Chapter 19 - Bloodline of the lost
Luca let out a manic, ragged laugh, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips. "You think you're the master of this city, Damiano? You think your father built this empire alone? Look at the girl! Why do you think her illness resisted every standard antibiotic? Why do you think only the southern doctors knew how to formulate the antidote?" Luca pointed the bloody tip of his knife toward Emma. "Sophia’s mother was pregnant when she escaped Vincenzo Moretti’s fire twenty-five years ago. She wasn't carrying another man’s child. She was carrying Vincenzo’s legitimate firstborn daughter!"
The words hit the room with the force of an artillery shell. Damiano stopped in his tracks, his silver eyes locking onto Sophia with an intensity that bordered on madness. Sophia’s breath caught in her throat, her mind reeling backward through years of memories—her mother’s quiet sadness, the strange way she stared at luxury cars passing through the streets, the absolute refusal to ever step foot inside a church that bore the Moretti patron saint. "Sophia is your older half-sister, Damiano," Luca hissed, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Which means that little girl sitting on the bed isn't just an innocent maid’s daughter. Under the original Sicilian charter of 1948, she is the sole legitimate heiress to every bank account, every shipping dock, and every ounce of gold your family owns."
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"That’s enough," Damiano said coldly. Without a second’s hesitation, he pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed deafeningly inside the enclosed steel chamber. Luca collapsed against the wall, sliding down into a lifeless heap on the concrete floor, his blade clattering uselessly against the stone. Sophia rushed past the body, dropping to her knees by the bed and pulling Emma fiercely into her arms. The little girl buried her face in Sophia’s neck, weeping softly as Sophia kissed her forehead, whispering promises of safety over and over while tears streamed down her own face.
Damiano walked over to the bed with slow, deliberate steps. He knelt down beside them, towering yet completely unthreatening. With gentle, careful fingers, he lifted the silver medallion hanging from Emma’s neck, turning it over to inspect the backside under the emergency red light. Scratched deeply into the solid silver, beneath the modern polish, was an old inscription in Latin: Primogenita. The firstborn. Damiano closed his eyes for a long moment, letting out a slow, heavy breath. He looked up at Sophia, whose eyes were filled with an agonizing question of what this meant for their survival. "You are not a maid," Damiano whispered, his voice thick with a profound, unbreakable solemnity. "And you will never hide in the shadows again."
