Chapter 4 - The Viper in the Garden
The medical report lay on the desk in Daario's private study, illuminated by the amber glow of a single green bankers lamp.
Dr. Rossi sat across from Daario, wiping his spectacles with a silk handkerchief. "The results are absolute, Donato. The DNA match is ninety-nine point nine percent. Mia is indisputably Isabella’s daughter. And by extension... your granddaughter."
Daario let out a long, quiet breath, his heart swelling with a strange, unfamiliar mix of pride and fierce protectiveness. "How is her health?"
"She’s malnourished," Rossi said, setting his glasses back on his nose. "She has old bruising on her wrists consistent with physical restraint—likely from the orphanage staff. She’s traumatized, Donato. But physically... she’s resilient. She has your constitution."
"Thank you, Doctor," Daario said, pushing an envelope thick with cash across the desk. "Remember my terms."
"My tongue is buried, Donato," Rossi said, taking the envelope and bowing slightly before exiting the study.
Once the doctor was gone, Marco stepped out from the curtained alcove near the balcony. He carried a tablet displaying a network of bank transfers and police records.
"We found the woman who dropped Mia at the shelter," Marco said. "Her name is Elena Vance. She was Isabella’s college roommate in London. We intercepted her at Newark Airport attempting to board a flight to Lisbon."
"Bring her in," Daario commanded.
Five minutes later, two security guards shoved a frantic, disheveled woman into the study. She fell to her knees on the Persian rug, her expensive designer clothes rumpled, her face streaked with mascara.
"Please!" Elena shrieked, clutching her hands together. "Please, Mr. Moretti! I didn't mean to hurt her! I was just doing what Isabella asked!"
Daario stood up slowly from his desk, walking around to stand over her. He didn't raise his voice; his presence alone was enough to make the room feel twenty degrees colder.
"Speak," Daario said simply.
"Isabella... Isabella knew they were coming for her!" Elena sobbed, shaking violently. "Seven years ago, when she got pregnant, she was terrified. She knew that if you found out, you’d bring the baby into your world. And if your enemies found out, they’d kill the child. So she hid Mia with me in a cottage in rural Wales."
"Who knew about the child?" Daario demanded. "Who forced her to hide?"
"Nobody knew at first!" Elena cried. "Only me and Isabella! But four months ago... someone found us. Someone who claimed they worked for you! They said you were sick, that you wanted to make peace, that you wanted to see your granddaughter before you died!"
Daario’s eyes narrowed into slits of lethal ice. "Who was it?"
"I don't know his name!" Elena screamed, tears pouring down her nose. "He was a tall man, middle-aged, with a silver signet ring on his pinky finger! He had a scar running through his left eyebrow! He paid me fifty thousand dollars to bring Mia back to the States and leave her at the shelter! He said if I told anyone, he’d kill my entire family!"
Daario went rigid.
A scar through the left eyebrow. A silver signet ring on the pinky finger.
He knew that ring. He had gifted that ring himself fifteen years ago to mark twenty years of unyielding loyalty.
It didn't belong to Salvatore Scalese.
It belonged to Marco.
Daario turned his head slowly to look at the man standing near the door—the man who had stood at his right hand for thirty years, the man who had driven his cars, guarded his life, and held his umbrella at his daughter's funeral.
Marco was already holding a weapon.
May you like
A suppressed pistol was pointed directly at Daario’s heart.
"I’m sorry, Donato," Marco said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth and devotion he had projected for three decades. "You should have stayed retired."
