Chapter 8 - The Swab and the Syndicate's Threat
The grand formal parlor on the first floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain when we returned upstairs.
The shattered glass in the outer foyer had already been swept away by an efficient cleaning crew.
Plywood boards temporarily covered the damaged frames, while heavily armed perimeter guards stood sentry at every corridor corner.
Mia was still half-asleep, resting her curly head against my shoulder as I carried her into the parlor.
Sitting on the edge of an antique wingback armchair was Dr. Arthur Bell.
The elderly family physician wore a tailored tweed suit and thick horn-rimmed glasses, his weathered hands resting on an open silver medical case.
He looked up as Vincent entered the room, his rheumy eyes darting cautiously toward my daughter.
“Good evening, Vincent,” Dr. Bell greeted with a slight tremble in his aging voice.
“Your man Renzo told me there was an urgent matter of bloodline verification.”
“The family council has already summoned me to appear at Manhattan headquarters tomorrow at noon with certified results.”
Vincent walked over to the doctor, his posture commanding and unyielding.
“Dr. Bell,” Vincent said smoothly. “You have served the Castalano family for over four decades.”
“You delivered my younger brother Christian into this world thirty years ago in the private wing of Mount Sinai.”
Dr. Bell nodded solemnly, adjusting his spectacles. “I remember it vividly. A troubled boy, but of undeniable Castalano blood.”
Vincent gestured toward Mia, who was rubbing her eyes and looking around the bright room with sleepy wonder.
“This is Mia,” Vincent stated, each word weighted with iron authority.
“Her mother is Clara Vance Castalano, my wife.”
“Mia’s biological father was Christian.”
Dr. Bell’s jaw dropped in absolute astonishment.
He stared at Mia, his eyes widening as he took in the distinctive shape of her jaw, the cleft in her small chin, and the sharp hazel flecks in her dark brown eyes.
“Good heavens,” the old doctor whispered, his voice shaking with genuine emotion.
“She has the old patriarch’s eyes.”
“She looks more like your father did as a toddler than Christian ever did.”
“I don't need your emotional nostalgia, Arthur,” Vincent cut in coldly, though his eyes softened slightly.
“I need an undeniable, state-certified genetic profile.”
“Run the rapid twenty-four-marker buccal swab panel.”
“Compare her markers against the DNA profile we keep on file for Christian in the family health registry.”
“I want the certified results printed, notarized, and sealed in an official courier envelope before sunrise.”
Dr. Bell snapped open a sterile plastic package, producing a long, soft cotton swab.
“Of course, Vincent. The rapid automated sequencer in my mobile lab can generate the ninety-nine-point-nine percent probability match within three hours.”
I sat down on the sofa, pulling Mia onto my lap.
“Mia, honey,” I whispered softly into her ear. “The nice doctor is just going to tickle the inside of your cheek with a little cotton stick.”
“Can you open your mouth wide like a roaring lion for Mommy?”
Mia looked at Dr. Bell suspiciously, then looked up at Vincent, who was watching from the edge of the fireplace.
“Does Grumpy Mister have to open his mouth like a lion too?” Mia asked innocently.
A collective silence fell over the room.
Renzo, who had just walked in holding a fresh security clipboard, choked on a sip of black coffee.
Dr. Bell froze, visibly terrified of how the ruthless billionaire would react to such an absurd demand.
Vincent’s hazel eyes locked onto Mia’s defiant little face.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Then, with complete and utter seriousness, Vincent Castalano opened his mouth wide and let out a soft, playful growl.
Mia broke into a fit of pure, musical giggles.
She immediately opened her mouth wide, displaying all her tiny teeth with toddler enthusiasm.
Dr. Bell blinked in sheer disbelief before quickly swabbing the inside of her cheek twice with the sterile cotton tip.
He placed the swab into a vacuum-sealed vial and dropped it into a refrigerated titanium canister.
“The sample is secured,” Dr. Bell said, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“I will take it directly to the mobile testing vehicle parked in the courtyard.”
“The council will have their definitive answer by daybreak.”
Dr. Bell packed his instruments and hurried out of the room, still glancing back at Vincent as if he had just witnessed a mythical creature sprout wings.
The door clicked shut behind the physician.
I let out a long breath I felt like I had been holding for an entire lifetime.
Mia rested her head against my chest, yawning again.
“Mommy, can I have a cracker now?”
Vincent walked over to the side sideboard, picked up a small silver plate containing two buttery biscuits, and brought them to the coffee table.
“Here you go, little monkey,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the table across from us.
Mia happily grabbed a biscuit, nibbling around the edges like a squirrel.
“You are shockingly good with her,” I remarked quietly, looking up into his intense eyes.
“My brother and I were raised by cold tutors and boarding school wardens who treated children like malfunctioning machinery,” Vincent said, his voice flat.
“I swore long ago that if a child ever carried our family name, they would never spend their life wondering if they were loved or protected.”
His words hit me straight in the chest, tearing down another layer of the defensive armor I had spent three years building around my heart.
This man was ruthless, yes.
He was dangerous, lethal, and feared by everyone in the city.
But he was not a monster.
He was a man who had built a fortress around himself because everyone he had ever trusted had either betrayed him or died.
A sudden buzzing sound vibrated violently against the mahogany tabletop.
Vincent’s private burner phone—a secure, encrypted device reserved exclusively for high-level threats—was lighting up with an incoming call.
The screen displayed a restricted international number from Marseille, France.
Vincent reached down, picked up the phone, and swiped the green button.
He activated the speakerphone, setting the device between us.
A smooth, menacing voice with a thick French accent poured through the tiny speaker.
“Bonsoir, Vincent,” the man greeted, his tone dripping with oily arrogance.
“I see your suburban home survived our little delivery tonight.”
Vincent’s expression did not change by a single fraction of a millimeter.
“Lucian Dubois,” Vincent replied, identifying the speaker instantly.
“The head of the Corsican syndicate in Marseille.”
“Your hit squad made a fatal error tonight, Lucian.”
“Sixteen of your best killers are currently in body bags on my lawn, and four are confessing to federal prosecutors in our basement.”
A dry, rasping laugh came over the line.
“Disposable foot soldiers, my friend. Nothing more.”
“I called to deliver a very simple business proposition before your family council meeting tomorrow.”
“We know the cleaning girl’s child belongs to Christian.”
“We know she carries the legal right to unlock Christian’s offshore trust funds in Geneva.”
“Those funds belong to us, Vincent.”
“Forty million euros, plus interest.”
“If you sign over those foreign accounts to our maritime shell company at noon tomorrow, you and your little bride may keep your lives and your precious Manhattan company.”
“If you refuse... then no amount of Kevlar or armed guards will keep that little girl breathing past her fourth birthday.”
My blood turned to pure ice, terror clawing at my throat.
Vincent leaned forward, his voice dropping into a register so dark and terrifying it felt like the room itself was trembling.
“Listen to me, Lucian,” Vincent whispered coldly.
“You have exactly twelve hours to liquidate your assets in North America and board a flight back to the Mediterranean.”
“Because after I crush Marcus and Kenneth Vance tomorrow morning, I am turning my entire private intelligence network onto your operations in Marseille.”
“I will dismantle your shipping lines.”
“I will burn your warehouses to ash.”
“And if anyone associated with your syndicate even glances in the direction of my wife or daughter again, I will personally fly to France and put a bullet between your eyes.”
“Have a pleasant evening, Lucian.”
Vincent crushed the burner phone beneath the heel of his heavy leather shoe, shattering the electronics into useless plastic and glass fragments.
He looked up at me, his hazel eyes burning with fierce, absolute devotion.
May you like
“Get some sleep, Clara,” he said softly.
“Tomorrow, we go to war.”
