Chapter 4 - Secrets in the M-17 File
The name Luka Moretti echoed in the sterile silence of the hospital room long after he spoke it. My mind raced in a frantic panic. I knew that name—not from personal acquaintance, but from whispered rumors, financial news segments, and dark underworld legends whispered by people who crossed paths with the city’s most untouchable shipping and logistics tycoon. Luka Moretti wasn’t just a wealthy businessman; he was the reclusive, powerful head of the Moretti syndicate—a man whose empire spanned international shipping, security conglomerates, and high-stakes real estate. People like Julian spent their entire lives trying to get invited to the same rooms Luka walked in, let alone catching his attention. Yet here he stood, in a charity wing of a public hospital, staring at my newborn daughter as if she were the most precious treasure on earth. “Why did you do that?” I whispered, my voice trembling as I looked down at the official document bearing his signature in permanent black ink. “Do you have any idea what kind of legal nightmare you just stepped into? Julian is a corporate lawyer. He’ll tear you apart, he’ll—”. Luka let out a low, dismissive scoff, stepping closer to the bed. The scent of rain, leather, and expensive cedar washed over me. “Julian Vance couldn’t tear apart a wet paper bag, Clara,” Luka interrupted, his voice smooth and dangerously calm. “And as for the birth certificate? Don't worry. Legally and practically, that document is bulletproof. But more importantly... Julian isn't the man whose name belongs there.” I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “What are you talking about? Julian is her father. We were married for three years.” Luka’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening as he reached into his black jacket and pulled out a manila folder that looked vastly different from the hospital’s paperwork. He laid it flat on the tray table, flipping it open to reveal a series of medical printouts, encrypted digital scans, and hospital transfer logs bearing a crimson stamp: RESTRICTED — FILE M-17. My breath hitched. I recognized that stamp. It was the exact file number from my prenatal records—records that had mysteriously vanished from the hospital’s digital database three weeks ago during a routine system audit, leaving my obstetrician baffled and panicked. Luka tapped a finger against a confidential genetic marker chart. “Julian hasn’t looked at you or this child with anything resembling truth since the day he married you,” Luka said quietly, his eyes locking onto mine with devastating intensity. “He thinks he abandoned you today. He thinks he won. But he doesn't know about File M-17. And he certainly doesn't know who I am to you... or to this baby.”
