Chapter 11 - I ran.The hallway was empty.
The safe room door was open.
The bed was overturned.
My father was gone.
The baby was gone.
Grace screamed.
“Luca!”
I grabbed the security tablet.
The cameras came back online one by one.
Then I saw the footage.
My father had walked into the room.
He had picked up the baby.
Then my mother appeared.
But something didn't make sense.
My father didn't look afraid.
He looked calm.
Almost cooperative.
“They planned this,” Adrian said.
“Where are they going?”
I studied the footage.
A black vehicle.
An underground garage.
A hidden exit.
I recognized the road.
The old Ferraro mausoleum.
We drove there.
The gates were open.
Inside, dozens of candles burned.
My mother stood before my father's tomb.
My father stood beside her.
And he was holding my son.
Grace stepped from the vehicle.
“Give me my baby.”
My father looked at her.
“I can't.”
My blood turned cold.
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“Luca.”
“Put him down.”
He shook his head.
“You don't know what this child will become.”
My mother stood beside him.
“You never listened.”
I raised my gun.
“Put my son down.”
My father looked tired.
“I spent eleven years trying to keep this family alive.”
“You imprisoned Grace.”
“To protect her.”
“You let Mother torture her.”
“To protect the child.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You're all insane.”
My father looked at me.
“Then ask yourself why your son never cried when he was near me.”
He held the baby closer.
The child was sleeping peacefully.
My father continued.
“Because he recognizes his blood.”
Grace stepped forward.
“Give him back.”
My mother suddenly pointed her gun at her.
I aimed at my mother.
Adrian aimed at my father.
Nobody moved.
Then the mausoleum doors closed.
A hidden speaker crackled.
A man's voice filled the chamber.
My father's voice.
But the real man was standing in front of us.
The voice said:
“Every Ferraro heir is raised to believe the family protects him.”
My father looked confused.
The recording continued.
“In truth, the family protects itself.”
A screen descended from the ceiling.
Video footage appeared.
My grandfather.
Young.
Alive.
Standing beside a medical team.
On the table was a newborn baby.
A newborn with the same symbol on his wrist.
My father stared at the screen.
“That isn't…”
The video continued.
My grandfather spoke.
“The mutation can be controlled.”
Then he said a name.
“Project Lazarus.”
My father stumbled backward.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What is Project Lazarus?”
He didn't answer.
The screen showed another newborn.
Another.
Then another.
Dozens.
All carrying the same genetic marker.
My mother whispered:
“We were never the first.”
Adrian looked at me.
“This family wasn't cursed.”
My father finally spoke.
“We created it.”
Silence.
I stared at the footage.
“What did you create?”
My father looked at the baby.
“The bloodline.”
Grace covered her mouth.
My mother stepped forward.
“The mafia wasn't the family business.”
May you like
She smiled.
“It was the laboratory.”
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