DNA

It was 1970. In one part of the city, the night always seemed darker than the day. The lanes were narrow, the shopfronts sealed with iron shutters, and old brass nameplates on the walls still bore the names of long-gone dons. In that part of town stood the house of Don Megatre, a place that looked like a small palace. The walls were high and polished, the doors heavy with bolts and locks. From the outside it appeared grand, almost majestic, but inside it was hollow and cold. When people heard his name, they stepped aside. He was power and fear made flesh, tall, dark, a face carved in stone, a voice that sounded like an order you couldn’t refuse.

His wife was another story. People didn’t even say her name. They called her simply the wife. She spoke softly, as though each word cost her something. Her face had a quiet paleness, and her eyes held a kind of faraway light. Inside the house she spent her days by the window, sewing or collecting flower petals in silence. Though she lived in the don’s house, her heart seemed to belong elsewhere. Sometimes she would visit the market. Sometimes her eyes wandered toward the church. But joy never truly came to her.

Then came Andrew, a young white man new to the city. He was gentle, open, and his words carried an effortless charm that drew people in. When the wife spoke with him, something inside her began to stir, a tender feeling she could neither name nor deny. The don never noticed the change in her.

When he finally heard whispers that his wife had been close to Andrew, something inside him snapped. He called her into a room, held her hands, and demanded answers she couldn’t give. She answered only with sighs. He swore oaths upon oaths, even upon his own blood, but the seed of suspicion had already taken root. Then the child was born, fair-skinned, with features that mirrored Andrew’s. The moment Don Megatre saw the baby, a fire rose in him that no reason could cool.

That night still lives in the memory of the neighborhood. The house glowed faintly, the lights soft as butterflies against the walls. Then came a knock, hurried steps, and the don himself at the door. His face was hard, his eyes colder than the night. Inside, his wife sat on the bed, her hands moving over a piece of cloth, her gaze fixed on the empty cradle beside her. He began pacing, his steps quickening with every turn. His voice grew sharp. He shouted the question that had burned in him for weeks. She said nothing, though her breath grew heavier.

He struck her. Once, then again, and again. The sound of each blow was like a hinge breaking. Rage drowned thought. He shoved her to the floor, grabbed the kitchen knife that lay forgotten among the scraps, and drove it into her. It was quick, brutal, like snapping a dry branch. A few drops of blood touched her face, and the dim light caught them but did not let them shine. The woman who had spent her life quietly stitching torn seams now lay still, her silence deeper than ever. Only the soft whisper of wind through the window moved.

The maid, small and sharp-eyed, acted without a second’s pause. She wrapped the baby in a piece of cloth, laid him in a wicker basket, and slipped out through the back door. The bell above the entrance gave a faint ring before the latch fell shut behind her. She hurried down the dark alleys, clutching the child, carrying nothing but a memory of her grandmother and a sense of duty. She hid the baby in a relative’s small house, a quiet place where people kept their words short and doors tightly closed.

But the story did not end there. Within days, the baby was taken farther away, out of the city, perhaps onto a ship leaving for another land, perhaps with a traveler bound for somewhere unknown. The child vanished, leaving behind only an echo: an empty space in Don Megatre’s heart, a story without an ending.

Thirty years passed. The world had changed, and so had that lost child. He had grown into a man who now ruled the city’s darker corners. They called him Don Smith. He had learned to harden himself, to fight, to command. His name carried weight. People said fate turned like a wheel, the beggar of yesterday could be the king of today.

One quiet morning, under a pale sun, Don Smith gave an order. His men were to find and bring Don Megatre to him. The operation was swift and silent. A few men slipped through the back door, guided by servants who owed him favors. They lifted the sleeping old man, carried him to a waiting car, and drove through the city’s edge to an abandoned industrial zone. Smoke hung in the air, the factory walls stained with age. They stopped at a warehouse, its iron door creaking as it opened. Inside, a small room waited, once a storage space, now a cell.

They tied the old man to a chair. Dust coated the floor, and the lower walls were blackened by grime. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, its light dull and uneven. Don Megatre’s face was lined and weary. His eyes, once sharp, had grown cloudy. “Why me?” he asked, his voice trembling. “Have you come to kill me?” He still wanted to believe that his punishment would somehow make sense.

Don Smith said nothing. The guards stood silent at the door. Then a man in a white coat entered with a vial and a cotton swab. He took a sample from the old man’s mouth, a simple saliva test. The old man frowned. “What is this for?” he asked. The medic replied quietly, “It will decide your life.”

When the results came, Don Smith read them slowly. His face changed, not with anger, but with a strange, quiet peace. After a long pause, he told his men to untie the old man, to take him home, to treat him with respect. The men looked at each other in confusion. Don Megatre’s voice shook as he asked, “Tell me, did I kill your mother? Is that why you wanted revenge? Then why spare me now?”

Don Smith looked at the papers again, then lifted his eyes to meet the old man’s. His voice was steady.

“The test says you’re my father. I can’t kill my own father.”