Chapter 4 4

Seraphina POV

The flight from Isola della Morte to New York was a blur of dark water and darker thoughts. Now, standing in the Grand Salon of the Russo Estate in Long Island, the damp iron stench of the Cistern was replaced by the suffocating scent of expensive floral perfume and simmering tension.

The decor was a gaudy mix of Italian Baroque and contemporary luxury-gilded furniture and a massive crystal chandelier that looked more like a weapon than a light fixture. It was a stage built for a minor family desperate to look like royalty.

I dropped the thick manila folder Silas had given me onto the marble coffee table.

Caterina Russo, draped in a tight silk dress and a fur stole she didn't need indoors, snatched the file before her husband could reach it. Her manicured nails tore through the seal. I watched her face transition in a matter of seconds: from mild annoyance, to pale shock, and finally, to a violent, trembling rage.

"A *bastarda* (bastard)?" Caterina shrieked, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. She hurled the papers at Giovanni's chest. "You bring your whore's spawn into my home? This is how you humiliate me?"

Giovanni Russo, a man whose tailored suit couldn't hide the nervous energy of a mid-level boss, scrambled to catch the falling documents. He scanned the DNA results, his face devoid of any paternal warmth. There was only the sharp, calculating irritation of a man whose plans were being derailed by his wife's hysterics.

"Shut up, Caterina," Giovanni growled, grabbing her wrist. "She isn't a *bastarda* (bastard). Look at the dates. Look at the name. It's Elara. The daughter we lost in the hospital fire eighteen years ago."

Caterina froze, her chest heaving. She turned her gaze toward me. The anger in her eyes didn't fade; it morphed into a deep, venomous suspicion. In the mafia, trust was a luxury no one could afford, and Caterina clearly couldn't afford to trust her husband.

"I don't believe a word of it," she sneered, pulling her arm free. "Call Dr. Bianchi. Now. I want my own blood test. I will not have some feral stray claiming my bloodline."

I kept my face a mask of stone. Let them play their games.

Half an hour later, a sweating Dr. Bianchi arrived with his medical kit. Caterina stood over him like a hawk as he tied the tourniquet around my arm. I extended my wrist willingly, feeling the sharp prick of the needle. As the doctor turned his back to label the vials, I subtly pressed my thumb against the cuff of my dark sleeve. The hidden micro-sampler absorbed a single drop of blood welling from the puncture wound. Silas had provided the first report, but I only trusted the blood I verified myself.

The waiting stretched into the evening. When Dr. Bianchi finally returned to the Grand Salon, the sun had set, casting long, sharp shadows across the plush white carpet.

"It's a match," the doctor murmured, packing his bag quickly. "She is your biological daughter."

Caterina let out a long breath, though it sounded more like a hiss. She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my combat boots and the cold, unblinking way I stared back at her.

"She looks like a thug," Caterina muttered, not caring if I heard. She crossed her arms, her voice dripping with disdain. "Nothing like our Bianca. Bianca has grace. Bianca knows how to behave in polite society. What are my friends going to say when they see this?"

Giovanni ignored his wife's complaints. He stepped closer to me, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, naked greed. He didn't see a daughter; he saw an asset. He knew I hadn't just materialized out of thin air. Someone powerful had kept me, and someone powerful had sent me back.

He cleared his throat, trying to project the authority of a *Don*, though his hands were trembling slightly.

"Seraphina," Giovanni said, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent tone. "Do you... know someone named Silas?"

The name hung in the air, heavy and dangerous, instantly transforming the opulent living room into a battlefield.