Chapter 3
Before Margaret could formulate another lie to salvage her rapidly unraveling scheme, the heavy door to the maternity suite was pushed open once more.
Adrian Moretti stepped into the room.
At thirty-four years old, Adrian was a man of terrifying, deeply masculine power. He possessed the striking, movie-star handsome features of a classic Mafia Boss—an angular face, a high-bridged nose, and a sharply defined jawline accentuated by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble. His thick, slightly wavy hair was naturally slicked back, with just a few loose strands falling effortlessly over his forehead, creating a charming, romantic look that stood in stark contrast to his cold, sharp, intimidating eyes. He wore a flawlessly tailored dark suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, a heavy family signet ring gleaming on his hand, an expensive wristwatch, and polished leather shoes that clicked methodically against the hospital tile.
He entered the bright, cinematic room carrying Emma’s designer hospital bag over one shoulder. He stopped dead in his tracks.
The atmosphere in the room was suffocating. Adrian’s cold, intimidating eyes swept across the scene with the rapid, calculating precision of an apex predator. He saw Linda breathing heavily, her face flushed red with rage. He saw his mother, Margaret, standing near the bassinet with an uncharacteristically nervous rigidity. He saw his wife, Emma, weeping openly in her hospital bed, her arms outstretched.
And finally, his gaze locked onto the Charge Nurse, who was holding his newborn son in one arm and a piece of white gauze stained with thick black pigment in the other.
"Adrian," Emma sobbed, her voice cracking with absolute desperation. "Adrian, she tried to hurt him. Your mother put something on his skin!"
Adrian did not immediately respond. He lowered the hospital bag to the floor with a quiet, deliberate motion. He spoke slowly, with controlled, chilling pauses between his words. His deep, slightly raspy American accent filled the room, keeping his volume deceptively low. Every sentence sounded measured, cold, and immensely dangerous.
"What," Adrian whispered, his eyes never leaving the blackened gauze, "is on my son?"
"Adrian, darling, listen to me," Margaret interjected instantly, taking a step toward him. Her fair skin was pale, her expensive jewelry rattling slightly as her hands trembled. "I was looking at the baby, and I noticed these dark marks! I was merely pointing out that this child does not share our complexion! I was looking out for the integrity of our familyline!"
Adrian completely ignored his mother. He walked directly past her, the sheer force of his presence causing Margaret to instinctively step backward. He approached the medical cart where the Charge Nurse was currently holding the infant.
"Give him to me," Adrian commanded softly.
The nurse, recognizing the absolute, uncompromising authority in his tone, carefully transferred the newborn into Adrian’s massive, strong arms. Adrian cradled the small bundle wrapped in the white hospital blanket. He looked down at the dark, artificial smears staining his son's fair, rosy cheeks and arms.
"It's cosmetic pigment, Mr. Moretti," the nurse stated professionally, standing her ground. "Someone intentionally rubbed it onto his skin to alter his appearance."
Adrian’s expression remained an unreadable mask of stone. He gently brushed his thumb over the baby’s arm, feeling the greasy texture of the dye. As he looked closer, the bright, natural lighting of the suite illuminated a small, highly alarming detail.
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His son’s hospital identification bracelet, secured around the tiny ankle, was sitting loosely. The tamper-proof plastic clasp had been forcefully pried open.
Adrian’s expression hardened into pure, terrifying ice.
