Chapter 7 - THE HEIST AT MERCER TOWERThere are moments in every powerful man’s life when he discovers money is useless.
This was not one of them.
I owned Mercer Tower.
Caleb had forgotten that.
At 4:31 a.m., I shut down every elevator except one.
At 4:33, Malcolm disabled Caleb’s private security access.
At 4:35, Jonathan walked through the lobby wearing a janitor’s uniform.
“You look ridiculous,” I told him through the earpiece.
“You punched me twice tonight.”
“I’m considering a third.”
“Family reunion going well, then.”
Malcolm sighed.
“Now I understand Caleb.”
I ignored both of them.
The plan was simple.
Which meant it immediately failed.
Diane wasn’t in Caleb’s office.
She was in mine.
I found her sitting behind my desk with a gun pointed at the door.
“Diane.”
“Stop.”
I stopped.
Her hands shook.
“Where’s Caleb?”
“He’s coming.”
“Why are you helping him?”
“I’m not.”
“You have a gun.”
“He gave it to me.”
“That generally concerns me.”
She almost smiled.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“He has Clara’s embryos.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“More of them.”
I understood.
The egg donation.
Vale’s laboratory.
“How many?”
“Six.”
“Where?”
“Cryogenic storage.”
“Why does Caleb want them?”
“He thinks blood is immortality.”
Diane’s voice broke.
“He wants generations of Mercers he can control.”
Footsteps sounded outside.
Caleb entered.
Alone.
No gun.
No fear.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Everyone together.”
I moved between him and Diane.
“You’re finished.”
“No, Uncle. You’re finally beginning.”
He placed a tablet on my desk.
Live video.
Clara.
My penthouse.
She was asleep.
Someone stood outside her bedroom.
A security guard.
One of mine.
Traitor.
“You touch her—”
“I don’t need to.”
Caleb smiled.
“I only need you to understand leverage.”
“You learned that from Grandfather?”
His smile faltered.
Good.
Jonathan had been right.
“Your grandfather was terrified of dying,” I said. “So are you.”
“I’m building something.”
“You’re stealing women’s bodies because you’re afraid nobody will remember you.”
His face hardened.
Diane whispered, “Ethan…”
Caleb lunged.
Not at me.
At her.
The gun fired.
Glass exploded.
Jonathan came through the side door and tackled Caleb.
I grabbed Diane.
Malcolm’s team flooded the office.
Within seconds Caleb was pinned against the floor.
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“You think this ends because you caught me?”
“Yes.”
“You still don’t know who funded Vale.”
My grip tightened.
“Who?”
Caleb looked at Diane.
She went pale.
“Tell him.”
“Don’t.”
“Tell him, Diane.”
I looked at her.
“Who?”
She lowered the gun.
“Your mother.”
That one hurt differently.
Caleb grinned.
“Welcome to the family.”
We recovered Diane.
We recovered the ledger.
We recovered the embryos.
And by sunrise, Caleb Mercer was in federal custody.
For approximately forty-seven minutes.
Then he disappeared.
The transport vehicle crashed beneath Lower Wacker Drive.
Two officers were injured.
Caleb vanished.
Someone powerful was still protecting him.
But the ledger gave us something more important.
Names.
Judges.
Doctors.
Police officers.
And one name repeated throughout the records.
Eleanor Mercer.
My mother.
She had founded Vale’s research program.
Not my father.
Her.
The woman I remembered as gentle.
The woman whose death had broken my father.
The woman Clara apparently resembled.
Jonathan stared at the ledger.
“We were wrong about everything.”
“No.”
I closed it.
“We were wrong about people being simple.”
I returned home at dawn.
Clara was awake.
She saw Diane first.
“Mom.”
Their reunion happened without words.
Clara held her mother.
Diane held her daughter.
Jonathan stood awkwardly nearby until Diane looked at him.
Twenty-five years passed between them in one glance.
“You got old,” she whispered.
Jonathan smiled.
“You still bite?”
Diane slapped him.
Then kissed him.
Malcolm turned away.
“I’m going to pretend professionalism exists somewhere in this building.”
Clara laughed.
A real laugh.
It transformed the room.
I wanted to hear it again.
That frightened me more than Caleb.
Later, when everyone had gone, Clara found me in the kitchen.
I was making coffee.
Or attempting to.
“You own seventeen restaurants,” she said.
“Twelve.”
“You don’t know how to operate a coffee machine.”
“It has too many buttons.”
“It has three.”
“Exactly.”
She came closer.
Her bruises looked worse in daylight.
I hated them.
“You brought her back.”
“I promised.”
“You also brought back a dead billionaire.”
“Technically Jonathan brought himself.”
She smiled.
Then grew serious.
“Twin B.”
My child.
“Yes.”
“What happens now?”
“You decide.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I set down the cup.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
So I gave it to her.
“I want to be his father.”
Her eyes filled.
“Or hers.”
“Or hers.”
“And Twin A?”
“The same.”
She stared.
“You’d raise a child who is genetically your—”
“Don’t finish that sentence before breakfast.”
She laughed despite herself.
Then I said, “They’re twins. Whatever biology says, they’re siblings. If I’m allowed to be in their lives, I won’t make one feel chosen and the other tolerated.”
Clara studied me for a long time.
“Why?”
“Because I know what families can do when they decide blood matters more than love.”
Her expression softened.
Then she stepped closer.
Very close.
I thought she might kiss me.
Instead she stole my coffee.
I stared.
“You have twelve restaurants.”
“So?”
“Make another.”
She walked away drinking it.
I watched her go.
And smiled.
For the first time in months.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Caleb standing beside a private jet.
Underneath:
You took my father.
I’ll take yours.
A second photograph loaded.
My father.
Alive.
Older.
Terrified.
May you like
Sitting in a wheelchair.
The dead were becoming extremely inconvenient.
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