Chapter 2 - THE SHADOWS OF MERCER HOUSEThe morning sun cast long, cold bars of light across the marble kitchen floor. Elena scrubbed the copper pots with fierce concentration, her mind replaying the brief, shattering look in Noah’s eyes from the night before.
“Keep your head down, new girl,” whispered Marcus, a veteran cook who had survived five years in the Mercer household. “The Boss is in a foul mood today. Word is, half the underworld elite are bombarding the gates, pretending to send ‘nurses’ and ‘speech pathologists,’ but they’re just gold-diggers trying to claim that marriage contract.”
“Does Mr. Mercer actually plan to honor it?” Elena asked, wiping soap from her hands.
“Damian Mercer’s word is an iron anchor,” Marcus muttered, glancing nervously toward the swinging doors. “If a street rat in rags walks in and gets that boy to utter a single word, Damian will put a million-dollar ring on their finger in front of God and every mob boss from here to New York. But heaven help whoever tries and fails. They don't stay in Mercer House long.”
Later that morning, while dusting the perimeter of the grand library, Elena heard the heavy, commanding tread of Damian’s boots approaching.
She quickly stepped behind a towering partition of encyclopedias, holding her breath.
Damian entered with his security chief, Vincent Hale. The crime boss looked exhausted; deep shadows bruised the skin beneath his piercing gray eyes.
“Any authentic leads from the medical proposals?” Damian asked, his voice low and vibrating with tension.
“None, Boss,” Vincent replied, checking a tablet. “Mostly charlatans, hypnotists, and political opportunists looking for a foothold in your operation. The city councilman sent his niece. A total disaster.”
Damian slammed his palm against the mahogany desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot. “I don't care about politics, Vincent! I care about my son! He hasn't eaten a full meal in three days. He sits in that damn nursery clutching that ragged bear and staring at the wall where Rebecca used to stand. Find someone who understands trauma, or I’ll tear this city apart brick by brick looking for answers.”
“Boss... there’s security footage from the east landing last night,” Vincent said hesitantly.
Damian went completely still. “What kind of footage?”
“One of the new housemaids. She didn't report to her quarters on time. She wandered down to the gallery. She didn’t speak to Noah, but... she sat near him. She made a string figure with her hands.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Fire her. Throw her out on the street.”
“Wait, Damian,” Vincent paused, bringing up a zoomed-in clip on his tablet. “Look at the boy’s reaction. He didn't flinch. He didn't run. For eight months, anyone who got within ten feet of him triggered a panic attack. But when she sat down... Noah’s heart rate monitor didn't spike. In fact, he reached out his hand an inch toward her before you came down the hall.”
May you like
Damian stared at the screen, his massive frame rigid. The silence in the library grew suffocating.
“Bring her to my study,” Damian ordered softly. “Now.”
