ARIA POV
The syringe is inches from my arm.
"No!" I thrash against the leather straps cutting into my wrists. "I'm not pregnant! The test is wrong!"
Dr. Morrison doesn't blink. His hand stays steady, the needle gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights. "The results are never wrong, Mrs. Moretti."
"But I can't be! I've never—" My voice breaks. "I've never been with anyone except—"
"Except my nephew last night," a new voice interrupts. Smooth. Cold. Deadly.
A man steps from the shadows near the door. Older than Damien, maybe late fifties, with silver hair and eyes like frozen steel. He's wearing an expensive suit and a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"Uncle Salvatore," Damien says, and there's something in his voice I can't identify. Fear? Anger?
"Damien. I thought you'd be at the office by now." Salvatore moves closer to the table where I'm strapped down. Studies me like I'm an insect pinned to a board. "This is unfortunate. The girl seemed perfect."
"She is perfect," Damien snaps. "The test is wrong."
"Medical tests don't lie." Salvatore nods to Dr. Morrison. "Proceed."
"Stop!" Damien moves between me and the doctor. "I'm ordering you to stop."
"You're not thinking clearly." Salvatore's voice drops to something dangerous. "She's carrying another man's bastard. That makes her worthless to us. Worse than worthless—a liability."
"How?" I gasp, tears streaming down my face. "How could I be pregnant? I was a virgin!"
The room goes silent.
Salvatore's smile widens. "Were you?"
Something about his tone makes ice flood my veins. "The medical exam... three months ago... they confirmed—"
"They confirmed what we told them to confirm." Salvatore walks around the table slowly, like a shark circling prey. "Tell me, Aria. Do you remember everything about that exam?"
I try to think back. The sterile clinic. The questionnaire. The blood draw. Then... nothing. Just waking up in the recovery room feeling groggy and strange.
"You drugged me," I whisper.
"We prepared you." Salvatore stops at my head, looking down at me with those dead eyes. "Artificial insemination. Simple procedure. Very effective."
My mind can't process what he's saying. "You... you put someone else's..."
"The plan required you to be pregnant before you ever met Damien. The genetics needed to be... specific." He glances at Damien. "Your nephew was never supposed to be the biological father. Just the legal one."
Damien's face goes white. "What are you talking about?"
"The bloodline, dear nephew. Your father's bloodline." Salvatore pulls a folder from inside his jacket. "Your mother had an affair years ago. You're not actually a Moretti by blood."
The words hang in the air like poison.
"That's a lie," Damien breathes.
"DNA doesn't lie. I've known for fifteen years. Known that the great Moretti legacy would die with your father unless we took drastic action." Salvatore opens the folder, shows papers covered in medical terminology. "So I found the perfect solution. Aria's baby carries your father's true genetic line. Through a donor we... acquired."
My stomach heaves. "Who? Whose—"
"Your father's," Salvatore says simply. "Before he died, we collected samples. Frozen. Preserved. Insurance, we called it."
Damien lunges at his uncle. Dr. Morrison and two security guards I didn't notice before grab him, hold him back.
"You insane bastard!" Damien struggles against them. "You artificially inseminated her with my dead father's—"
"With the true Moretti bloodline. Yes." Salvatore's calm is terrifying. "The baby she carries is technically your half-sibling. Which makes this whole situation rather... complicated."
I'm going to be sick. This can't be real. This is insane.
"So why kill her now?" Damien demands, still fighting the guards. "If she's carrying what you want—"
"Because she knows too much. And because there's been a complication." Salvatore nods to Dr. Morrison. "Tell them."
The doctor clears his throat. "The pregnancy isn't viable. The embryo didn't implant correctly. She'll miscarry within days regardless."
"So you see," Salvatore spreads his hands, "she's served no purpose except to become a witness to our methods. Can't have that."
The syringe moves toward my arm again.
"Wait!" I scream. "Please! I won't tell anyone! I'll disappear! You'll never see me again!"
"True," Salvatore agrees. "We won't."
Damien breaks free from one guard, crashes into Dr. Morrison. The syringe goes flying, shatters against the wall. Clear liquid spreads across the concrete floor.
Chaos erupts.
Damien fights like a demon. Lands a punch that sends one guard sprawling. But there are too many of them. They drag him backward, slam him against the wall.
Salvatore pulls a gun from his jacket. Points it at Damien's head.
"Enough."
Everyone freezes.
"You're making this harder than necessary," Salvatore says calmly. "The girl dies today. Accept it. Move on. We'll find another candidate, do this properly next time."
"Over my dead body," Damien growls.
"That can be arranged." Salvatore's finger moves to the trigger. "I didn't want it to come to this. I raised you. Trained you. Loved you like a son. But you're weak. Just like your mother always said."
"My mother?" Damien's voice is raw. "You're lying about her too."
"Am I?" Salvatore smiles. "Why don't we ask her?"
He pulls out his phone. Hits a button. A woman's voice fills the room through speakerphone.
"Is it done?" The voice is elegant, refined, Italian-accented.
Isabella Moretti. Damien's mother.
"Not quite," Salvatore says, eyes on Damien. "Your son is being difficult."
A pause. Then: "Damien, darling, don't make this ugly. The girl is nobody. Let her go."
Damien's face crumbles. "Mother... you knew?"
"I designed it, sweetheart. Who do you think suggested the breeding program in the first place?" Isabella's laugh is light, musical, cruel. "Your father's real son died in childbirth thirty years ago. You were the affair baby I tried to pass off as legitimate. It worked for a while. But bloodlines matter in this family. We need a true heir."
I watch Damien break. Actually break. Like something inside him shatters beyond repair.
"My whole life," he whispers. "Everything you told me..."
"Was necessary." Isabella's voice remains pleasant. "Now be a good boy and let Uncle Salvatore finish this. We'll start over. Find a better vessel. One that actually works."
*Vessel. That's all I am to them.*
Salvatore ends the call. Gestures to Dr. Morrison, who's picking up another syringe from a medical cart.
"Last chance, nephew. Step aside, or join her."
Damien looks at me. Really looks at me. I see the exact moment he makes his choice.
He lunges for Salvatore's gun.
A shot explodes through the basement.
Someone screams. Maybe me. Maybe Damien.
The straps on my wrists suddenly release—one of the guards hit the emergency release button when he dove for cover.
I roll off the table. Hit the floor hard. My vision blurs.
Through the chaos, I see Damien on the ground, blood spreading across his white shirt.
Salvatore stands over him, gun still smoking.
"Shame," he says quietly. "You could have been great."
Then his eyes find me, scrambling toward the stairs.
"Grab her!"
Hands reach for me. I kick wildly. Connect with something soft. Someone grunts in pain.
I run.
Up the stairs. Through the hallway. People are shouting behind me but I don't look back.
The front door is ahead. Freedom. Escape.
I burst outside into blinding sunlight.
And crash directly into someone standing on the steps.
Strong hands steady me. A familiar voice: "Whoa, easy there."
I look up into warm brown eyes. A man in casual clothes, maybe mid-thirties, with kind features and a concerned expression.
"You okay, miss? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Behind me, footsteps thunder through the house. Getting closer.
"Please," I gasp. "Please help me. They're trying to kill me."
The man's expression hardens. "Who?"
"The Morettis. All of them. I need to—"
His hand covers my mouth. Gentle but firm. He pulls me against him, and I feel something cold and metallic press into my side.
A gun.
"Sorry, sweetheart," he whispers in my ear. "But I can't let you leave."
He turns me around to face the door just as Salvatore emerges, wiping blood off his hands with a white handkerchief.
"Marco," Salvatore nods to the man holding me. "I see you caught our runaway."
Marco. Damien's head of security. The one person I thought might help me.
"She made it pretty easy, boss," Marco says.
My legs give out. Marco's the only thing keeping me upright.
"Excellent. Take her back downstairs." Salvatore's smile is victorious. "And Marco? Make sure she doesn't scream. We have guests arriving soon for brunch."
Marco's grip tightens. Starts dragging me backward.
But then he leans close and whispers so quietly I almost miss it:
"Trust me. Play dead when the time comes."
Before I can process what he means, something sharp pricks my neck.
The world goes dark.