Chapter 7 - MATTEO MORETTI
Evan survived.
I did not know that for sixteen hours.
Sixteen hours during which I hated him.
Mourned him.
Blamed him.
Remembered him.
And hated myself for remembering anything good.
Luka drove us through a tunnel that ended beneath an abandoned church two blocks away.
A woman named Sister Anne hid us in a storage room.
She was not actually a nun anymore.
Apparently everyone in Luka’s world had a complicated relationship with their official identity.
Ivy needed feeding.
I needed medical care.
My body had begun shaking from exhaustion.
A retired midwife arrived before dawn.
She checked me.
Changed the dressing.
Told me I had pushed myself far beyond what was reasonable.
I laughed.
Reasonable had stopped existing around the time a tattooed stranger signed my daughter’s birth record.
By morning, Luka received one message.
Three words.
Holloway son alive.
I stared at the screen.
“Where?”
“Private clinic.”
“Charles?”
“Has him.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why keep him alive?”
Luka looked at me.
“Leverage.”
“Against me?”
“Against Sloane.”
I frowned.
“Why Sloane?”
“She is the one person who can prove the transfer procedure.”
My mother sat beside the window.
“And Charles knows she turned.”
“Probably.”
I looked at Luka.
“Then we find her.”
“We need the cryobank first.”
“No.”
He stared.
“I’m not leaving Evan with Charles.”
“You cannot rescue Evan from a secure Halcyon facility with a newborn in your arms.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“So you do it.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m not your employee.”
“No.”
I held his gaze.
“You’re Ivy’s uncle.”
That stopped him.
The word changed his face.
Uncle.
Not donor representative.
Not protector.
Family.
He looked at my daughter.
For the first time, Luka seemed uncertain about where to put his hands.
He had faced armed men without blinking.
A sleeping seven-pound baby defeated him.
I almost smiled.
Then I remembered everything.
“Tell me about Matteo.”
He looked away.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t have time.”
“That is becoming your favorite excuse.”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
My mother stood.
“I’ll make coffee.”
She left the room.
Deliberately.
Luka sat across from me.
“Matteo was five years younger.”
“So thirty-four when he died?”
“Thirty-one.”
I calculated.
“Seven years ago.”
“Yes.”
“What was he like?”
Luka stared at the floor.
“Annoying.”
I waited.
“He talked too much.”
A faint smile.
“He bought terrible cars.”
Another.
“He believed expensive watches made him look responsible.”
I looked at Ivy.
“Did they?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His smile disappeared.
“He wanted children.”
“You said.”
“He wanted four.”
I felt something twist inside me.
“He had names?”
Luka looked at me.
“Yes.”
“What names?”
“For boys, mostly.”
“And girls?”
“One.”
I waited.
“Ivy.”
I stopped breathing.
My eyes dropped to my daughter.
The room seemed to disappear.
“What?”
Luka’s face tightened.
“I didn’t know you had chosen it.”
I could not speak.
Evan and I had argued over names for months.
He liked Olivia.
I liked Ivy because my mother had once grown ivy around our kitchen window.
I had not told anyone why.
Now the coincidence felt impossible.
“Matteo wanted a daughter named Ivy.”
“Yes.”
I looked down at her.
A tiny sound escaped me.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite a sob.
“Of course he did.”
Luka reached into his wallet.
He removed a photograph.
Matteo on a motorcycle.
Grinning.
A black jacket.
Blue eyes.
Beside him was Luka.
Younger.
Less tattooed.
Still hard-looking.
But happy.
I studied Matteo.
“Do you think she’ll look like him?”
“Maybe.”
“Would that bother you?”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“No.”
“Would it hurt?”
He did not answer.
I understood.
“Do you blame me?”
“For what?”
“For her.”
His face changed violently.
“No.”
“I didn’t consent.”
“Neither did Matteo.”
“I know.”
“You are both victims of the same crime.”
He leaned forward.
“Do not ever carry blame for what Charles did.”
I looked at him.
It was the most direct kindness anyone had given me since the hospital.
“Did you hate Evan?”
“Yes.”
“Before today?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he married you.”
I stared.
“You just said you didn’t know he was assigned to me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why hate him?”
“Marianne suspected Charles wanted access to you.”
“So?”
“Evan was Charles’s son.”
“That alone?”
“For me, yes.”
I almost smiled.
“At least you admit your bias.”
“I have many.”
“I noticed.”
The retired midwife returned.
“Baby needs rest.”
I looked down.
“She’s sleeping.”
“She needs peaceful rest.”
Her eyes went to Luka.
“So does the mother.”
Luka stood.
Before he left, I said, “Find Evan.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because I need him alive long enough to answer for what he did.”
A faint, grim smile.
“That I can understand.”
He left.
Three hours later, my mother sat beside me.
Neither of us knew how to speak normally.
Normal mother-daughter questions felt obscene.
How was school?
How was work?
Did you ever learn to make lasagna?
Did you think of me on birthdays?
Instead, I asked.
“Did Dad love you?”
Her answer was immediate.
“Every day.”
“Even after you left?”
“Especially then.”
My eyes burned.
“Did he hate what you did?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fight?”
“Constantly.”
That comforted me more than perfect devotion would have.
“He wanted to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Because I asked him not to.”
Anger returned.
“He listened to you more than me.”
“You were a child.”
“I stopped being a child.”
“Yes.”
She looked at her hands.
“And we failed to notice when protecting you became controlling you.”
I stared at her.
“That’s the first honest thing anyone has said.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
I did not forgive her.
Not yet.
Maybe not for a long time.
But I let the apology stay.
By afternoon, Luka returned.
Alone.
I saw his face.
“No.”
“Evan isn’t at the clinic.”
“Where?”
“Moved.”
“To where?”
“Unknown.”
My mother asked.
“Sloane?”
“Missing.”
My stomach tightened.
“Together?”
“Maybe.”
I stood.
“Then what?”
“We go to Matteo’s storage facility.”
“Why?”
“Because we got the court order.”
I stared.
“How?”
“Marianne still has one attorney who remembers how to move quickly.”
My mother gave a faint smile.
“Judge Ellery.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“No one can be completely trusted.”
“Wonderful.”
The cryobank was three hours away.
We left at dusk.
This time, my mother stayed behind with Ivy.
I fought it.
Then reason won.
Barely.
The facility was an old private medical storage center bought years earlier by Moretti Biologics.
Luka had a legal injunction.
The manager looked terrified.
“We’ve been expecting Halcyon.”
Luka placed the order on the desk.
“You’re expecting us.”
The man swallowed.
He led us downstairs.
Rows of stainless steel units.
Cold air.
White light.
My skin prickled.
“This is where Matteo’s sample was?”
“Originally.”
“Then Halcyon moved it?”
“Yes.”
The manager checked a registry.
“Moretti series.”
He pulled a binder.
Pages.
Numbers.
Codes.
M-11.
M-12.
M-13.
Then M-17.
The entry had been altered.
DESTROYED PER DIRECTIVE.
Date seven years ago.
Below it, a second line appeared under ultraviolet inspection.
The manager frowned.
“Transfer authorized.”
“To?”
He turned the page.
A storage destination.
HALCYON REPRODUCTIVE RESEARCH — VAULT C.
Luka’s jaw hardened.
“Who signed?”
The manager read.
“E. Mercer.”
Elaine Mercer.
Sloane’s mother.
I looked at him.
“So she moved Matteo’s sample.”
“Yes.”
“Then later tried to help Dad.”
“People change sides.”
“Or she was playing both.”
“Possible.”
We photographed everything.
Then found something else.
A handwritten annotation.
M-17 reserve split into 3 vials.
I stared.
“Three?”
Luka’s face went cold.
“One created Ivy.”
“Where are the other two?”
The manager searched.
“No record.”
My stomach turned.
“So there could be more children.”
Luka’s expression darkened.
“Or more planned.”
A door slammed upstairs.
The manager froze.
“I locked the entrance.”
Luka drew his gun.
“Stay here.”
He moved toward the stairwell.
I grabbed his arm.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“I’m not staying beside frozen evidence like an obedient patient.”
He stared.
Then handed me his phone.
“Emergency call ready.”
We climbed.
The lobby was empty.
Front door open.
Snow blew inside.
A vehicle sat outside.
Driver’s door open.
No person.
Then a voice came from behind us.
“Put the gun down.”
Luka froze.
Sloane stood near the records office.
She held a pistol.
Her white coat was gone.
She wore black jeans.
Dark sweater.
Her face was bruised.
Blood had dried near her lip.
I stared.
“Sloane.”
She looked at me.
Then lowered the gun.
“I’m sorry.”
Luka did not lower his.
“Where is Evan?”
“He got me out.”
“Where is he?”
“With Charles.”
My heart stopped.
“You said he got you out.”
“He traded himself.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because Charles was going to kill me.”
Luka’s jaw tightened.
Sloane looked at me.
“Evan told him he would come back willingly if Charles let me leave.”
My throat closed.
“Why would Evan save you?”
Pain crossed her face.
“Because he knows I’m his sister.”
I stared.
“You told him.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
The hospital.
Everything had happened in less than a day.
I felt ancient.
Sloane stepped toward me.
“I need to show you something.”
Luka raised the gun slightly.
“Slow.”
She removed a flash drive.
“Video from the fertility lab.”
My stomach turned.
“What video?”
“The procedure.”
I felt sick.
“I don’t want to see that.”
“You need to see who changed the vial.”
I froze.
“What?”
She held up the drive.
“I authorized an anonymous donor.”
Her voice shook.
“I did not authorize M-17.”
Luka’s expression changed.
“Then who did?”
Sloane looked at me.
“Evan.”
My heart dropped.
“He signed the authorization.”
“Yes.”
“But he says he didn’t know M-17 was Matteo.”
“I believe him.”
“Why?”
“Because the vial he authorized was coded D-441.”
I frowned.
“But the paper says M-17.”
“Because someone altered it after he signed.”
Silence.
I stared at her.
“Who?”
Sloane handed me the drive.
“Watch.”
We used the manager’s computer.
Grainy security footage appeared.
Date.
Time.
The day of my procedure.
Sloane entered the lab.
Checked a container.
Left.
Five minutes later, a man entered.
Gray suit.
Silver hair.
Charles Holloway.
He opened a locked drawer.
Removed one vial.
Replaced it with another.
Then changed a barcode sticker.
My entire body went cold.
Evan had lied.
But not about this.
Charles had personally substituted Matteo’s genetic material.
Sloane whispered.
“I found this six months ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was trying to copy the rest.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother left me a message before she died.”
She inserted another drive.
An audio file played.
Elaine Mercer’s voice.
Weak.
Afraid.
“Sloane, if you are hearing this, Charles knows I betrayed him.”
A pause.
“Find Grace Vale.”
My mother’s maiden name.
“Tell her M-17 was never about money.”
I looked at Luka.
His face tightened.
The recording continued.
“The money was leverage.”
My heart pounded.
“The real reason Charles needed a Moretti child is in the patent sequence.”
Sloane paused the recording.
I stared at her.
“What patent sequence?”
She looked at Luka.
“Helix-9.”
He frowned.
“What about it?”
“Matteo wasn’t only the heir.”
Her voice dropped.
“He was the only known carrier of a rare genetic marker required to unlock the original research authentication.”
I stared.
“I don’t understand.”
Luka did.
His face went white.
“No.”
Sloane nodded.
“Helix-9’s original biometric key wasn’t digital.”
I looked between them.
“What was it?”
She looked directly at me.
“DNA.”
My arms went cold.
She continued.
“Charles didn’t create Ivy only to control Matteo’s trust.”
A pause.
“He created her because she may be the only living person whose DNA can unlock a research archive worth billions.”
I stared.
“And what is inside the archive?”
May you like
Sloane’s eyes filled with fear.
“Proof that Halcyon’s most valuable cancer therapy was stolen.”
