Chapter 8 - The Heirs of Blood
A collective gasp swept through the three hundred aristocrats, ambassadors, and billionaires occupying the nave. Heads turned in unison, eyes darting from the portrait-worthy features of the four toddlers to Christian Montecillo.
The resemblance was not merely coincidental; it was overwhelming. Alexander possessed the unmistakable jawline and high cheekbones of the Montecillo men. Julian and Cedric mirrored Christian’s aristocratic brow and aristocratic poise. But it was Seraphina who paralyzed the patriarch.
"The emeralds..." an elderly countess murmured aloud from the third row. "Eleanor’s eyes. Exactly like Eleanor Montecillo."
Don Roman’s late wife, Eleanor, had been the undisputed matriarch of European high society. Her emerald-green eyes were legendary, an ancestral genetic trait that had skipped Christian entirely. For forty years, Don Roman had mourned the extinction of that gaze. Now, it stared back at him from the face of a two-year-old girl dressed in bespoke ivory silk, looking at him without an ounce of fear.
Christian took an involuntary step down the altar steps, his hand extending outward as if pulled by an invisible tether. "Four... Althea... you were pregnant? When you left... you were carrying my children?"
"Don't touch them," Althea commanded softly.
At her words, the lead Swiss operative stepped into the gap, placing the broad width of his frame between Christian and the children. The crisp metallic click of a holster being adjusted was audible to everyone in the first three pews.
"You have no right!" Vanessa screamed, her manicured fingers clawing at Christian’s arm, trying frantically to pull him back. "Christian, look at me! Look at our boys! I gave you triplets! I gave the Montecillo family three sons! She is trying to ruin our wedding day with bastards from some nameless street thug! She disappeared for two years—anyone could have fathered those brats!"
Vanessa turned desperately toward the nanny holding the three swaddled infants near the baptismal font. "Don Roman! You cannot be swayed by colored contacts and cheap theatricals! The Montecillo bloodline is right here, in my arms! In my sons!"
Don Roman didn't look at Vanessa. For the first time since she had walked into his son’s life, the old patriarch completely ignored the woman he had championed. His gaze was anchored to Seraphina’s emerald eyes.
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"A Montecillo eye cannot be replicated by lenses, you foolish girl," Don Roman muttered, his voice shaking with a terrifying gravity. "The golden flecks around the iris... it is Eleanor’s blood. It is the blood of the founders."
"Blood is a dangerous thing to romanticize, Don Roman," Althea said, stepping gracefully past the floral arrangements. She raised her left hand, and her private secretary, a severe woman dressed in charcoal grey, walked forward carrying a black leather portfolio sealed with wax. "Because while blood tells the truth, people tell magnificent, profitable lies."
