Chapter 4 - The Mercer Standard
Frank and four armed men stepped out of the secondary vehicles into the rain.
The two thugs on the porch barely had time to turn around before they were pinned face-first against the wet brick siding.
One of them started to yell, but Frank pressed his thumb into a nerve cluster on the man’s neck, instantly silencing him.
“You’re on private property,” Frank murmured cheerfully into the man’s ear. “And you’re disturbing Mr. Mercer’s evening.”
The word Mercer seemed to evaporate all the bravado from both men’s bodies.
The second thug’s knees buckled. “Mercer? We… we didn't know! We work for Sal Castiglione!”
Frank smiled thinly. “Sal works for the city now. And the city answers to Mr. Mercer. Walk away before I decide your car belongs in the East River.”
Within thirty seconds, the thugs were running down the street on foot, leaving their sedan behind.
Hannah stared out the window in absolute shock.
She turned to Vincent, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and realization.
“Who are you?” she breathed.
Vincent met her gaze without flinching. He didn't offer a polished corporate lie. He had spent his life surrounded by people who were terrified of his name, but looking at Hannah Miller, he refused to hide.
“I am the man who is going to make sure no one ever kicks your door again,” Vincent said evenly.
Hannah looked at him for a long moment. She didn't scream. She didn't demand to get out.
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She had spent five years working in trauma wards, watching the worst of humanity come through the swinging doors. She knew the difference between a predator and a guardian.
“Come upstairs,” Hannah said quietly. “I’ll make you real coffee.”
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