Dominic stared at the laboratory report until the letters blurred.

Vittorio Moretti.

His father.

Listed as the biological parent of four children who looked exactly like Dominic.

Isabella took the tablet from his hands.

“That’s a lie.”

“How can you be certain?”

Her face hardened.

“Because I know who their father is.”

Dominic looked away.

For the first time in his life, he was afraid of an answer.

“Then prove it.”

The following morning, Dominic arranged an independent DNA test through a medical specialist outside Boston.

No Moretti family doctors.

No Barrett family laboratories.

No one who could be pressured.

The results would take forty-eight hours.

Meanwhile, he began investigating his father.

Marco discovered that the original laboratory named in the mysterious report had closed three years earlier.

Its director had vanished from public records.

And the company’s largest financial backer had been a Barrett family investment firm.

Dominic understood immediately.

Sloane’s family was involved.

But why?

That afternoon, Sloane appeared at the waterfront house.

She arrived alone.

Wearing the same elegant white coat she had planned to wear after accepting Dominic’s proposal.

“You embarrassed me,” she said.

Dominic stood beside the fireplace.

“You’ll survive.”

“Do you understand what canceling that engagement means?”

“It means I’m not marrying you.”

Sloane laughed bitterly.

“You think this is about love?”

Dominic said nothing.

She stepped closer.

“Our families have spent six years preparing for this marriage.”

“Six years?”

Sloane realized her mistake.

Dominic noticed.

“What happened six years ago, Sloane?”

Her expression changed.

“Ask your father.”

“Did you know about Isabella?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know about the boys?”

She looked toward the staircase.

And for the first time, Dominic saw genuine guilt in her face.

“I knew there were children.”

“Did you help create that DNA report?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

Sloane lowered her voice.

“Someone who needs you to believe those children are not yours.”

Before she could explain, her phone vibrated.

She read the message.

Her hands began trembling.

Dominic caught a glimpse of the screen.

One sentence.

“Tell him anything else, and the fifth child disappears.”

Dominic seized her wrist.

“What fifth child?”

Sloane pulled away.

“I can’t.”

“Who are you protecting?”

Tears filled her eyes.

“My daughter.”

Dominic stared.

“You have a daughter?”

Sloane nodded.

“She’s five. And your father has been keeping her somewhere I can’t reach.”

Dominic felt the world shifting again.

For years, he had believed Sloane was nothing more than an ambitious heiress.

Now she was standing before him as a terrified mother.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was told marrying you was the only way to get her back.”

“Who is her father?”

Sloane hesitated.

“That is what they want you to misunderstand.”

Suddenly, a crash sounded upstairs.

Alexander appeared on the landing.

“Mommy!”

Dominic ran.

The bedroom window stood open.

A small drone hovered outside.

Attached to it was a plastic container.

Inside lay a photograph of the four boys sleeping.

Taken the previous night.

Beneath it was a note.

“Midnight. The old chapel. Come alone.”

Dominic recognized the location.

The Vermont chapel where he and Isabella had planned to marry.

But the photograph contained another detail.

In the corner, barely visible, was a silver bracelet.

The same bracelet his mother had worn every day of his childhood.

Dominic understood.

Someone wanted him at that chapel.

Someone who knew his mother was alive.

Two days later, the DNA results arrived.

Dominic opened the envelope with Isabella beside him.

The report confirmed an overwhelming probability of paternity.

He was the biological father of Alexander, Gabriel, Nicholas, and Theodore.

Isabella covered her mouth.

Dominic began crying.

Not quietly.

Not with dignity.

He cried like a man mourning six stolen years.

Then he knelt before the boys.

“I’m your father.”

Alexander looked at his brothers.

Then back at Dominic.

“We know.”

Dominic froze.

“What?”

The boy reached into his backpack.

He removed a small photograph.

It showed Dominic holding Isabella in his arms six years earlier.

“Grandma told us.”

“Grandma?”

Alexander nodded.

“She said you would find us when the bad people stopped watching.”

Dominic’s heart pounded.

“Where did Grandma tell you that?”

Alexander pointed toward the photograph.

“At the house with the blue door.”

Isabella gasped.

There was only one house with a blue door in their past.

The house where Dominic’s mother had supposedly died.

And Dominic had ordered it demolished eleven years earlier.

Or so he had believed.