Chapter 2 - Dinner with the Devil
The restaurant was called The Foundry, tucked into a converted industrial brick warehouse overlooking the dark expanse of the Allegheny River. It was not open to the public on Saturday afternoons, but when Gabriel Mercer approached the bronze-framed glass doors, the lock turned from the inside within two seconds.
Mason sat across from Claire in an oversized leather booth, still clutching his diploma cylinder like a weapon. The boy was visibly overwhelmed. He had gone from facing forty-six thousand dollars in instant debt to sitting in a private dining room with Pittsburgh's most infamous real estate mogul.
"Drink the water, Mason," Claire whispered, kicking his shoe gently under the table. "You look like you're going to faint."
"Claire, that's Gabriel Mercer," Mason muttered through clenched teeth, leaning forward. "Do you have any idea who his family is? In the nineties, his uncle basically owned every shipping terminal between here and Cleveland. My roommate’s father worked for their concrete division and said you don't even look at a Mercer wrong unless you want your tires slashed."
"Your tires are safe, Mr. Bennett," a low voice interrupted.
Gabriel walked in, shedding his tailored suit jacket and draping it casually over the back of a mahogany chair. Without the jacket, the sheer width of his shoulders and the crisp, ruthless tailoring of his charcoal vest were even more imposing. A heavy silver signet ring flashed on his left hand as he set a thick manila folder onto the center of the table.
A waiter appeared silently, setting down three steaming plates of roasted tenderloin and fingerling potatoes, poured water without making a sound, and vanished behind the swinging kitchen doors.
"Eat," Gabriel commanded, gesturing to the food. "You've had a stressful morning. Both of you."
"I'd rather talk about why Julian Vance cares about my tuition," Mason said, surprising Claire with his backbone.
Gabriel picked up his water glass, his eyes assessing Mason with something resembling approval. "Julian doesn't care about your tuition, Mason. Forty-six thousand dollars is rounding error on the Foundation's monthly fuel receipts. What Julian cares about is keeping you from entering the Mercer Aerospace prototyping division in August."
Claire dropped her fork. It landed on the china plate with a sharp ring. "Mason was hired by Mercer Aerospace?"
Mason turned red. "I... I was going to tell you over lunch, Claire. The offer letter came on Thursday. It’s an entry-level turbine design position. Sixty-five grand a year with full benefits. It meant you could finally sell Dad’s old Heidelberg press and stop taking print orders for local funeral homes."
Claire’s throat tightened so hard she couldn't speak. She reached out and grabbed her brother's wrist, squeezing until her knuckles turned white. For seven years, she had run that loud, ink-stained print shop on Penn Avenue, inhaling solvent fumes and fighting off small-claims creditors just to keep the heat on in their drafty row house. She had given up college, given up dating, given up having a life of her own so that Mason could reach this exact moment.
"Congratulations, Mase," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"The problem," Gabriel intervened, his cold voice slicing through the emotional haze, "is that Julian Vance’s son-in-law was the other finalist for that exact design seat. But nepotism isn't Julian's primary motive here. Julian knew that all Mercer Aerospace junior engineers undergo a Level 4 security screening through my private compliance firm. A screening that requires a complete audit of the applicant’s immediate family records."
Gabriel opened the manila folder and turned it toward Claire.
Inside were yellowed copies of business tax filings from 2018. At the top of each page was the name of her father's company: Bennett Fine Lithography & Print.
Claire stared at the documents. Her mouth went dry. "These are my father's old tax returns. Where did you get these?"
"Julian Vance didn't just manage my foundation," Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Claire with an intensity that made her pulse flutter against her ribs. "Before my father died twelve years ago, Julian managed several of our shell holdings. Between 2016 and 2018, someone used small, independent print shops across western Pennsylvania to produce counterfeit municipal bond certificates and forged land deeds. Hundreds of millions of dollars' worth."
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Claire felt the room begin to spin. "My father was an honest man. He never printed anything illegal in his life!"
"I know," Gabriel said softly. "Your father refused to do it. And two weeks after he refused, his vehicle was forced off the road on Route 28."
