Patricia vile enough to grind decomposing household garbage onto Ethan's chest

The bright, airy lighting of the sunroom provided no place for secrets to hide. Every bead of sweat on Michael’s face, every tremble in Patricia’s diamond-clad fingers, was illuminated with cinematic clarity. The vibrant green foam dinosaurs and the towering cardboard volcano stood as silent, absurd witnesses to the deadly tension gripping the room.

Robert Parker adjusted his glasses, his fair face completely devoid of emotion as he cracked the seal on the manila envelope. He pulled out a stack of pristine white medical documents. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet, rhythmic sobbing of little Ethan, safely cocooned in the white tablecloth within Claire’s arms.

Robert’s eyes scanned the crisp, black text. He flipped to the second page, then the third. He stopped. His thumb rubbed the bottom right corner of the final page.

Robert slowly looked up from the documents, his intelligent, calculating gaze locking directly onto Patricia Reynolds.

"A very fascinating document, Patricia," Robert said, his American accent crisp and firmly professional. "The formatting is quite impressive. The medical jargon is almost convincing."

"It is the truth!" Patricia snapped, crossing her arms defensively. "We had it run through a private clinic in Chicago. Michael secured the samples himself. It proves Claire was unfaithful. It proves that boy has no right to the Caradonna inheritance."

"Is that so?" Robert asked, stepping forward, holding the paper up into the bright, clear light. "Then perhaps you can answer a simple question for me."

"What question?" Michael interrupted, his voice cracking slightly.

"Why doesn’t this DNA test have an official stamp?" Robert asked firmly.

Patricia froze. Her posture went entirely rigid, the arrogant sneer vanishing from her painted lips. The color rushed out of her rosy cheeks, leaving her looking hollow and suddenly very old.

"Private clinics..." Patricia stammered, her eyes darting nervously around the room. "Private clinics do not always use embossed stamps for confidential client files. It was expedited."

"I have processed the genetic and legal heirlooms of the Caradonna family for thirty years," Robert stated, his voice turning to ice. "Every accredited facility in this country utilizes a certified seal to prevent forgery. This paper was printed on a commercial inkjet. It is a fabricated document."

Michael Reynolds suddenly snapped. The realization that their coup had failed—that he was standing in the den of a Mafia boss with a forged document—overrode his common sense.

"Shut up, Robert!" Michael roared, his face flushing a furious, panicked red.

Michael lunged forward. He didn't go for the consigliere. He went for the Don. Michael grabbed the heavy, garbage-filled birthday box from the floor and violently hurled the remaining wet, rotting contents directly into Vincent’s chest.