looked at the monitors.
“Then stop looking for the traitor in the corridors. Start with everyone who had access to the security office.”
Marco left immediately.
I stood near the medical bed, listening to the quiet beeping of the monitor beside Giovanni.
His eyes found mine.
He lifted one hand.
I stepped closer.
“Are you in pain?”
Three taps.
“Are you frightened?”
Four taps.
The honesty of that answer almost made me cry.
I placed my hand gently over his.
“So am I.”
His fingers closed weakly around mine.
Then he pointed toward Lorenzo.
The gesture was unmistakable.
I glanced at Lorenzo.
“He wants you to come here.”
Lorenzo approached.
Giovanni tapped four times, then pointed toward the folder in his son's jacket.
“More secrets?” Lorenzo asked quietly.
Three taps.
“Something in the letter?”
Four.
Lorenzo took the letter out.
Giovanni pointed toward the second paragraph.
Lorenzo read it again.
I watched his expression change as he reached the bottom of the page.
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he read aloud.
“‘The child born of the Moretti bloodline will be claimed by the family that lost its heir. If Salvatore learns the truth, he will not stop until the child is in his possession.’”
The room went silent.
My hand moved instinctively to my stomach.
“The child born of the Moretti bloodline?”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“Your baby.”
“But Brody isn't a Moretti.”
“Not that we know.”
The thought was unbearable.
For months, I had tried to understand the man I loved—or the man I believed I loved. I had convinced myself that his disappearances were caused by debt, his lies by shame, his coldness by desperation.
Now I was being asked to consider that the entire relationship had been constructed around a child whose identity I didn't understand.
“Is Brody my baby's father?” I asked.
Lorenzo's expression softened by a fraction.
“I don't know.”
“But the letter—”
“The letter says a child will be claimed. It doesn't say the child is yours.”
I stared at him.
“Then why did Brody say it belongs to them?”
“Because he wants you afraid. Or because he knows something we don't.”
He turned back to Giovanni.
“Papa, did Elena know Emily would become pregnant?”
Three taps.
“Did she know Brody?”
Giovanni hesitated.
Then four taps.
A chill moved through me.
Lorenzo noticed.
“Who was Brody to my mother?”
Giovanni's hand trembled.
He tapped once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
His face contorted with frustration. He pressed his lips together and tried to speak.
“B…ro…”
“Brody?” Lorenzo asked.
Four taps.
“Was Brody working for her?”
Three taps.
“Was he working for Salvatore?”
Four taps.
Lorenzo straightened.
Before he could ask another question, the communications console crackled.
A voice came through.
“Mr. Moretti, we have a live feed from the front hall.”
The screen illuminated.
Brody stood in the foyer.
Mrs. Gable was on her knees in front of him, her hands bound behind her back. Blood trickled from a cut above her eyebrow.
Brody wore a dark coat and a white shirt, the collar stained red. He looked thinner than I remembered, with deep shadows beneath his eyes.
But his smile was the same.
That was the worst part.
He looked like the man who had once brought me cheap flowers from a supermarket and apologized for missing my birthday.
“Emily,” he said to the camera. “I know you're watching.”
My legs felt weak.
Brody stepped closer to the lens.
“You've been difficult to find.”
I wanted to scream at him.
I wanted to ask where he had been when I was sick, when I had counted coins to buy groceries, when I had sat awake at night wondering whether I would have enough money to bring our child home from the hospital.
Instead, I stood frozen.
Brody's eyes moved slightly, as if he could see me through the walls.
“I'm sure Lorenzo has told you all sorts of things about me.”
He laughed softly.
“Some of them might even be true.”
Lorenzo reached for the console.
I caught his wrist.
“Wait.”
He looked at me.
“I need to hear this.”
For a moment, he seemed ready to refuse.
Then he lowered his hand.
Brody continued.
“You deserve an explanation, sweetheart. You deserve to know why I left.”
Sweetheart.
The word sounded obscene.
“I didn't leave because I stopped loving you. I left because the people I owed weren't ordinary creditors. They were men who could make you disappear and call it an accident.”
He looked down at Mrs. Gable.
“Ask her what happened to Elena Moretti.”
Mrs. Gable shook her head frantically.
Brody kicked the chair beside her.
“Tell her!”
She began crying.
“I don't know anything!”
“That's a lie.”
Brody crouched in front of her.
“You signed the medical transfer papers. You arranged the sedatives. You were paid to keep Giovanni Moretti silent.”
Giovanni's face drained of color.
Lorenzo leaned closer to the screen.
“Who paid her?” he demanded.
Brody smiled.
“Your father.”
Lorenzo's hand closed into a fist.
“Which one?”
For the first time, Brody's smile faltered.
Then he looked directly at the camera.
“That's the right question.”
He lifted a folded document.
“Your mother wasn't killed because of a family feud. She was killed because she discovered that Salvatore and Giovanni had made the same mistake.”
He paused.
“They both believed they could own a woman simply because they loved her.”
A terrible silence followed.
Brody unfolded the document.
“Emily, you remember the night I disappeared?”
I did.
I remembered the cold kitchen, the half-packed suitcase, the argument over money.
“You told me you were going to find work.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because someone had offered me a deal.”
His gaze lowered toward my stomach.
“A deal involving you.”
My mouth went dry.
Lorenzo stepped closer to the monitor.
“Who offered it?”
Brody looked at him.
“Salvatore.”
The name hung in the room.
“He wanted me to stay close to Emily. He wanted me to learn whether the child she carried was connected to the Moretti family. He said that if the baby was what he believed it was, I'd never have to worry about money again.”
I felt sick.
“You knew I was pregnant,” I whispered, though he couldn't hear me.
Brody's expression changed, as if he had somehow understood.
“I was supposed to bring you to him before the baby was born.”
Lorenzo drew his weapon and pointed it at the screen.
Marco, who had returned silently, caught his arm.
“Boss, it's a camera.”
“I know what it is.”
“Then don't give him what he wants.”
Lorenzo lowered the gun.
On-screen, Brody pulled Mrs. Gable to her feet.
“But things changed,” he continued. “I found out that Salvatore wasn't planning to let me go afterward. He was going to kill me as soon as the child was secured.”
His voice became quieter.
“So I ran.”
I laughed once, a small, broken sound.
“You ran,” I whispered.
I remembered the overdue bills.
The nights I had worked two shifts because Brody had promised he would repay me.
The day I had sold my winter coat to pay the electricity bill.
“You left me to face everything alone.”
Brody's face hardened.
“I was trying to save us.”
“No,” I said, though the camera could not hear me. “You were trying to save yourself.”
For the first time, I saw him clearly.
He wasn't a monster in the way Lorenzo could be a monster.
He was something more familiar.
A coward who could dress selfishness in the language of love and almost make himself believe it.
Brody leaned toward the camera.
“I know where Elena hid the original records. I know who your baby's father is, Emily. And I know why Giovanni has spent five years pretending he couldn't speak.”
He held up the document.
“If you want your child to live, bring me the letter.”
Lorenzo's expression became deadly.
“And if we refuse?”
Brody smiled again.
“Then I'll let Salvatore explain everything himself.”
He glanced toward the staircase.
Behind him, a door opened.
A man entered the foyer.
He was tall, silver-haired, and impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit. His face carried the calm confidence of someone who had never needed to raise his voice to make other men obey.
Even through the grainy monitor, his presence seemed to alter the room.
Lorenzo went completely still.
Giovanni began to tremble.
The man looked at Brody, then at the camera.
His eyes were almost identical to Lorenzo's.
“Good evening, son,” he said.
Lorenzo's face turned white.
Salvatore smiled.
“I believe we have a family matter to discuss.”
And then, with the ease of a man greeting guests at his own dinner party, he lifted a hand toward the camera.
“Bring Emily downstairs.”
The screen went black.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Lorenzo turned toward me.
His expression held fury, grief, and something I had never expected to see in a man like him.
Fear.
“Emily,” he said, “whatever happens next, you must not trust Salvatore.”
I stared at him.
“What about Brody?”
Lorenzo glanced at Giovanni.
His father was crying silently.
“Don't trust him either.”
“And you?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Lorenzo looked at me for a long time.
Then he answered with a quiet honesty that frightened me more than any lie.
“I'm still trying to decide whether I can trust myself.”
Above us, the estate's security alarm began to scream.
The steel door shook under a violent impact.
Someone on the other side shouted Lorenzo's name.
Then came a voice I recognized immediately.
Brody.
“Open the door, Emily!”
He sounded desperate now.
“Please! You have to listen to me!”
Lorenzo raised his pistol.
Marco moved to the door.
Giovanni grabbed my hand.
His fingers were cold.
He tapped four times against my palm.
Then he forced out a single word.
“Run.”
The door exploded inward.
May you like
And the first person through it was not Brody.
It was Salvatore Moretti.
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