Chapter 2: Bloodlines and Bullet Shells
The diner was in chaos.
The heavy glass windows at the front had shattered into a million glittering diamonds across the linoleum floor. Rain poured through the gaping holes, mixing with the smell of gunpowder and frying oil.
Two men in heavy leather jackets and ski masks stood near the broken entrance, holding automatic weapons. They weren't looking for cash. They were looking for the black armored SUV parked outside.
They were looking for Alessio.
"Mama!"
I heard Leo’s terrified cry from beneath a booth near the register. Rosie was shielding him with her own body, her face covered in blood from flying glass. One of the gunmen turned his weapon toward the sound of Leo’s voice.
"No!" I shrieked, lunging forward, but a heavy arm wrapped around my waist, throwing me violently to the floor behind the heavy wooden counter.
"Down!" Alessio roared.
Before I could rise, Alessio stepped out into the open. He didn't take cover. He moved with a terrifying, calculated grace, his gun barking three times in rapid succession. The first gunman dropped instantly, a neat red hole blooming in the center of his chest. The second gunman fired a wild volley of bullets into the ceiling before Alessio’s fourth shot caught him directly under the chin.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the hum of the broken neon sign and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
I scrambled on my hands and knees toward the booth. "Leo! Leo, baby!"
My son crawled out from under the table, his little face pale and streaked with tears. He didn't look at the dead men. He looked straight at Alessio, who stood over the bodies, his gun still smoking.
"You... you stopped the bad men," Leo whispered, his voice trembling with awe.
Alessio looked down at the boy. The cold, ruthless expression on the mafia boss’s face cracked for a split second. He slowly holstered his weapon, kneeling down so he was at eye level with Leo.
"Are you hurt, little man?" Alessio asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Leo shook his head, but then he winced, holding his arm. A stray piece of glass had sliced through his sleeve, leaving a deep, bleeding gash on his forearm.
"He's bleeding!" I gasped, rushing to Leo’s side and ripping a clean napkin to press against the wound.
Alessio reached out, taking Leo’s arm to inspect the cut. As he did, he pulled back the sleeve. His eyes locked onto Leo's inner wrist.
There, printed clearly on my son's skin, was a small, distinct, crescent-shaped birthmark.
It was the exact same birthmark that Alessio carried on his own wrist. A rare genetic marker passed down through generations of the Romano family.
Alessio’s head snapped up. His eyes met mine, no longer filled with sorrow or jealousy, but with a sudden, terrifying realization. He looked at the birthmark, then at Leo’s grey eyes, and finally back to me.
"Mera," Alessio said, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with a rage so intense it shook the air. "What is his blood type?"
My breath hitched. I couldn't speak. The lie was dying in my throat.
"Tell me," Alessio growled, standing up and pulling me up by my arm, his grip tight but not hurting me. "What is his blood type?"
"O-negative," I whispered, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.
O-negative. The rarest blood type. The exact blood type of Alessio Romano.
Alessio looked at our son, his chest heaving. The truth had finally broken through six years of carefully constructed deception.
"He's mine," Alessio breathed, the realization striking him like a physical blow. "He isn't another man's son. He's my blood. My heir."
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Before I could deny it, the headlights of three more black SUVs swept across the shattered diner. Alessio’s men had arrived, but so had the realization that we were no longer safe.
"Pack your things," Alessio commanded, his eyes locked on me with a burning intensity. "You're coming home."
