Chapter 4 - The Arrival of the Fleet
Before Henderson could formulate another insult, a low, mechanical rumble vibrated through the plate-glass windows of the café.
Through the rain-slicked darkness outside, three massive, black Cadillac Escalades with tinted windows and flashing blue emergency strobe lights turned sharply off Michigan Avenue. They mounted the curb, their heavy tires splashing dirty gutter water across the sidewalk, coming to a synchronized, aggressive halt directly in front of the bakery’s double doors.
The engine rumbles died, replaced by the rapid thud of vehicle doors slamming open.
Six men in tailored dark suits, wearing ear-pieces and carrying umbrellas, stepped out onto the wet asphalt, forming an impenetrable perimeter along the storefront.
The center Escalade's passenger door opened.
A tall, silver-haired man in his late fifties stepped out into the rain. He wore a bespoke charcoal wool overcoat over an immaculate three-piece suit, an Italian silk tie pinned with a platinum bar, and an expression of raw, unadulterated terror.
It was Gregory Sterling.
The multi-billionaire chairman and CEO of Sterling Global Bio-Tech—a man whose face was plastered across corporate billboards and financial news networks nationwide—pushed past his security detail, not caring that the cold rain was soaking his expensive hair.
He lunged through the bakery's front door, the brass bell ringing violently against the frame.
Behind him followed two corporate attorneys carrying heavy leather document portfolios.
Henderson stood behind the counter, his knees turning to jelly, his face draining of all color until he looked like a corpse in a poly-blend suit. He dropped his inventory tablet, the screen shattering against the quartz floor.
"M-Mr. Sterling?!" Henderson squeaked, clutching the counter for support. "Sir... what... what is happening? Why are you here?!"
Gregory Sterling didn't spare Henderson a single glance. He sprinted across the café floor, stopping two paces before the elderly man in the wet canvas coat.
Gregory dropped to both knees right there on the dirty, salt-stained tiles, heedless of his custom trousers. He bowed his head, his hands trembling as he reached out toward Walter Vance.
"Uncle Walter," Gregory choked out, his voice cracking with profound, desperate relief. "My God... you've been missing from the estate for four weeks! The board thought you were dead! We had federal investigators sweeping the tri-state area!"
Walter Vance looked down at his nephew, his face an unyielding mask of stone.
"I was not missing, Gregory," Walter said, his voice dropping an octave into an arctic chill. "I was doing the job you and your corrupt executive committee failed to do for twelve years."
Walter pointed the brass tip of his cane toward Emily, who was still standing by the kitchen doors, holding her torn apron against her chest in complete, stunned disbelief.
Gregory slowly lifted his head, following the line of the cane.
His eyes landed on Emily Ward.
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The billionaire CEO went completely, utterly pale. His jaw slackened, his eyes widening in pure, agonizing recognition as he took in her dark brown curls, her sharp jawline, and her wide, hazel eyes.
"Emily..." Gregory whispered, his breath catching in his throat. "You... you look just like Thomas."
