“Dad, you got it wrong.” James’s voice echoed off the mahogany walls of Ricardo Everett's office.

Ricardo barely looked up from his desk, glasses perched low on his nose.

“Do I? Because last night I watched doctors tell me my grandson doesn't match your blood.”

“It was a mix-up, Father.” James placed a white envelope on the table. “I went straight to a private lab this morning. Independent. Discreet. Here's the result.”

Ricardo leaned back slowly, searching his son's face ...