Victor Bennett was charged with kidnapping, attempted murder, arson, racketeering, extortion, and a collection of federal offenses long enough to occupy three pages.
Dominic Vale agreed to cooperate.
That created another problem.
Me.
Federal investigators spent four months examining Mercer Holdings and everything attached to it.
I cooperated.
My attorneys nearly had collective heart attacks.
“You don't volunteer information,” one told me.
“I just did.”
“You understand what exposure this creates?”
“Yes.”
“Nathan, you could lose companies.”
“I know.”
“Properties.”
“I know.”
“Your freedom.”
That one took longer.
“I know.”
Hannah attended every meeting she was permitted to attend.
Her wound healed slowly.
For weeks, she couldn't lift anything heavier than a grocery bag.
I became unbearable.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“You're supposed to rest.”
“My doctor said I can walk.”
“Your doctor is reckless.”
“My doctor is the head of trauma surgery.”
“People make mistakes.”
Hannah stared at me.
“You're insane.”
“Probably.”
She kissed me anyway.
Bridge House reopened temporarily in a converted school building.
Donations poured in after the fire received media attention.
This time, Hannah let me contribute.
But there were rules.
Bridge House established an independent foundation.
Every donation was public.
No Mercer name on the building.
No influence over the board.
“No statue?” I asked.
“No statue.”
“Small plaque?”
“No.”
“Parking space?”
“Nathan.”
I grinned.
Rachel told me I was becoming irritatingly happy.
Then the federal agreement arrived.
I avoided prison.
The legitimate Mercer businesses had employed thousands of people and maintained enough separation from criminal operations that prosecutors agreed to a settlement involving forfeitures, financial penalties, testimony, and permanent withdrawal from several industries.
I lost nearly forty percent of my fortune.
Vanessa called it a tragedy.
Hannah called it “still an obscene amount of money.”
She was right.
More importantly, the old network was finished.
Some men hated me for it.
Others were relieved.
Marcus surprised me most.
“What will you do?” I asked him.
He shrugged.
“Security.”
“You've been doing security.”
“Legal security.”
I laughed.
Six months after Hannah was shot, we returned to the café where we'd met.
Same table.
Same overpriced menu.
Hannah wore jeans again.
Different sneakers.
Still inexpensive.
She opened the menu.
“Forty-nine dollars for tea now.”
“Inflation.”
“Crime.”
I smiled.
The waiter brought coffee.
No tasting tray.
I'd learned.
Hannah looked around.
“Why here?”
I reached into my pocket.
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
“Nathan.”
“What?”
“If you're doing what I think you're doing—”
I put the ring box on the table.
She stared at it.
Then at me.
“You're not on morphine,” I said.
She started laughing.
People turned.
I didn't care.
“I've spent most of my life thinking love was something people used against you,” I said.
Her laughter faded.
“My father taught me power meant never needing anyone. My marriages taught me affection could become another kind of transaction.”
I opened the box.
Inside was a simple diamond ring.
Not enormous.
Hannah would have hated enormous.
“Then you walked into this café wearing broken sneakers and told me you couldn't afford lunch.”
“They weren't broken.”
“They were glued together.”
“Successfully repaired.”
I smiled.
“You wanted nothing from me.”
I took her hand.
“And somehow that made me want to give you the only thing I'd never given anyone honestly.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“What's that?”
“Me.”
I got down on one knee.
The entire café went silent.
“Hannah Cole, will you marry me?”
She covered her mouth.
Then she started crying.
“Hannah?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled.
“Yes?”
“Yes, you terrifying man.”
She pulled me up and kissed me.
People applauded.
Someone recorded it.
By evening, the video was everywhere.
Hannah hated that.
Rachel loved it.
Jamal watched the video and told everyone at Bridge House that “Funeral Guy finally got married.”
Technically, I wasn't married yet.
He didn't care.
The wedding was planned for spring.
Small, Hannah insisted.
Our definitions of small differed.
I suggested two hundred guests.
She suggested forty.
We settled at seventy.
Then, three weeks before the wedding, Hannah received an envelope.
No return address.
Inside were photographs.
Not threats.
Evidence.
Photographs of my father.
Photographs of me at twenty-three.
And a man lying dead beside a car.
Hannah found me in the library.
She placed them on the desk.
“Tell me.”
I looked down.
Twenty years disappeared.
“His name was Raymond Walsh.”
“Did you kill him?”
I sat slowly.
“No.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes.”
She waited.
“My father ordered it.”
“Why?”
“Walsh was an accountant. He was going to testify.”
Hannah's face tightened.
“I tried to stop it.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
The word hurt.
“I was twenty-three. My father told me if I interfered, Rachel would be next.”
Hannah sat opposite me.
“So you watched.”
“Yes.”
“And afterward?”
“I took over pieces of my father's organization.”
“Why?”
“Because he died six months later.”
“And you became him.”
I didn't answer.
Hannah stood.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You promised no lies.”
“I never lied about it.”
“Silence can be a lie.”
She was right.
Again.
“I was ashamed.”
“That doesn't change the promise.”
“No.”
She removed her engagement ring.
My entire body went still.
“Hannah.”
“I need time.”
She placed it on the desk.
Then walked away.
I didn't follow her.
Because love wasn't ownership.
And if I had learned anything from Hannah, it was that wanting someone desperately didn't give you the right to decide for them.
The wedding was canceled.
And this time, I didn't know whether she would come back.
---