Chapter 5 - The Midnight DNA Extraction
The digital medical scanner looked like something out of a futuristic sci-fi film rather than a portable diagnostic kit, glowing with a soft, sterile blue light against the mahogany coffee table in the center of the guest suite.
Dr. Alistair Finch—a man who looked like an eccentric Oxford professor but carried an encrypted medical license issued by the Italian syndicate—stood over the device with trembling fingers, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses.
"Are we entirely certain about this protocol, Mr. Caruso?" Finch asked nervously, glancing sideways at the two armed guards standing like statues by the door. "Genetic sequencing on an accelerated timeline is... well, it’s prone to complications if the sample contamination isn't meticulously managed."
"Just run the damn test, Alistair," Damian ordered, his voice cold and flat as he stood by the window, watching the shadows outside on the lawn. "And make sure the results are encrypted directly to my personal terminal. If anyone else in the syndicate gets wind of this before I have confirmation, you'll be practicing medicine in a Siberian labor camp."
The doctor swallowed hard, nodding vigorously before turning his attention back to the dual-slot sample tray.
I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, holding Leah in my lap.
The little girl was mostly awake now, her thumb still in her mouth, her green eyes wide and watchful as she stared at the glowing blue lights of the machine.
"It's okay, baby," I whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her dark curls. "Just a little prick. Like a tiny pinch."
Dr. Finch approached us with a specialized, painless optical cheek swab, his hands remarkably steady despite the terrifying atmosphere of the room.
"May I, Miss Monroe?" he asked politely.
I nodded, holding Leah close against my chest. "Be gentle."
The doctor gently swabbed the inside of Leah's cheek, placing the sample into slot A with practiced efficiency.
Then, he turned his attention to me.
"Open, please, Miss Clara."
I parted my lips, letting him take the second swab from the inside of my cheek, watching as he placed it into slot B.
The machine let out a low, musical chime, and a series of complex green algorithms began scrolling across the holographic display screen.
"Estimated time to completion," the mechanical voice of the device announced calmly, "fourteen minutes and thirty seconds."
Fourteen minutes.
Eighty-four seconds.
It was the longest fifteen minutes of my entire life.
The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the weight of two years of fabricated grief, stolen memories, and a conspiracy that reached across international borders.
Damian didn't move from the window.
His broad back was turned to us, his hands clasped tightly behind his waist, his dark silhouette cutting an imposing figure against the bulletproof glass.
"Damian," I finally broke the silence, my voice trembling slightly.
He didn't turn around immediately, but his shoulders stiffened. "What?"
"If the test comes back..." I hesitated, swallowing the lump in my throat. "If it comes back positive... what happens to us?"
Damian slowly turned around, his dark eyes fixing on mine with an expression so intense it felt like a physical blow.
"If the test is positive," he said, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the coffee table as the blue countdown timer ticked down to ten minutes, "you are no longer a waitress from Brooklyn, Clara."
May you like
He stopped right in front of us, looking down at Leah, who reached out one tiny hand to grab the lapel of his black dress shirt.
"You are my wife," Damian finished quietly, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence and a sacred vow all at once. "And anyone who ever tried to tear this family apart is going to pay in blood."
