Chapter 7 - The Confession of Dr. Mercer
By 11:00 p.m., the storm over Lake Michigan was howling against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the penthouse, sending sheets of rain lashing sideways across the downtown skyline.
The triplets were fast asleep in the nursery down the hall, their breathing soft and rhythmic in the quiet dark.
In the private study, the atmosphere was thick enough to suffocate.
Dr. Malcolm Mercer sat tied securely to a sturdy mahogany armchair, his gray hair disheveled, his expensive silk tie loosened, sweat pouring down his pale, terrified face. Standing over him was Donovan, while Roman stood by the window with his back to the room, a glass of amber whiskey untouched in his hand.
I stood near the door, my arms crossed, watching the man who had stolen my children look like a cornered rat.
"I have rights!" Mercer stammered, his voice cracking. "You can't do this, Roman! I'm a respected physician! If the medical board—"
"The medical board is the least of your concerns, Malcolm," Roman said without turning around. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, then set the glass down with a heavy clink on the windowsill.
Roman turned around slowly. He walked across the room, stopped two feet in front of Mercer, and leaned down until their faces were inches apart.
"Let’s talk about June eighteenth," Roman said quietly. "Let’s talk about how three healthy, viable infants born to Pamela Hayes were marked as deceased on my late wife’s personal instructions."
Mercer swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically. "Alessandra... Madame Voss... she came to me six months into her own false pregnancy. She knew you wanted heirs, Roman. She knew that if she didn't produce children, your grandfather’s inheritance trust would pass over her line entirely. She was desperate."
"So she faked her own pregnancy, paid you a fortune, and stole my children?" Roman’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the terrifying pressure of an oncoming avalanche.
"She didn't steal them from you, Roman! She took them for you!" Mercer cried out, panic overriding his discretion. "She told me you wanted a family more than anything, but you would never look twice at an independent mother from a working-class background! She said she was giving you the heirs you needed, and she was giving the mother a clean break with a generous financial settlement—"
"A financial settlement?" I stepped forward out of the shadows, my voice trembling with cold, unadulterated fury. "You gave me death certificates! You told me my babies were dead in a basement morgue!"
"Alessandra handled the payouts!" Mercer whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. "I only signed the transfer logs! Conrad Vale set up the legal wall with the fake Rebecca Lawson identity so no one could ever trace the birth records back to your ward, Pamela! I swear to God, I didn't know Alessandra was going to die in that car crash—if she had lived, the secret would have gone to the grave!"
Roman stared down at the doctor for three long seconds. There was no anger left in his face—just a cold, dead, absolute certainty.
"Donovan," Roman said quietly.
"Yes, boss?"
"Pack him into a crate and ship him to a federal prosecutor in the Eastern District with the complete financial trail linking his offshore accounts to Alessandra’s personal trust," Roman ordered without looking back. "Make sure the indictment includes conspiracy, child trafficking, and falsification of vital records. Ensure he never sees daylight again."
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"No! Please, Roman! Have mercy!" Mercer screamed as Donovan grabbed the back of the chair and wheeled him rapidly toward the service elevator.
The heavy doors slid shut, cutting off the doctor’s shrieks.
