He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby - Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Isabella was coming apart at the seams. I could see it in the white-knuckled grip of her fists, nails carving half-moons into her palms. In the frantic way her eyes swept the room like a cornered animal. She knew. She could feel Lorenzo slipping away. And when a woman like Isabella sensed defeat, she fell back on her oldest play—scheming.
From my penthouse balcony, I swirled my wine glass absently while Darius' voice crackled in my earpiece.
"She hired a PI," he muttered.
I smirked. "Predictable."
"She's digging into 'Victoria Moretti.' If she connects the dots—"
"She won't." The wine tasted like triumph on my lips. "She's chasing ghosts."
Darius exhaled sharply. "Valeria, you're in too deep. Lorenzo isn't someone you play games with."
I leaned against the railing, the city lights winking below us. "Neither am I."
A beat of silence. Then: "Just remember why you're doing this."
As if I could ever forget Amara.
Lorenzo stood frozen in my office the next morning, hands jammed in his pockets, tension radiating off him like heat waves. I let the silence thicken, savoring his turmoil before breaking it.
"You're miles away, boss."
His jaw clenched. "It's Dante."
I cocked my head, all faux concern. "Everything okay?"
He dragged a hand down his face. "Isabella says he's sick again. Same symptoms. But..."
"But?" I closed the distance between us.
His gaze locked onto mine, searching. "It's too convenient. Every time I pull back from her, suddenly Dante's on death's door—or she is."
I propped a hand on my hip. "Ever think maybe... Isabella's crying wolf? That Dante's perfectly fine?"
Lorenzo went statue-still.
I let the poison seep in slowly before twisting the knife. "What if it's all a lie? What if Dante's as healthy as a horse?"
His fingers curled into fists.
"What if," I purred, honey and arsenic dripping from each word, "you abandoned Amara for nothing?"
The hitch in his breath was barely audible.
I watched the cracks spread—the carefully constructed walls around his guilt crumbling brick by brick.
"She promised you Amara would pull through," I continued, velvet-soft. "She convinced you Dante needed you more. And you bought it."
Lorenzo's entire body tensed, his mind tumbling into the void I'd carved for him.
"What are you implying?" His voice was gravel and gunmetal.
I stepped closer, tracing the edge of his lapel. "I'm saying Isabella played you like a fiddle."
His throat worked as he swallowed hard.
"Lorenzo." I met his gaze, my expression unreadable. "What if Dante isn't yours at all?"
His breathing turned ragged. He staggered back, shaking his head like he could dislodge the thought.
But the seed was planted.
Taking root.
Thriving.
The hospital records surfaced two days later.
Nothing blatant—just a tiny irregularity buried in the paperwork. A breadcrumb. A spark.
Dante's blood type.
Impossible for Lorenzo's son.
The rumor slithered through the underworld's shadows, finding all the right ears.
By the time it reached Lorenzo, he was already drowning in doubt.
I perched on his desk, legs crossed, as he wore grooves in the office floor. "The timeline doesn't add up," I mused.
His head snapped up.
I shrugged. "Maybe Dante came early... or late." A calculated pause. "Or maybe he was never your blood to begin with."
Lorenzo froze.
I saw the exact moment his world shattered.
His grip on his phone turned bone-white.
Then, with terrifying calm: "I'm bringing in investigators."
I smiled. "Smart move, boss."
That night, candlelight danced in Lorenzo's dark eyes as we sat over dinner.
"Victoria," he murmured, swirling his merlot. "Do you believe in destiny?"
I tilted my head, playing coy. "Destiny?" My manicured nail tapped the crystal. "I think destiny's what weak people call it when they're too scared to grab life by the throat."
His smirk turned wolfish. "So you don't think we were fated to meet?"
A soft laugh escaped me. "Oh, Lorenzo." I leaned in, my whisper a blade. "Fate had nothing to do with it. I picked you."
Something primal flashed in his eyes. He liked that—the idea that I'd chosen him, that no cosmic force had thrown us together. Just my will.
His thumb grazed my jawline. "I don't know what witchcraft you've worked," he breathed, "but I can't get you out of my head."
Good.
Soon, he wouldn't be able to think straight at all.
Across town, in a dim hotel suite, Isabella clutched the damning photos from her investigator—photos of me.
Or rather, photos of Valeria Moretti.
Her fingers trembled as she traced the evidence of her worst nightmare.
Victoria Moretti was a ghost.
"Who the hell are you?" she whispered to the empty room.