Chapter 2 - The Storm on the 29th Floor
“Who sent you?” Rowan’s voice was as smooth and hard as polished steel, though his mind was racing. He was a billionaire used to controlling boardrooms, but he was currently unarmed in a cramped third-floor apartment in the city's poorest district.
“You know how the game works, Mercer,” the lead hitman replied, stepping closer. “The board runs the company. You’re just the face on the Forbes cover. Hand over the binder and the woman, and you can walk back to your two-billion-dollar deal.”
Lily whimpered, clinging to Rowan’s trouser leg.
Rowan glanced down at the tiny girl who had walked into his empire with threadbare shoes and a paper lunch bag. He remembered his promise. “I promise,” he had told her.
“Dr. Thorne,” Rowan said softly, without taking his eyes off the barrel of the gun. “When I move, take Clara and Lily into the back room.”
“Mercer, don't be a fool—” the gunman started.
Rowan didn't wait. He grabbed the heavy, wooden kitchen chair and hurled it with all his strength at the lead man. The chair shattered upon impact, dropping the gunman to his knees. The second man lunged forward, but Rowan tackled him into the flimsy drywall, crashing into the hallway.
“Go! Now!” Rowan roared to Dr. Thorne.
Thorne dragged Clara to her feet, while Lily grabbed the black binder off the table and ran after them, clutching it to her chest like a prized toy.
Rowan fought with brutal efficiency, driven by a rage he hadn't felt in decades. He disarmed the second man with a swift strike to the wrist and pinned him to the floor. The lead gunman scrambled back to his feet, blood dripping from his nose, but hearing sirens wailing in the distance—alerted by Rowan’s private security detail—he spat on the floor and bolted down the fire escape.
Ten minutes later, three armored SUVs screeched to a halt outside the apartment building. Rowan’s personal head of security, Marcus Vance (no relation to Arthur Vance), burst through the door with four armed guards.
“Sir! Are you hurt?” Marcus asked, taking in the destroyed room.
“I’m fine,” Rowan panted, wiping blood from his knuckles. “Get Clara to my private medical wing at Mercer Tower. No public hospitals. No names on any registers. If the Board finds out she’s alive, they’ll finish what they started.”
“And the acquisition meeting, sir?” Marcus asked. “Chairman Vance has called three times. The foreign investors are threatening to walk.”
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Rowan picked up the black binder from Lily’s hands and looked down at the little girl. Her blue-threaded shoes were covered in plaster dust, but her eyes were steady.
“Tell Arthur Vance I’m on my way,” Rowan said, a dark smile touching his lips. “And tell him to clear the entire 29th floor.”
