Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO KNEW MY BROTHER'S NAME
I stared at Roman Mercer's message until the letters blurred.
Please don't mention my name to Eli until we've talked.
That was not a request a stranger had any right to make.
Especially a stranger who knew my father's name, knew I had a brother, and apparently knew something about our family that I didn't.
I typed back immediately.
How do you know Eli?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Finally, Roman answered.
Your father trusted me with something. I'd rather explain it face-to-face.
I almost threw my phone across the room.
Men like Roman Mercer were accustomed to giving orders and having people obey them.
I wasn't one of those people.
If this involves my brother, you can explain it now.
His reply came quickly.
Your brother isn't in immediate danger. But someone has started asking questions about Daniel Vaughn.
I sat on the edge of my bed.
Six months.
My father had been buried for six months.
Who could possibly still be asking questions about him?
Before I could respond, Eli appeared in my doorway.
"Everything okay?"
I turned the phone facedown.
"Just Miles."
"Did you get fired?"
"No."
He leaned against the doorframe.
"That's good."
His expression was hopeful in a way that made my chest ache.
I hated that our lives had become a collection of small financial disasters.
A late payment.
A prescription refill.
A grocery bill that required putting something back.
And now a mafia boss was offering to solve those problems.
For what price?
"Eli," I asked carefully, "did Dad ever mention knowing anyone named Mercer?"
My brother's face changed.
It happened so quickly I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching.
"Why?"
"Just answer me."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I heard him say that name once."
"When?"
"About a week before his stroke."
My stomach tightened.
"What did he say?"
Eli looked toward the kitchen.
"He was arguing with somebody on the phone. I couldn't hear everything."
"Try."
"He said, 'Mercer made a promise. Tell him I kept mine.'"
I felt a chill.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Dad hung up when he saw me. Then he said it was about an old engine repair."
An engine repair.
That was always Dad's answer.
He could explain anything with a bad alternator, a transmission problem, or a customer who didn't want to pay.
I had never questioned it.
Until now.
At ten that morning, I arrived at Hawthorne House.
Miles was waiting near the entrance, looking like he hadn't slept.
"Please tell me you came to accept."
"I came to ask questions."
He sighed.
"Tessa—"
"Does Roman Mercer own this restaurant?"
Miles hesitated.
"His hospitality company is a minority investor."
Of course.
"Did you know that yesterday?"
"Yes."
"And you sent me into his private dining room without mentioning it?"
"He's eaten here for years. Nobody's ever complained."
"Maybe nobody felt safe enough to."
Miles looked down.
For once, he didn't argue.
A black sedan was parked outside.
A driver stood beside it.
I looked from him to Miles.
"Tell me that isn't for me."
"It is."
I laughed bitterly.
"Does he always send cars for women he makes uncomfortable?"
Miles winced.
"I don't know. But he specifically said the driver would take you wherever you wanted, including straight home."
I considered walking away.
Then I thought about Eli sitting at our kitchen table, dividing his medication into a weekly plastic organizer.
I needed answers.
And I needed the salary.
But I would not trade one for the other.
"Tell him I'll meet him," I said. "In a public room. With the door open."
Miles nodded.
"And Miles?"
"Yes?"
"If he touches me again, the meeting ends."
Twenty minutes later, I walked into a private lounge at a Mercer-owned hotel overlooking the Chicago River.
Roman stood when I entered.
That surprised me.
He looked different in daylight.
Still imposing.
Still dressed in clothes that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
But the scar through his eyebrow was more noticeable, and there were shadows beneath his gray eyes.
He gestured toward a chair.
I stayed standing.
"Let's make this quick."
He nodded.
"Fair enough."
A folder lay on the table.
Beside it sat an old silver wristwatch.
My heart stopped.
I knew that watch.
My father had worn it for nearly twenty years.
Its glass was scratched.
The leather strap had been repaired with black thread.
And the second hand occasionally stopped between the numbers four and five.
"Dad's watch," I whispered.
Roman didn't move.
"He gave it to me eleven years ago."
"That's impossible."
I remembered Dad wearing it when I was seventeen.
Roman seemed to understand my confusion.
"He got it back."
I looked up sharply.
"Why would he give you his watch?"
Roman rested his hands on the table.
"Because on February seventeenth, fifteen years ago, your father found me bleeding inside his garage."
I stared at him.
"He was fixing cars?"
"He was closing up."
"What happened?"
"Someone shot me."
Roman said it without drama.
As if he were describing bad weather.
"Your father could have called the police. He could have left me there. Instead, he stopped the bleeding, drove me to a doctor he trusted, and stayed until I was stable."
I swallowed.
"Why didn't he call an ambulance?"
"Because I begged him not to."
"Why?"
"At the time, the person who ordered that shooting had friends in places where I was supposed to be safe."
I looked at the watch.
"And you became friends?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what?"
Roman's expression hardened.
"Your father made me promise something."
"What?"
"That if anything happened to him, I would make sure his children were protected."
I stepped backward.
"No."
"Tessa—"
"No. You don't get to tell me my father arranged some kind of protection with a mafia boss."
"He didn't ask for money."
"Then what did he ask for?"
Roman was silent.
I pointed toward the folder.
"What's in there?"
"An employment offer."
I opened it.
Triple my current hourly rate.
Guaranteed thirty hours.
Medical coverage beginning immediately, with an option to enroll an eligible dependent.
Transportation.
Paid leave.
The terms were real.
Almost painfully real.
Then I noticed something else.
A separate paragraph stated that I would never be required to attend private meetings, accept personal invitations, or perform duties outside food service.
I looked at Roman.
"You put that in writing?"
"Yes."
"Because of last night?"
"Yes."
I wasn't expecting that answer.
Roman's jaw tightened.
"I had no right to put my hand on you. You told me to stop. I should never have created a situation where you had to."
There was no smile.
No excuse.
No suggestion that I'd misunderstood.
"I'm sorry, Tessa."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
Then I remembered Eli.
"You still haven't told me why you know my brother."
Roman looked toward the window.
"Daniel told me about his heart condition."
"Lots of people knew."
"He also told me something about the night Eli was born."
I went still.
Our mother had always said Eli's birth was complicated.
Dad rarely discussed it.
"What about that night?"
Roman looked at me carefully.
"Your father came to see me three days afterward."
"Why?"
"Because somebody wanted him to sign papers."
"What papers?"
Roman's expression changed.
"That's the part I need to verify before I tell you anything that could hurt your family."
I slammed the folder shut.
"Absolutely not."
He didn't interrupt.
"You've told me my dead father saved you. You've brought out his watch. You've mentioned my brother's birth. And now you expect me to trust you while you keep the important part to yourself?"
"No."
"Good."
"I expect you to be angry."
"Then you're finally right about something."
I turned toward the door.
Roman spoke behind me.
"Tessa, the job is yours whether you ever speak to me again."
I stopped.
"And your brother's medical expenses are not something you need to bargain with me about."
"Don't."
He went quiet.
"Don't use Eli to make yourself look generous."
I left the folder on the table and walked out.
But as I reached the elevator, I heard footsteps.
Roman hadn't followed me.
An older woman in a navy hotel uniform approached, carrying a small white envelope.
"Mr. Mercer asked me to return this if you chose to leave," she said.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Faded.
A little girl with brown braids stood beside Daniel Vaughn in front of his garage.
Me.
At thirteen.
I remembered that afternoon.
Dad had bought me a cherry Popsicle because I'd gotten straight A's.
But there was someone else in the photograph.
A pregnant woman stood near the garage doorway.
She was smiling at my father.
One hand rested on her stomach.
I had never seen her before.
On the back, written in Dad's familiar handwriting, were six words.
"If they ask about Eli, remember her."
Below that was a name.
Margaret Mercer.
Roman's surname.
I turned the photograph over again.
Because standing behind Margaret, partly hidden by the garage door, was another man.
He was younger.
Thinner.
But I recognized his face from the previous night's dinner.
Grant Holloway.
May you like
The man who had reached inside his jacket when I threatened Roman.
And in the photograph, Grant had one hand wrapped tightly around Margaret's wrist.
