My father sold me to the Mafia King

Chapter 359

Thomas’s point of view

He swallowed his saliva with difficulty and retreated toward his desk, reviewing the logs and medical reports with fingers that clearly trembled against the paper. Then, he said in a low voice, looking at me cautiously:

"There is a woman in the emergency department who gave birth to a stillborn child early this morning..."

I interrupted him quickly, my eyes narrowing with anticipation and warning:

"What is the skin color of that dead child? I hope he is not dark-skinned or possesses different features, so that girl does not discover the trick and raise suspicions."

He replied with extreme tension, grabbing the internal intercom receiver:

"I do not know precisely right now, sir... I will ask the nurses in the morgue to verify the corpse immediately."

Heavy minutes passed, suffocating like an eternity inside the office, until the desk phone rang sharply. He listened to the call grimly, then turned to me, saying with relief:

"His skin is white... and his hair is black. It matches the general specifications."

My features relaxed with immense satisfaction, and I said in a calm tone:

"Excellent. This makes the game much easier."

The director continued with anxiety, sweat pouring from his forehead:

"But sir... his real, grief-stricken mother will certainly demand his body to bury him after inspecting him, and there are also burial procedures and signatures—"

I waved my hand with dismissal and disdain for his worry:

"We will cover the face and eyes of the dead child’s mother with money. A massive sum that her mind or her vocal family could never dream of in their entire lives. Let her be silent and relinquish the body and the certificate in complete peace. Just take the corpse and give it to Julie without delay after her labor concludes, and let the story end."

In those seconds charged with foul conspiracy, the office door opened quietly. A nurse entered, carefully carrying a small, newborn child in her hands, breathing lightly and wrapped tightly inside a white blanket.

My chest tightened with a strange sensation, an ambiguous surge I hadn’t felt in a long time. I looked at the infant, saying in a commanding tone:

"Give him to me immediately into my hands."

The nurse stepped forward and cautiously placed the infant into my arms. The child was indeed white as pure milk, possessing jet-black, completely smooth strands of hair, just like his father Robert’s hair in his infancy.

With a slight movement of his tiny mouth, his cheeks puckered to reveal two distinct dimples, matching his mother Julie’s in a wondrous way. When he opened his eyelids very slowly and yawned, his beautiful green eyes appeared, gleaming in the office light. It was as if I were looking directly into the exact eyes of Violet those enchanting, unique eyes that Julie had inherited from her, and now my young grandson had inherited them.

I felt a sudden warmth and a surge of overwhelming, possessive, and harsh tenderness invade the depths of my chest the moment his warm weight settled between my hands. I truly had no need for a DNA test to prove that he was a piece of us and my son’s boy; the features spoke his lineage.

Yet, to guarantee the game and build the wall, I raised my head sternly toward the terrified director and said in a tone that brooked no laxity or manipulation:

"I want a DNA test conducted for this infant right away... and I want the result now, as quickly as possible."

The director nodded his head in swift agreement. The nurse stepped forward cautiously to draw the child from my lap to prepare the samples. My arms tightened for a second to stop her, a clear instinct of possession and protection taking hold of me. But the director said with a calm plea:

"Mr. Thomas... excuse us, we must take a quick blood sample from the child to see and test if it indeed matches your sample. We won’t be long."

I relaxed my grip slowly and handed him over to her:

"Very well... you may take him now and return him quickly."

The nurse pulled the infant away and left. Hours passed while I sat in my chair waiting in that office, watching the hands of the clock move, until the door finally opened. The terrified director carried the official paper in his trembling hands.

I reviewed it; the report confirmed that he was my grandson from the loins of my son Robert by a full, flawless percentage.

I fixed my sharp gaze on the director and asked grimly:

"Did Julie suspect anything or cause a commotion inside?"

He shook his head in a confident negative:

"No, sir. We delivered the body of the dead boy entirely to her in her room. She is collapsed in tears, believing her real son died during the obstructed labor. She is preparing to depart with the body alongside her brother in silence."

I smiled with a bitter gratification that masked the truth, saying to myself with pride: *This is highly excellent. This is how matters are managed.*

*Did you think in your small mind, Julie, that you could so simply steal my grandson our precious piece and the bearer of our ancient family name and history and flee with him to raise him in filthy alleys? I will show you myself how my grandson is raised on my throne, inside my mansion, and under my very eyes to be a master.*

I stepped out of that hospital like a king victorious in his bloodless battle, holding my grandson securely and carefully in my arms inside the luxury car heading rapidly toward the grand mansion. I pulled out my phone steadily and called my eldest son, Harold, immediately, speaking in a sharp, decisive tone that rattled his receiver:

"Harold... come to the mansion immediately without any delay or excuses, and bring your wife, Miley, with you. The matter is urgent."

Harold asked with clear anxiety and a strained tone over the line:

"Father... your voice is strange. Is something wrong?"

I replied dryly with a stern voice:

"Execute what I have told you now without asking too many questions. I am waiting for you both."

I cut the line. When I reached the vast grand hall in the mansion, the infant was resting quietly in my lap while I sat in my wheelchair, my features frozen like a statue immersed in scheming for the future.

After a short period, the massive door opened and Harold entered in a rush, followed by his wife, Miley, with anxious, hurried steps. The moment their eyes fell in bewilderment upon the small newborn child resting between my hands, they froze in their places from the sheer shock and astonishment of the bizarre sight. Harold stepped forward with faltering strides and asked with wide eyes:

"Father... who is this infant you are holding in your hands?! Where did you get this from?"

I did not answer him with a word or explain anything to him. Instead, his wife, Miley, stepped forward with an instinctive impulse, her eyes gleaming with overwhelming longing and tears. She bent her entire body over the little one, saying in a tearful, moving tone:

"My God... how beautiful he is! What a beautiful, pure child, an angel child!"

I fixed my sharp, piercing gaze on the contours of her longing face, saying in a calm, sober, and dry tone to drop my bomb that would alter their lives:

"Miley... do you want to be his mother?"

Miley recoiled a step in shock, opening her mouth in a stunned bewilderment she couldn’t process:

"What?! His mother?! What do you mean?"

Harold intervened with tension and irritability, knitting his brows violently as he directed his angry gaze toward me:

"What kind of damn, illogical question is this, Father, for hell’s sake?! What are you planning?"

I ignored him completely as if he did not exist in the hall, directing my question and gaze to Miley with stronger severity and a penetrating tone:

"Answer clearly... do you want to be his mother?"

Her breath trembled violently. She looked at the infant with longing, then answered with overflowing nervousness and gratitude:

"Yes... yes, I wish for that."

I nodded my head with absolute finality and ended the doubt:

"Take him into your arms then without hesitation... he is your son from this second onward."

Expressions of absolute shock, rejection, and disbelief etched across the face of Harold, who shouted with wild agitation, the veins on his forehead bulging in a terrifying manner:

"Father! Have you truly gone mad and lost your mind?! Where did you bring this child from in this mysterious way?!"

Miley did not listen to her angry husband’s words and shouting.

Instead, she stepped toward me with longing, quick steps, extending her trembling hands with passionate emotion. She gently took the infant from my lap and pressed him tightly to her chest with a decisive possessiveness that filled the void of her motherhood.

Harold yelled at her face with raging fury and helplessness:

"Miley! We do not know who this infant’s family is! What is wrong with you, collapsing and taking him so simply?! Leave him!"

She turned to him sharply, hot tears streaming down her cheeks profusely, and said in a rebellious shout he had never witnessed from her before:

"He is my son! Did you not hear what your father just said with his own tongue and your own ears?! He is my child and the heir I wished for, and no one will dare take him from my arms!"