The Lost Ricci: Heir Back from the Dead

Chapter 5: Father and Son Reunion

The private medical suite occupied the entire third floor of the Ricci mansion, outfitted with equipment that belonged in a state-of-the-art hospital rather than a residence. Monitors beeped softly, tracking vital signs with clinical precision. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting gentle shadows across the figure in the hospital bed.

Pietro Ricci lay motionless except for the slight rise and fall of his chest. At seventy-three, he was a shadow of the man in the portrait downstairs—his once-powerful frame diminished by illness, his face gaunt and pale against white pillows. But his eyes, those sharp gray eyes that Dante had seen in his own reflection that morning, were fully alert.

Selena stood beside Dante at the doorway, her expression unreadable. "He's been waiting since dawn," she said quietly. "I told him you'd come."

Dante's throat felt tight. This stranger was supposedly his father. The man who'd lost him at a carousel twenty-five years ago, who'd searched for him across decades, who'd built an empire while carrying the weight of that loss.

"Go on," Selena urged, her tone softening marginally. "He can't wait forever. None of us can."

Dante stepped forward, his footsteps muffled by thick carpet. As he approached the bed, Pietro's eyes locked onto him with an intensity that made Dante's breath catch. Tears pooled in the old man's eyes, spilling down weathered cheeks.

"Ryan," Pietro whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. The word came out broken, reverent, like a prayer finally answered.

Dante stood frozen at the bedside, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He didn't know what to do, how to respond to this stranger's overwhelming emotion. Pietro's arms trembled as he tried to lift them, desperate to embrace his son, but the stroke had robbed him of the strength. His fingers barely moved against the blanket.

"I..." Dante started, then stopped. What was he supposed to say? He had no memory of this man, no connection beyond the DNA test results Selena had shoved in his face.

"You still look like me," Pietro managed, his voice cracking. "When I was young. The same eyes. The same stubborn jaw." A sob escaped him. "My son. My Ryan."

The name hit Dante like a physical blow. Ryan. Not Dante. That wasn't who he was—except apparently, it was. It had always been his name, stolen from him along with everything else.

"Ryan," Pietro repeated, softer this time, watching Dante's face for recognition.

Dante's mouth opened, but no sound came. The name felt foreign on his tongue, like trying to speak a language he'd never learned. Several minutes passed in heavy silence, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of monitors. Pietro waited patiently, hope and fear warring in his eyes.

Finally, hesitantly, Dante said, "I... I'm here."

It wasn't acceptance, but it wasn't rejection either. Pietro's face crumpled with relief.

"Take his hand," Selena instructed from behind them, her voice clinically detached. "He wants to hold you."

Dante reached out slowly, his hand hovering over Pietro's before finally making contact. The old man's skin was paper-thin, cool to the touch, but his grip—weak as it was—tightened with desperate affection.

Something shifted in Dante's chest. He looked down at their joined hands, his young and strong, Pietro's aged and trembling, and felt an inexplicable pull. Not memory, exactly. Something deeper. A recognition that bypassed consciousness entirely.

"I wish..." Dante's voice was rough. "I wish I could remember. Childhood. You. Any of it."

Pietro's thumb moved gently against Dante's palm. "You were three," he whispered. "You loved the carousel. The music. The painted horses." His eyes grew distant. "I turned away for thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds to buy you cotton candy. When I looked back..." His voice broke. "You were gone. Just gone."

"It wasn't your fault," Dante said quickly, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "Fate... fate can be unpredictable. Unreasonable. You can't blame yourself for—"

"I failed you." Pietro's tears flowed freely now. "I failed as a father. Twenty-five years of searching, of wondering if you were alive, if you were safe, if someone was hurting you. Twenty-five years of guilt eating me alive." His grip on Dante's hand tightened fractionally. "I'm sorry, Ryan. I'm so sorry."

The raw pain in Pietro's voice cracked something open inside Dante. He sank into the chair beside the bed, still holding his father's hand, and felt the weight of all those lost years pressing down on both of them.

"You found me," Dante said softly. "That's what matters now."

Pietro's gaze shifted past Dante to where Selena stood in the doorway. "Only because of her," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Selena. She never stopped looking. Even when everyone else gave up, she kept searching." His face contorted with fresh pain. "And she hid her sickness from me. Cancer. Stage three. My daughter is dying, and she hid it so I wouldn't worry."

"You were already dealing with enough," Selena said coldly from across the room. "The stroke, the company transition. Adding my diagnosis would have been—"

"I'm your father!" Pietro's voice cracked with anger and grief. "You should have told me! I lose one child and gain another in the same breath? How is that fair?"

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. Dante looked between them—his dying sister, his broken father—and understood the magnitude of what he'd walked into. This wasn't just about reclaiming an inheritance. This was about a family torn apart by tragedy, desperately trying to piece itself together before time ran out.

"Father," Dante said quietly.

Pietro's head snapped back toward him, fresh tears spilling at the word.

"Father," Dante repeated, testing the weight of it. It felt strange in his mouth—a word that had never been part of his vocabulary. Mrs. Wellington had been dear to him, and his mentor Romano had been the closest thing to a father figure he'd known, but he'd never actually called anyone "Father" before.

"Yes," Pietro breathed, his whole face illuminating. "Yes, my son."

They sat in silence for a long moment, hands clasped, trying to bridge twenty-five years of absence with a simple touch. Dante studied his father's face, searching for himself in those weathered features. The sharp jaw, the gray eyes, the determined set of the mouth—they were all there, aged and weathered but undeniably familiar.

"I want to make everything right," Pietro said finally. "I'm old now. Weak. This stroke took most of my strength. But I still have my mind, my resources, my company. Everything I built—it's yours, Ryan. All of it. The mansion, the assets, Apex Crown Holdings. You'll never want for anything again."

Dante considered his father's words carefully. Just days ago, he would have given anything for such an offer—wealth, security, the kind of life where he'd never again be humiliated by people like the Bronsons. But something had shifted in him during the long, sleepless night in his pristine white room.

"I don't want handouts," Dante said slowly. "I want to earn it."

Pietro's eyebrows rose. "Earn it? Ryan, it's already yours by birthright—"

"Then let me prove I'm worthy of it." Dante leaned forward, his voice gaining strength. "I want to work for Apex Crown Holdings. As a regular employee. Entry-level. I want to learn the company from the ground up, understand every department, every operation."

"You want to work in disguise?" Selena's voice cut in, sharp with disbelief. "As a lowly trainee?"

Dante turned to face her. "Yes. Nobody can know who I really am. I'll use my old name—Dante Moretti. I'll start at the bottom and work my way up based on merit, not blood." He looked back at Pietro. "If I'm going to run this company someday, I need to understand it completely. Not just the executive level, but the foundation. The people who actually make it function."

Pietro stared at his son for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face—the first genuine smile Dante had seen from him. "You have my drive," he said, wonder in his voice. "My hunger for understanding how things truly work. When I started Apex Crown, everyone told me to hire managers, delegate, stay in the executive suite. But I spent the first five years working every position—from janitor to accountant to sales associate. I learned the company's DNA before I tried to reshape it."

"Then you understand," Dante said.

"I do." Pietro's grip on Dante's hand strengthened slightly. "You inherited more than my looks, Ryan. You inherited my mind. My vision." He paused, breathing heavily from the exertion of talking. "I'll arrange it. You'll start Monday as Dante Moretti, entry-level trainee. But remember—I'll be watching. Through Selena, through reports. I want to see what kind of man my son has become."

"You won't be disappointed," Dante promised, surprised by his own conviction.

"The green tea," Selena said, moving to a side table where a thermos sat. "Doctor's orders. It's supposed to help with circulation."

Dante took the cup she poured, bringing it carefully to Pietro's lips. The old man sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving his son's face. When he'd had enough, Dante set the cup aside and settled back into the chair.

"Look at me," Pietro whispered. "Really look at me, Ryan."

Dante met his father's gaze directly, and for the first time, let himself truly see the man before him. Not a stranger. Not an obligation. But the father who'd lost him, searched for him, never stopped hoping.

And in Pietro's eyes, Dante saw himself—not who he'd been, but who he could become.

"I'm ready," Dante said quietly. "To begin. To learn. To become worthy of the Ricci name."

Pietro smiled through his tears. "You already are, my son. You already are."