Chapter 4 - Shadows of the PastThe Mercer Estate in upper Manhattan was a fortress of limestone, glass, and manicured gardens.
When the Rolls-Royce glided through the wrought-iron security gates, Mave didn't wake up. Silas carried her gently in his arms, walking past wide marble staircases and towering crystal chandeliers straight up to the master wing on the third floor.
He laid her down on a sprawling, king-sized guest bed, pulling a thick down comforter over her small body.
Down in the private study, Silas poured himself a glass of aged bourbon, though he didn't drink it. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the snow blanketing the courtyard.
The harsh luxury of his home reminded him of a past he had spent a lifetime trying to bury.
Ten years ago, Silas had been nothing more than an impoverished orphan surviving on the brutal streets of Chicago. He knew what it felt like to be invisible, to be stepped on, to have powerful men laugh at your hunger. He had clawed his way to the top of the financial world through sheer brilliance and ruthless ambition, vowing never to let anyone ever make him feel small again.
Tonight, seeing those wealthy cowards humiliate a six-year-old girl over a few withered flowers had ripped open an old wound.
Knock, knock.
The heavy mahogany door clicked open, and Marcus stepped into the study, holding a thick manila folder.
“You work fast, Marcus,” Silas said without turning around.
“When you give an order, Boss, we don't waste time,” Marcus replied, stepping forward and laying the folder on the glass desk. “I ran the facial recognition on the footage from Leerti. All four men have been identified.”
Silas turned around slowly. “Who are they?”
“High-society heirs and corporate executives,” Marcus reported, flipping open the file. “Julian Vance, real estate magnate. Thomas Sterling, pharmaceutical heir. Richard Thorne, venture capitalist. And the one who actually stepped on the flowers—Julian’s younger brother, Gregory Vance.”
A cold, wicked smile touched the corner of Silas’s mouth.
“Gregory Vance,” Silas repeated, tasting the name like poison. “What does Gregory do?”
“He’s the senior vice president of Vance Investments,” Marcus said. “A firm that currently relies heavily on commercial loans and equity backing from Mercer Global.”
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Silas walked over to the desk, picked up the file, and tossed it into the modern stone fireplace. The paper ignited instantly, the orange flames dancing in his dark eyes.
“Not anymore,” Silas whispered. “Strip them of their credit lines. Freeze their corporate assets by morning. And make sure Gregory Vance knows exactly whose flowers he stepped on.”
