Chapter 4 - WE FOUND SERENA IN AN ABANDONED CHURCH, AND SHE ASKED ME THE ONLY QUESTION I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO ANSWER
Police found blood on a chain-link fence two blocks west of my estate.
Marco’s men found a torn piece of red fabric.
Mia was right.
The search moved toward an old industrial district where several buildings had been condemned after flood damage.
At 5:46 a.m., a patrol officer found Serena Bell inside a boarded church.
Alive.
Hypothermic.
Deep cut along one forearm.
No gunshot.
No catastrophic injury.
She had hidden beneath the choir stairs for nearly four hours.
When police told her my name, she panicked.
“Don’t let him take the baby.”
That was the first message I received.
It hurt.
I deserved part of it.
Not because I knew.
Because my name had spent twenty years teaching strangers to expect the worst.
The hospital admitted Serena under security.
I did not enter her room.
Not immediately.
I asked.
Through her attorney.
Yes.
Attorney.
The police connected her with an independent victims’ advocate and lawyer before I saw her.
Good.
I wanted no one later claiming she had been cornered by the DeLuca family.
Mia was admitted two floors down for exposure, dehydration, and infected cuts on both feet.
Her grandmother was found through social workers.
Rosa Alvarez.
Sixty-six.
Hospitalized at Harborview six days earlier with pneumonia and complications from untreated diabetes.
Mia had been living in an abandoned warehouse alone since Rosa was taken by ambulance.
Nobody had realized.
That fact made me angrier than most of the financial crimes.
A seven-year-old had disappeared from adult attention for six days in a city full of agencies and churches and schools and police.
No conspiracy required.
Just invisibility.
Mrs. Harlow stayed with her.
The baby remained in neonatal observation for several hours.
Stable.
Cold stress.
Mild dehydration.
Nothing permanent expected.
I stood outside the glass and watched him sleep.
Dr. Bennett joined me.
“Have you thought of a name?”
“No.”
“His records need something.”
“Baby Boy Bell for now.”
He nodded.
No pressure.
Then:
“You know the paternity result is definitive.”
“Yes.”
“How are you?”
I looked at him.
“Do not become a therapist now.”
He smiled faintly.
“Fair.”
Serena agreed to speak at nine.
Her attorney, Lydia Park, sat beside her.
So did a detective.
No private conversation.
Good.
Serena looked exhausted.
Thirty-two or thirty-three.
Dark hair.
Pale skin.
Red marks where adhesive had been.
Her right arm bandaged.
She looked at me as though evaluating a weapon.
I sat across the room.
“Serena.”
“Mr. DeLuca.”
“Luca is fine.”
“I’d rather not.”
Fair.
“Okay.”
Her first question:
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“About the pregnancy?”
“No.”
“About the embryo?”
“No.”
“About the transfer?”
“Not until last night.”
She stared.
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes.”
“My lawyers can provide medical correspondence and my original inquiry from twelve years ago.”
“I was told the samples were destroyed.”
Her face changed slightly.
Not trust.
Maybe uncertainty.
“Why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn’t because I’m asking.”
“Believe documents.”
Her lawyer looked at me differently.
Good.
Serena rested against the pillow.
“I was told you signed.”
“I didn’t.”
“They showed me a consent video.”
My body went still.
“What?”
“A video call.”
“Man looked like you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did he speak?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That he understood the arrangement.”
“That he wanted privacy.”
“That the child would be raised by family representatives.”
Deepfake?
Actor?
Old footage?
I looked at Lydia.
“Do you have the video?”
“Her previous attorney received a copy.”
“We’re obtaining it.”
I turned to Serena.
“When did you learn it wasn’t real?”
“Seven months.”
“You saw my name.”
“Yes.”
“I searched interviews.”
“Your voice didn’t match.”
Interesting.
Not appearance.
Voice.
“What happened?”
“I called Pacific Surrogacy.”
“They told me high-profile clients sometimes use security processing.”
“I asked for direct verification.”
“They refused.”
“I hired attorney.”
“Then?”
“My attorney received a letter from Richard Hayes.”
Of course.
“He said the intended parent’s identity was protected but legally verified.”
“He threatened breach penalties if I withdrew.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
My jaw tightened.
Serena’s eyes filled.
“I don’t have three hundred thousand dollars.”
“No one should have put you there.”
She looked at me sharply.
“Your family did.”
“Yes.”
I did not defend.
“My family did.”
That mattered.
She continued:
“I was already pregnant.”
“Baby was healthy.”
“I wasn’t going to do something that hurt him because adults lied.”
Good.
“So you continued.”
“Yes.”
“Then you contacted Matteo.”
“He was the only DeLuca name on an old chain-of-custody record.”
“What did he tell you?”
“At first, nothing.”
“Then he believed me.”
“Eventually.”
“He said he would get us out.”
“Us?”
“Me and the baby.”
“Did you plan to keep him?”
Serena went quiet.
Important question.
Not legal only.
Human.
“I didn’t know.”
She whispered.
“I spent nine months feeling him move.”
“I told myself he wasn’t mine.”
“Because genetically, he isn’t.”
“But bodies don’t understand contracts.”
My throat tightened.
Good.
No simple ownership.
“I was supposed to hand him over to people I learned had lied to create him.”
“I couldn’t.”
“What did you want?”
“To make sure he went somewhere safe.”
“Then decide.”
“Decide what?”
“Whether I wanted contact.”
“Whether he should know me.”
“Whether you even wanted him.”
There.
The question I had avoided.
She looked directly at me.
“Do you?”
Silence.
Do I want him?
I knew the socially correct answer.
Yes.
Instant love.
Blood.
Destiny.
But that would be dishonest.
“I don’t know what wanting means yet.”
Serena’s face changed.
I continued:
“I know I don’t want him harmed.”
“I know I don’t want Richard Hayes controlling his life.”
“I know when he disappeared from that bassinet, I thought I would tear this city apart.”
“Is that love?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ve known him less than twelve hours.”
Lydia said nothing.
Serena’s eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not pretending.”
Good.
Then I asked:
“What happened after delivery?”
Serena looked toward detective.
“They kept me at Cascade overnight.”
“Then a nurse named Natalie gave me discharge papers early.”
“Nina?”
“No.”
“Natalie Pierce.”
Not Matteo’s contact.
Interesting.
“She said Matteo sent her.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
“She gave me the baby.”
“Car.”
“Cash.”
“Address.”
“Where?”
“A safe house south of Portland.”
“Then?”
“I drove.”
“After twenty minutes, black SUV followed.”
“Same one?”
“I don’t know.”
“I pulled into service lane near your estate because Matteo had told me if something went wrong, your gates were the one place Hayes’s men would hesitate.”
That was ironic.
“So you came toward me.”
“I came toward your security.”
Fair.
“My arm?”
“Someone hit my car from behind near the alley.”
“I got out.”
“Climbed fence.”
“Cut myself.”
“The baby?”
“I hid him behind the dumpster enclosure with his blanket.”
My chest tightened.
“You left him?”
“For maybe two minutes.”
“I wanted to draw the car away.”
Her face crumpled.
“When I came back, he was gone.”
Mia.
Seven-year-old girl heard crying.
Found him.
Wrapped him in black plastic.
Carried him to my gate.
Serena continued:
“I thought they took him.”
“So I ran.”
“Then I saw headlights.”
“I hid.”
“Eventually ended up in church.”
I sat back.
“Did you see who followed?”
“No face.”
“Anything?”
“A ring.”
My body became still.
“Right pinkie?”
“Yes.”
Richard.
Mia corroborated.
Good.
Then Lydia asked me:
“What are your intentions regarding the child?”
The room went quiet.
Legal question.
Emotional bomb.
I thought.
“I want temporary protective custody resolved through court.”
Serena looked surprised.
“You’re not just taking him?”
“No.”
“He’s biologically mine.”
“That doesn’t mean I pretend the circumstances are normal.”
“I want a guardian ad litem.”
“Independent pediatric counsel if appropriate.”
“DNA and reproductive-fraud investigation.”
“And Serena’s rights examined without Calder or DeLuca lawyers controlling the process.”
Lydia nodded slowly.
“What about parental recognition?”
“I will acknowledge paternity.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“That gives you strong rights.”
“Yes.”
“And responsibilities.”
“Yes.”
Good.
I was not going to become the kind of man who wanted bloodline only when it increased power.
Then Serena asked:
“If I want contact?”
I thought.
“You carried him.”
“You protected him.”
“You risked your life.”
“I’m not erasing you because a contract calls you gestational carrier.”
Tears slid down her face.
“Thank you.”
Then a nurse entered.
“Mr. DeLuca?”
“Yes?”
“The little girl downstairs is asking for you.”
“Mia?”
“Yes.”
“She says it’s important.”
I went.
Mia sat in bed eating cereal.
Mrs. Harlow beside her.
Her feet were bandaged.
She looked smaller in hospital clothes.
“What?”
Mia lowered her spoon.
“Grandma knows the ring man.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What?”
“Grandma woke up.”
Good.
“She heard me tell Mrs. Harlow.”
“And?”
Mia’s face became serious.
“She said his name before I did.”
“Richard?”
“No.”
I froze.
“What name?”
“Mr. Hayes has a different man.”
Mrs. Harlow leaned forward.
“Mia says Rosa called him ‘Everett.’”
Dr. Everett Shaw.
I didn’t know the name.
Yet.
But when I returned to Serena’s floor and asked—
her face went white.
“He ran Cascade Reproductive Medicine.”
There.
Richard Hayes controlled money.
Matteo moved records.
My mother preserved samples.
But the man who physically controlled the reproductive material—
May you like
was Dr. Everett Shaw.
And according to Serena, he had disappeared from the clinic less than twelve hours before my son appeared outside my gate.
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