Chapter 3 - The Impossible BloodlineThe hum of the Escalade's engine was the only sound inside the cabin for a long, torturous minute. I stared at Dante Moretti, my pulse roaring in my ears like a freight train.
"My... my background files?" I echoed, my voice tightening. "What are you talking about? I grew up in a foster system in Upstate New York. I worked my way through community college. I have a clean record. What could possibly be 'impossible' about my file?"
Dante didn't answer immediately. He picked up a single sheet of paper from the dossier, sliding it across the polished leather console between us.
I glanced down at it. The header read: STATE OF NEW YORK — DEPARTMENT OF VITAL RECORDS & GENETIC ARCHIVES.
Beneath it was a certified DNA matching schematic, cross-referenced with high-security federal databases. My name, Olivia Marshall, was printed at the top. But beneath it was a secondary lineage tree that made my breath catch in my throat.
"Look at the genetic markers on the right side of the page," Dante instructed quietly, his gray eyes watching my face for every micro-expression. "Specifically, the rare chromosomal mutation designated M-94. It's a genetic anomaly found in less than zero point zero one percent of the global population."
"I don't know anything about genetics," I snapped, pushing the paper back toward him. "I'm a waitress. What does this have to do with me being dragged into a black SUV?"
"It has everything to do with you," Dante countered, his tone hardening into steel. "Because the M-94 mutation isn't something you inherit from ordinary parents. It is a signature genetic marker carried exclusively by the inner bloodline of the Moretti dynasty—and a handful of high-ranking Sicilian families tied to our syndicate's founding fathers."
My jaw dropped. "That's insane. Are you saying I'm... what, related to you?"
"I don't know what you are," Dante confessed, leaning back against the seat, his brow furrowed in deep, troubled lines. "When my investigators pulled your adoption records from nineteen-ninety-nine, the file was heavily redacted by a federal magistrate judge—a seal so high-level that even my contacts in Washington had to burn three favors to crack it."
He tapped the paper with his index finger.
"The records show you were left on the steps of St. Jude's Orphanage in Brooklyn when you were six months old. Wrapped in a cashmere blanket bearing the Moretti family crest, embroidered with silver thread."
The world outside the tinted windows seemed to blur. My hands began to shake. I had spent my entire life believing I was nobody—an abandoned orphan who had to fight for every scrap, every meal, and every dollar. To hear that I was somehow connected to the most feared criminal empire in America felt like stepping into a surreal nightmare.
"It's a mistake," I whispered, shaking my head. "People lose things. People copy crests. It doesn't mean anything."
"Nothing in my world is a coincidence, Olivia," Dante said, his voice dropping into a lethal, hypnotic register. "And dogs like Orion don't mistakes, either. He didn't just recognize your scent last night. He recognized your blood."
Before I could process the terrifying implications of his words, Dante's private cellular phone buzzed on the console.
He glanced at the screen, and the cold, unyielding mask he wore cracked, replaced by a flash of raw, unfiltered panic.
"Speak," Dante answered sharply.
A frantic voice spilled through the speaker—one of his head security guards stationed at his private Tribeca penthouse.
"Boss! You need to get back immediately! Someone breached the perimeter through the service elevator! They bypassed the biometric scanners!"
May you like
Dante’s posture went rigid. "Who?"
"We don't know, sir, but they're moving toward the private kennels. They're trying to take Orion!"
Related Stories
