Chapter 2
“I’ll scream!” Sofia cried out, tears streaming down her fair, rosy cheeks. Her hospital gown twisted as she dragged herself toward the edge of the mattress. “I’ll scream until the entire hospital comes running! Give him back!”
“The nurses on this floor have been paid off,” Victor said, a smug smile stretching across his face as he took another step toward his daughter. “Nobody is coming to help you, my dear. Just go to sleep.”
But Victor was wrong. Nurse Claire, a dedicated white American professional in pristine medical scrubs, had already seen enough. Minutes earlier, sensing the hostile tension from the Mercer family, she had quietly slipped out the side door and made a single, urgent phone call.
The heavy, soundproof doors of the maternity suite suddenly burst open with terrifying force.
Lorenzo Ravelli stepped into the bright room, followed immediately by two towering bodyguards in professional dark suits. Lorenzo was fifty-five years old, but he possessed the striking, rugged masculinity of a classic movie star. His thick, neatly styled hair and short, well-groomed full beard framed an angular face with a sharply defined jawline. He wore a dark tailored suit, his crisp dress shirt unbuttoned at the chest to reveal a glimpse of fair, rosy skin. He was elegant, sophisticated, and radiated a cold, overwhelming danger that instantly sucked the air out of the bright hospital room.
“Dad…” Sofia sobbed, her entire body shaking with a profound, overwhelming relief.
Lorenzo did not look at his daughter immediately. His cold, sharp eyes locked onto Victor Mercer. The older man froze in his tracks, the crying newborn still clutched in his arms.
Lorenzo crossed the room in three long, deliberate strides. He didn't shout. He didn't rush. He moved with the terrifying, inevitable grace of a predator. Before Victor could even open his mouth to speak, Lorenzo reached out and took the newborn safely from his grasp. The sheer authority in Lorenzo’s grip left Victor absolutely paralyzed.
“Lorenzo, listen to me,” Victor stammered, his fair face suddenly draining of color. “We were just—”
Lorenzo ignored him completely. He turned his broad shoulders and immediately handed the crying baby to Nurse Claire, who had rushed in right behind him.
“Check him,” Lorenzo said. His voice was low, deep, and heavily measured. The American accent was smooth, but every syllable carried a lethal weight. “Make sure he is unharmed.”
“Right away, Mr. Ravelli,” Nurse Claire said, quickly moving to Sofia’s bedside and placing the baby safely next to his weeping mother.
Lorenzo slowly turned back to face the Mercer family. His eyes swept over Victor, Bianca, and finally settled on Julian.
“You thought,” Lorenzo said, pausing deliberately between the words, keeping his volume chillingly low, “that you could take my blood.”
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Julian swallowed hard, taking a step forward. “He is a Mercer. He is my blood, too, Lorenzo.”
“He is a Ravelli,” Lorenzo corrected, his voice dead calm. “And you have just signed your own death warrant.”
