My Wealthy Family Forced My Adopted Child to Do Chores on Christmas—Until A Paternity Test Proved Whose Daughter She Really Was

I walked over to the telephone console on the library wall, lifted the receiver, and dialed the private direct line for Frank Rossi, head of security for DeLuca Transatlantic.

"Mr. DeLuca," Frank answered immediately, despite the holiday. "Merry Christmas, sir."

"Frank, mobilize the executive security detail," I ordered, my voice ringing with absolute authority. "I want four armored transports at the estate gates in twenty minutes. Bring our corporate legal counsel, David Klein, and two notary officers."

Antonio’s eyes widened in horror. "Mauricio, what are you doing? This is a private family matter!"

"This ceased being a family matter the moment you committed fiduciary fraud against an innocent orphan," I replied, slamming the phone down.

I turned back to the room, looking at the parents who had raised me, feeling nothing but a vast, icy detachment. For thirty-four years, I had bowed to Antonio's commands out of filial respect. I had expanded the family's logistics empire across three continents, multiplying their net worth fivefold, believing that loyalty to family was the highest virtue. But looking at Renata's small, bandaged hand and her damp shoes, I realized that loyalty to monsters was nothing more than complicity.

"Under Clause 9 of the DeLuca Primogeniture Charter," I announced, looking at Antonio and Carmen, "as Renata's legal adoptive father and her appointed legal guardian, I am now the sole administrator of Lorenzo's fifty-two percent controlling stake in DeLuca Holdings. I also hold my own twenty percent personal equity."

Paola froze, her eyes filled with terror. "Mauricio... please. That gives you seventy-two percent voting control."

"That gives me absolute control," I corrected her. "Which means this estate, the Manhattan penthouses, the yachts, and the operating payroll do not belong to Antonio DeLuca anymore. They belong to Lorenzo's estate. Managed solely by me."

Carmen collapsed onto the velvet sofa, weeping bitterly into her hands, while Antonio leaned heavily against the marble mantelpiece, his empire slipping through his fingers like dry sand.

"You have until six o'clock this evening to pack your personal belongings," I stated calmly.