Chapter 6 - MIA’S DNA TEST CHANGED HER LIFE, BUT I REFUSED TO LET IT BECOME ANOTHER DECISION ADULTS MADE WITHOUT HER
I did not order Mia’s DNA test.
That distinction mattered.
The social worker, Rosa, and Mia’s court-appointed attorney handled the discussion.
Because Mia was not evidence.
She was a child.
Rosa cried when we explained the possibility.
“I didn’t know.”
I believed her.
She had raised Mia since infancy.
Marisol, Rosa’s daughter, had brought the baby home and said she had agreed to a private adoption for a mother who could not keep her.
Rosa never saw original birth records.
Marisol became legal mother through paperwork Hayes’s firm arranged.
Why?
Rosa did not know.
Then Marisol died four years later.
Rosa became guardian.
No one looked deeper.
Until now.
Mia listened from her hospital bed.
“So Luca might be my dad?”
Not Mr. DeLuca anymore.
Just Luca.
The social worker answered carefully.
“Biologically, maybe.”
“What does biologically mean?”
I hated large adult words around children.
“Part of the way your body was made.”
I said.
Everyone looked at me.
Mia frowned.
“Like baby?”
“Yes.”
“If test says yes, do I have to live with you?”
The question broke something in my chest.
“No.”
Immediate.
She looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because blood does not mean you lose every other choice.”
Rosa started crying harder.
Mia grabbed her hand.
“I want Grandma.”
“Then Grandma matters.”
“What if she’s sick?”
“Then adults make a plan with you.”
“Not around you.”
Her attorney looked at me.
Good.
Let them hear.
The DNA test happened because Rosa and Mia’s attorney agreed it served medical and identity interests.
Not because I demanded.
We waited.
While waiting, I met Serena again.
The newborn had been moved to a protected pediatric unit.
I visited.
So did Serena, when she wanted.
She held him one afternoon.
I watched from doorway.
She looked at me.
“Do you want to?”
“What?”
“Hold him.”
I almost laughed.
“He’s my son.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Good.
I entered.
She handed him over.
He was warmer now.
Stronger cry.
Angrier.
Definitely mine, according to Mia.
“What are you calling him?”
Serena asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“You need a name.”
“I know.”
She looked down.
“I called him Gabriel during pregnancy.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“It fit.”
“Do you want to keep it?”
Important.
Not my permission only.
Her months mattered.
“Yes.”
I said.
“Gabriel.”
Her eyes filled.
“Okay.”
So my son became Gabriel Luca DeLuca on temporary records after paternity acknowledgment and court process.
Not because I stamped a name onto him.
Because the woman who carried him had already whispered it for months.
That felt right.
Then Mia’s DNA came back.
99.9994 percent probability that I was her biological father.
I read the report alone first.
Then sat for ten minutes.
Seven years.
A daughter.
My daughter.
She had lived in an abandoned warehouse.
Gone hungry.
Walked barefoot through rain.
While I owned homes I rarely entered.
I felt shame even though I had not known.
Then corrected myself.
Shame can become self-indulgence.
Action mattered.
Mia was told with her attorney, Rosa, social worker, therapist, and me present.
No cameras.
No family.
No mother.
No Matteo.
She stared at the paper.
Then at me.
“So you’re Dad?”
I swallowed.
“If you want to call me that someday.”
“But you are.”
“Biologically, yes.”
She frowned.
“People keep saying that word.”
I smiled slightly.
“Yes.”
“Does baby know?”
“No.”
“He’s a baby.”
“Right.”
Then Mia looked at Rosa.
“Are you still Grandma?”
Rosa cried.
“Yes.”
“If you want me.”
Mia looked offended.
“Of course.”
Good.
Then:
“Does Luca live with us?”
Everyone almost laughed.
I answered:
“Not unless someone forgot to tell me.”
She thought.
“Your house is too big.”
“Yes.”
“Scary.”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Harlow is nice.”
“Yes.”
“Your guards have guns.”
“Yes.”
Her face tightened.
“I don’t like that.”
There.
My daughter giving me a fact.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I said okay.”
“You’re getting rid of guns?”
“Not all.”
“But not around you.”
“Can you do that?”
“I own the house.”
She nodded.
Apparently useful.
Then:
“Can Grandma come?”
Rosa immediately said:
“Mia—”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“If Mia ever spends time at my home, you are welcome.”
Rosa stared.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not making her choose.”
There.
Exactly.
Court procedures became complicated.
Mia’s legal mother, Marisol, was dead.
Biological mother?
Anonymous egg donor.
Gestational carrier Elena Ward.
Dead.
Legal parentage paperwork fraudulent.
Rosa had valid guardianship from after Marisol’s death, though built on an earlier false adoption.
Nobody wanted to destabilize Mia unnecessarily.
The court kept Rosa as legal guardian temporarily while investigating.
I received supervised and then unsupervised contact rights as biological father after background review.
Yes.
Background review.
Of me.
A social worker came to my mansion.
She asked about firearms.
Security.
Criminal allegations.
Businesses.
My temper.
I answered.
Not because I enjoyed it.
Because Mia deserved adults who could question me.
The social worker asked:
“Do you intend to seek custody?”
I thought.
“Eventually, maybe shared guardianship if it serves Mia.”
“Why not full?”
“Because she has a grandmother.”
“Because I’m new.”
“Because money does not erase attachment.”
Good.
She wrote.
Then:
“What about your criminal organization?”
Direct.
I almost smiled.
“I am restructuring my business and cooperating with counsel regarding any illegal operations still connected to me.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“Why?”
I looked through glass toward Mia playing cards with Mrs. Harlow.
“Because I have children now.”
She said nothing.
Then:
“That answer worries me.”
“Why?”
“You should stop harmful activity because it is harmful, not only because you have children.”
Good.
I stared.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
I hated it.
Useful.
The search for Everett Shaw intensified.
Cascade Reproductive Medicine closed suddenly.
Records servers wiped.
Several staff unreachable.
Federal investigators joined after evidence of reproductive fraud, identity fraud, forged consent, and interstate financial crimes.
Hayes remained in custody on several charges and refused broad cooperation.
Adrian? No.
Keep Hayes.
Matteo turned over everything.
He admitted his role in original transfer.
Signed a formal statement.
He also admitted deleting security records and obstructing my estate investigation.
His attorney advised silence.
Matteo refused.
“I spent twelve years silent.”
Good.
He faced consequences.
My mother cooperated too.
Not heroically.
Painfully.
She gave investigators trust documents.
Emails.
Old letters from my father.
One email destroyed her.
From Hayes, eleven years earlier:
Storage remains secure. Luca need not be burdened with details unless circumstances require.
My mother replied:
Agreed.
Two words.
She stared at them for a long time.
Then handed the page to me.
“I thought burdened meant protected.”
I said nothing.
She continued:
“I see what it means now.”
“What?”
“Controlled.”
Yes.
That evening, I visited Gabriel.
Mia came with Rosa.
She stood beside bassinet.
“He has no hair.”
“He has some.”
“Barely.”
“He’s three days old.”
“Four.”
Of course she knew.
Then she looked at me.
“Did you know I was born?”
“No.”
“Were you sad?”
“I didn’t know there was something to be sad about.”
She thought.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Because you missed me?”
My throat closed.
“Yes.”
Mia reached into the bassinet and touched Gabriel’s blanket.
“Baby missed you too.”
“He didn’t exist.”
She looked annoyed.
“You always ruin nice things.”
I laughed.
Then she smiled.
For the first time, I saw it.
Not my eyes.
Not my jaw.
Something harder to name.
A family resemblance in expression.
The angry face.
Same as Gabriel.
Same as me.
Mia saw me noticing.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
Apparently that was genetic too.
“You make my face.”
She grinned.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you make mine.”
Fair.
Then Marco entered.
His expression destroyed the moment.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We found Everett Shaw.”
“Where?”
“Not exactly.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“His car is at Sea-Tac.”
“Passport used yesterday.”
“Flight?”
“Vancouver.”
“Then Tokyo.”
“Final destination?”
Marco hesitated.
“Manila.”
Hayes had money there.
Old shipping interests.
I knew.
“Authorities?”
“Already notified.”
Good.
No private chase.
Then Marco handed me another document.
“What?”
“Found in Shaw’s clinic safe.”
My blood chilled.
A list.
Transfer numbers.
7C appeared twice.
But below mine were fourteen other coded samples.
Different men.
Different trusts.
Different children.
This had never been only about me.
Richard Hayes and Everett Shaw had built a business out of stolen reproductive material and forged family consent.
And somewhere, other parents might be living with the same lie I had believed for twelve years.
I looked at Mia.
Then Gabriel.
My anger became something larger than revenge.
May you like
For the first time, I did not want one man punished.
I wanted the whole system opened.
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