Chapter 2 - The Number on the Wrist
Lorenzo rose from his chair with an explosive speed that knocked his leather seat backward into the wall. He crossed the vast dining hall in long, powerful strides, ignoring the gasps of the lawyers and captains around him.
He dropped to one knee before the wet, shivering child in the doorway.
With hands that could snap a man's neck without hesitation, Lorenzo reached out with extraordinary, trembling gentleness and peeled back the wet corner of the off-white blanket.
There, resting against the damp fabric, was a newborn baby boy. His skin was pale and rosy, his chest rising and falling in rapid, hungry hitches, his tiny fists kicking against the air.
He was alive.
Lorenzo’s breath hitched in his throat. He gathered the infant securely against his broad chest, holding the warm, wriggling weight close to his heart.
Behind him, heavy footsteps hurried across the marble floor. Valentina rushed to his side, her hands instantly reaching out to grab Lorenzo’s sleeve. Her face was pale, her expression an alarming blend of panic and sheer terror.
"Lorenzo, stop!" Valentina cried, her voice unnaturally high. "That's... that can't be! It's just a stray child left in the rain! We don't know where that baby came from!"
Lorenzo ignored her. His sharp, calculating eyes drifted down to the baby’s tiny left arm, exposed beneath the blanket fold.
Encircling the infant’s rosy wrist was a clear plastic hospital identification bracelet, slightly stained with mud.
Lorenzo lifted the tiny arm, turning the plastic band over in his large fingers to read the printed black lettering.
PATIENT ID: 884-902-B
MOTHER: VALENTINA MORETTI
DOB: 10/01/2026
Lorenzo froze.
His mind flashed to the death certificate lying open on the mahogany table twenty feet away—the document certified by their private medical director three days ago, declaring the heir of the Moretti family deceased at birth due to acute respiratory failure.
Lorenzo pulled the paper from his pocket, laying the hospital bracelet directly over the printed line of the death certificate.
The identification numbers matched digit for digit.
A loud smash echoed through the silent room.
Across the dining table, Matteo’s hand had jerked violently, knocking his crystal drinking glass off the wood. It shattered into a dozen pieces against the marble floor.
Valentina and Matteo exchanged a swift, terrified look that lasted less than a second, but it did not escape Lorenzo’s hawk-like observation.
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Lorenzo stood up slowly, cradling his son securely against his chest, his presence radiating an icy, lethal force that chilled the air in the room.
"My son never died," Lorenzo said, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly terrifying.
