Chapter 13 - The Last DNA Envelope
I opened the independent test first.
My fingers barely worked.
Luka stood beside me.
Ryan remained on the floor.
I read the result.
Then read it again.
Probability of biological paternity: 99.9997%.
Luka Moretti was Sophie’s biological father.
Nobody spoke.
Ryan made a broken sound.
I sat down.
Luka looked like he had been punched.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“I swear—”
“I know.”
He turned away, covering his mouth.
For all his tattoos and cold expressions, Luka looked terrified.
Not of danger.
Of what this meant.
I opened the federal envelope.
Same result.
Sophie was biologically Luka’s daughter.
But the report contained another page.
Evidence of nonconsensual assisted reproductive intervention.
I started crying.
Not because Luka was Sophie’s biological father.
Because someone had stolen the choice from all of us.
Ryan sat against the wall.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
He shook his head.
“I’m so damn sorry.”
“You should be.”
“I thought you betrayed me.”
“So you betrayed me first.”
He had no answer.
Luka crouched in front of me.
“What do you want me to do?”
I laughed weakly.
“I don’t even know what I want for breakfast.”
A tiny smile touched his face.
“Fair.”
“You signing that form doesn’t make you her father.”
“I know.”
“DNA doesn’t either.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
“But walking into a hospital when everyone else was walking away…”
He lowered his eyes.
“That matters.”
His throat moved.
“I won’t ask you for anything.”
“Good.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll protect her.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s the one thing I know how to do.”
Months later, federal prosecutors charged Vittorio Moretti, Danielle Mercer, Dr. Harlow, and eleven others.
M-17 collapsed.
More facilities were discovered.
Families were contacted.
Lawsuits followed.
The story became national news.
Ryan’s company was exposed too.
He was charged with fraud and illegal acquisition of medical information.
He cooperated with investigators.
It reduced his sentence.
It didn’t erase what he had done.
Before sentencing, he asked to see me.
I almost said no.
Then I went.
He looked older.
“I signed the divorce papers,” he said.
“I received them.”
“I transferred the house to you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Sell it.”
He looked down.
“Use the money for Sophie.”
I crossed my arms.
“You’re not her father.”
“I know.”
The words destroyed him.
He wiped his eyes.
“I spent months thinking hearing that would make me feel better.”
“And?”
“It’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I softened a little.
Not enough to forgive him.
Enough to see the human wreckage.
Ryan looked at me.
“Does she know Luka?”
“She’s six months old.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I thought about Luka sitting on my living room floor at midnight assembling a crib because I refused to return to the old house.
About him feeding Sophie while reading business reports.
About the terrifying tattooed man letting a baby drool all over his expensive black shirt.
“He’s there.”
Ryan nodded.
“That’s more than I was.”
I stood to leave.
He whispered, “Claire?”
I turned.
“I hope one day she knows I’m sorry.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Then spend the rest of your life becoming someone whose apology might actually mean something.”
And I walked away.
I thought the nightmare was over.
It wasn’t.
Because two days later, my father handed me one final file from M-17.
May you like
And the name printed on the first page belonged to my mother.
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