Chapter 3 - “THE BABY IS YOURS”
Emma left Mercy Harbor before noon.
She did not finish her shift.
That alone frightened Nina Patel.
Emma Carter had once finished a shift after receiving a phone call that her father had been found dead in his apartment because the unit was short-staffed and a patient was unstable.
She did not leave work.
Ever.
That day she walked directly into the nurse manager’s office.
“I need emergency personal leave.”
Her manager looked at her face.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Emma—”
“I’m safe.”
That was not entirely true.
“But I need to go.”
She left through a side entrance and immediately noticed the black sedan.
It was parked half a block away.
Nothing remarkable in Chicago.
Except it pulled into traffic six seconds after Emma did.
She drove three blocks.
Turned right.
Then right again.
The sedan followed.
Emma’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
She called Vincent.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Emma?”
Not hello.
He had probably been waiting all morning.
“Are you at the estate?”
“Yes.”
“I need Grant to send someone he trusts who is not connected to Moretti family medical staff.”
Silence.
Vincent’s voice changed.
“Where are you?”
“Driving north on Clark.”
“Why?”
“I think I’m being followed.”
“Describe.”
“Black Mercedes. Illinois plates. Six car lengths behind.”
“Plate.”
She read it.
Vincent spoke away from the phone.
Grant was obviously nearby.
Then:
“Do not go home.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Go to the Lakeshore parking garage at Walton. Level two. Grant will have someone there.”
Emma exhaled.
“Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“There’s something you need to know.”
“Tell me when you’re safe.”
The answer struck her.
He did not demand information first.
Good.
Ten minutes later, a different SUV entered the garage.
Two people stepped out.
Grant.
And a woman Emma recognized from Vincent’s security staff, Mara Ellis.
No family cousins.
No doctor.
Grant opened Emma’s door.
“Switch cars.”
“What about mine?”
“Mara takes it.”
“Why?”
“To see whether the Mercedes follows.”
Emma looked at him.
“You already checked the plate?”
“Rental.”
“Renter?”
“Fake ID.”
Wonderful.
Emma entered Grant’s SUV.
He drove.
No conversation for three minutes.
Then:
“Are you pregnant?”
Emma turned slowly.
Grant kept his eyes on the road.
“How did you know?”
“I didn't.”
“You just asked.”
“You looked like someone deciding whether a medical fact was going to become a family war.”
“That is disturbingly specific.”
“I’ve worked for Vincent a long time.”
Emma studied him.
“Did you know he wasn’t infertile?”
Grant’s hands tightened.
There.
Not answer.
Emma’s chest cooled.
“Grant.”
“I knew something was wrong with the diagnosis.”
“How long?”
He looked in the mirror.
“Twelve years.”
Emma stared.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“That distinction is doing a lot of work.”
“I know.”
“Did Vincent?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Grant was silent.
Emma’s voice sharpened.
“Why?”
“Because Vincent’s father told me not to tell him until I had proof.”
“His father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Seven years.”
“And apparently proof requires pregnancy?”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“You have every right to be angry.”
“That sentence usually precedes a bad explanation.”
He pulled into a private parking structure beneath a law office.
No Moretti markings.
They took an elevator to a conference room.
Vincent was already there.
He stood the moment Emma entered.
His eyes moved over her body.
Checking injuries.
Nothing else.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did anyone approach?”
“No.”
“The sedan followed Mara another four miles and disappeared near Wacker.”
Emma nodded.
Vincent looked at her.
“Now tell me.”
Grant moved toward the door.
Emma stopped him.
“No.”
Both men looked at her.
“Grant stays.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I think he already knows part of this.”
Vincent turned.
Grant did not defend himself.
Interesting.
Emma removed printed lab results from her bag.
She had printed them because digital records could disappear.
Vincent watched the papers.
Emma had delivered terrible information professionally hundreds of times.
There were protocols.
Sit down.
Use clear words.
Pause.
Do not bury the conclusion.
None of that prepared her for this.
“Vincent.”
He remained standing.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Please.”
That word did it.
He sat.
Emma remained across from him.
“I’m pregnant.”
Nothing happened.
Not visually.
Vincent Moretti had spent his adult life turning shock into stillness.
Emma watched the transformation.
His shoulders locked.
His eyes stopped blinking.
Grant looked away.
Vincent said:
“No.”
Not accusation.
Disbelief.
Emma placed the beta-hCG result down.
“Quantitative blood test.”
He stared.
“How far?”
“Probably seven to eight weeks. I need an ultrasound.”
His gaze moved slowly toward her stomach.
Then back.
“Emma.”
“I know.”
“You know what the doctors said.”
“Yes.”
“We were together…”
“Yes.”
“Only us?”
The second the question left his mouth, Vincent’s face changed.
Emma felt it anyway.
There it was.
The wound she had expected.
She stood.
“Yes.”
Vincent rose immediately.
“Emma.”
“No.”
“I shouldn’t have asked it that way.”
“You shouldn't have needed to.”
“I spent twelve years—”
“I know what you spent twelve years believing.”
She pointed toward the second report.
“That is why I brought evidence.”
Vincent looked.
Emma’s voice shook despite her effort.
“Someone ordered a prenatal kinship test on my blood without consent.”
His expression turned dangerous.
“Who?”
“Ferraro.”
Grant closed his eyes.
Vincent looked toward him.
“You know that name?”
Of course he did.
“Family physician after the explosion.”
Emma continued:
“He compared fetal DNA from my blood against a stored blood sample from you.”
Vincent’s gaze snapped back.
“Stored where?”
“St. Catherine Medical.”
“I never authorized long-term storage.”
“I know.”
“What does it say?”
Emma swallowed.
“You’re the father.”
Silence.
Vincent looked at the number.
99.99%.
He sat again.
This time not by choice.
His knees seemed to lose purpose.
Emma had never seen him like that.
Not frightened.
Not angry.
Stripped.
He stared at the paper.
Then at her.
“The baby is mine.”
“Yes.”
A child.
His.
Vincent put one ungloved hand over his mouth.
Emma’s anger softened despite herself.
For twelve years, people had told this man there was a door in life permanently locked to him.
She had just opened it with one laboratory result.
His eyes became wet.
Vincent looked away immediately.
Grant turned toward the window.
Giving privacy.
Emma moved closer.
She did not touch him.
Not yet.
Vincent whispered:
“Are you sure?”
“The paternity test is technically noninvasive and very accurate when done correctly.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“Are you sure you're pregnant?”
Something in his voice broke.
Emma’s throat tightened.
“Yes.”
He laughed once.
Quietly.
Then his face hardened.
“Ferraro.”
Emma nodded.
“There’s more.”
Vincent’s eyes returned to her.
“The archived blood profile has an endocrine panel attached.”
She explained.
Very high testosterone.
Suppressed LH and FSH.
“English,” Vincent said.
Emma nodded.
“The numbers did not support the diagnosis they wrote.”
“What did they support?”
“External hormone exposure.”
Vincent stared.
“Someone was giving me hormones?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
“High-dose external testosterone can suppress sperm production.”
Grant swore under his breath.
Vincent looked at him.
“You knew.”
Grant did not move.
“I knew your father suspected your post-explosion treatment.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.”
Vincent stood.
The room changed.
Emma had seen his violence only in reputation.
Not action.
But she felt it now without him touching anything.
“Twelve years.”
Grant remained still.
“Your father asked me—”
“My father is not in this room.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe I could never have a child.”
Grant’s face tightened.
“I did not know that was false.”
“You suspected.”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
“Yes.”
Vincent took one step toward him.
Emma moved between them.
Both men froze.
“Not now.”
Vincent looked at her.
“That man—”
“Is not going anywhere.”
Grant quietly placed his phone, keys, and firearm on the table.
“I’ll stay.”
Vincent stared.
Grant continued:
“You can have someone independent hold me until you decide whether I’m compromised.”
That mattered.
A guilty man might run.
A loyal man carrying a bad secret might do exactly this.
Emma looked at Vincent.
“Ferraro called me.”
Vincent’s attention snapped back.
“What?”
“He said if you truly fathered a child, we’re both in danger.”
“From whom?”
“He disconnected before answering.”
Vincent pulled out his phone.
Emma stopped him.
“No family security.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because someone knew my blood was drawn before I knew I was pregnant.”
Silence.
“That means access to the hospital, our house, or both.”
Grant said quietly:
“She’s right.”
Vincent looked at him with enough coldness to freeze glass.
Grant did not react.
Emma continued:
“We need an independent physician.”
Vincent nodded.
“And the complete medical record.”
“Yes.”
“And Ferraro.”
“Yes.”
“Alive.”
Emma looked at him.
“Yes.”
The word had to be said.
Vincent understood.
No private punishment.
No disappearing witness.
Truth first.
Then he looked at Emma’s stomach again.
Something inside his expression changed.
“You’re being followed because of the baby.”
“Probably.”
“Then you stop working.”
Her head snapped up.
“No.”
Vincent caught himself.
Emma saw it.
Old instinct.
Control disguised as protection.
He closed his eyes once.
Then corrected.
“Do you want to stop working until we understand the threat?”
She studied him.
“For a few days.”
“Okay.”
“Not forever.”
“I heard you.”
“Good.”
Vincent picked up the paternity report again.
His thumb traced the line.
PATERNAL CONSISTENCY.
He looked almost afraid to touch Emma.
She made the choice for him.
She took his hand.
Placed it against her abdomen.
There was nothing to feel yet.
No movement.
No kick.
Still, Vincent stopped breathing.
“Our baby,” Emma whispered.
His eyes closed.
“Yes.”
Then the conference-room phone rang.
Nobody had given anyone the number.
Grant stared.
Vincent answered on speaker.
No greeting.
An older male voice.
Ferraro.
“Vincent.”
Vincent became stone.
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“No.”
Ferraro sounded terrified.
“Listen. The infertility diagnosis was created for a reason.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“What reason?”
“Succession.”
Grant went still.
Emma’s hand tightened around Vincent’s.
Ferraro continued:
“Your brother Gabriel was not the only Moretti they expected to die in that explosion.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Vincent whispered:
“What did you say?”
“You were supposed to die too.”
Emma felt his hand turn cold.
Ferraro’s breathing broke through the speaker.
“When you survived, they needed another way to make sure your branch of the family ended with you.”
Then the call disconnected again.
And for the first time, Vincent Moretti understood that the lie about his infertility had never been about medicine.
It had been about blood.
May you like
Inheritance.
And ensuring that no child of his could ever exist to claim what someone else had spent twelve years preparing to steal.
