He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby - Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Lorenzo stared at the DNA report until the numbers blurred before his eyes.
0% probability of paternity.
Dante wasn't his son.
The words hit him like a gut punch, cold and final. His fingers crushed the paper, knuckles bleaching white. Beneath it lay the second report—Dante's medical history. Or rather, the complete lack of one. The kid had never been sick. Never dying. Never in any real danger.
His chest tightened as fury burned through his veins. Every sacrifice, every choice—all for a goddamn lie. Amara had died because of this. Because he'd chosen a child who wasn't his over his own flesh and blood.
His daughter. His real daughter.
His breathing turned ragged, each inhale like shards of glass in his lungs. The trust he'd placed in Isabella, that blind devotion—it had cost Amara everything.
The room spun. Memories attacked like shivs to the ribs—each sharper than the last.
"Papa, look!"
Amara's laughter echoed in his skull, bright and clear as the day she'd twirled in her princess dress at Disneyland. She'd lived for fairytales—believed in magic, in happy endings.
"You're my king, Papa!" she'd giggled, grabbing his hand.
He'd hoisted her onto his shoulders, her tiny fists tugging his hair as she squealed, "Higher, Papa! I wanna see the castle!"
His throat closed up.
"Papa!" Amara's voice came again, softer this time, sleep-rough. "Love you!"
Every damn morning. She'd murmured it every morning, barely awake as she curled into his arms. "Love you, Papa."
And he'd barely acknowledged it. Too busy. Too distracted. Goddamn him.
"Say 'Papa,' Amara. Say it for me."
"Pa...pa!"
Her first word. How she'd beamed up at him, little fingers reaching for his face, waiting for his approval.
His hands shook. His knees nearly gave out.
He'd failed.
Failed as a father.
Failed as a husband.
Valeria.
Another memory sliced through him—deeper, meaner.
"Lorenzo, don't do this. Please."
Her voice had cracked that night, raw with desperation, but he hadn't listened. He'd turned his back on her. On his wife. On the woman who'd given him everything.
"I have to save him."
"And what about Amara?" Valeria had screamed. "She's sick, Lorenzo! She needs you!"
But he hadn't believed her.
Because Isabella had cried harder.
Because Dante had looked weaker.
Because he'd been greedy.
He'd wanted a son.
And in that greed, he'd lost his daughter.
A broken sob ripped from his throat. The DNA report slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor like worthless trash.
He staggered to the leather chair in his office, burying his face in his hands. His chest caved in, the pain unbearable.
Amara had loved him. Trusted him. And he'd failed her.
His body trembled, silent tears carving paths down his face. He'd killed his own child.
Not with a bullet. Not with a blade.
With his choices.
And now it was too late to fix anything.
The door to Isabella's estate exploded inward, wood splintering against the wall.
She gasped, whirling around, eyes widening at his rigid stance, the hurricane in his gaze.
"Lorenzo—"
He was on her in three strides, hand locking around her throat, slamming her against the wall. Her body jerked, nails clawing at his wrist as she choked.
"You lied to me." His voice was deadly quiet.
Her lips trembled. "Lorenzo, please—"
"You lied." His grip tightened, body vibrating with barely leashed rage. "Dante was never mine. You stole Amara from me. You let my daughter die."
Tears spilled over. "I—I never meant—"
"Shut up!" He smashed her against the wall again, blood roaring in his ears. The need to end her choked him. She'd taken everything—his trust, his love, his child.
"You let me believe—" His voice broke, jaw clenched so tight it ached. "You let me destroy my own daughter for a lie."
Isabella sobbed, hands weakly pawing at his wrists. "I was scared, Lorenzo!"
"Who?" Raw. Dangerous. "Who's his father?"
She hesitated. His grip became crushing.
"Who?"
A ragged sob. "My ex-husband," she whispered.
The world froze.
Lorenzo's breathing turned erratic. He could kill her now. Snap her neck like a twig and walk away.
She deserved it.
His fingers flexed. Isabella gasped, body convulsing.
But then—
His gaze dropped.
The swell of her stomach.
His child. His real child.
Lorenzo stumbled back, releasing her so abruptly she crumpled to the floor, coughing and wheezing. His hands fisted at his sides, whole body shaking with the effort not to finish what he'd started.
He'd already lost one child. He wouldn't lose another.
But Isabella was dead to him.
His voice was Arctic. "I never want to see you again."
He turned and walked out.
I watched from the shadows, a slow smile spreading.
Lorenzo had performed beautifully. The rage, the devastation—every gasp, every desperate plea, every soul-crushing realization captured perfectly.
Because I'd made sure of it.
The tiny recorder hidden in the room's corner had caught everything.
By morning, the world would know Isabella's true colors.
I slipped away before Lorenzo could spot me, heading back to my penthouse. Darius waited inside, face unreadable.
"It's done," I said, tossing the bug on the table.
He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "You just destroyed Isabella."
I smiled. "Good."
Darius smirked. "Lorenzo will figure out you planted that."
I shrugged. "Eventually."
His jaw tensed. "And then what?"
I stepped closer, voice dropping. "Then it won't matter."
Because by the time Lorenzo connected the dots, I'd already own him.
The morning headlines were brutal:
"The Betrayal of a Mafia Queen—Isabella De Luca's Web of Lies Exposed"
"Fake Illness, Stolen Son—How Isabella Played Lorenzo De Luca"
"DNA Scandal Rocks the Underworld—Isabella's Downfall"