17. Two Names #2
Family spokesperson Charlotte Evans described him as a devoted son, generous employer, and passionate advocate for advancing medical innovation.
Alexander has dedicated his career to improving lives through science, Evans said. His family remains deeply concerned for his welfare and asks that anyone with information contact authorities.
Police continue to investigate. No evidence of foul play has been released.
Jan nearly spits out her coffee.
I stare at the screen.
Victor’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice dries out completely. “That’s imaginative.”
“Imaginative is one word,” Jax mutters.
Grayson is already moving, fingers quick over his keyboard on the HQ screen. “These photographs have been retouched.”
Felicity leans closer beside him. “Jawline cleaned up, skin tone adjusted, background altered.”
“The donation?” Faith asks.
Mercy checks the linked foundation record. “Fifty thousand.”
“The article says five million,” Daniel says.
Angus studies Rothman’s smiling photograph. “Generous of him. Almost makes me regret the hotel bar.”
Every part of the story has been manufactured. The charity pose. The noble work. The public concern. The missing-philanthropist narrative wrapped around a man who drugged, sold, and disappeared women while his family financed the machinery around him.
Matthias studies the screen, his face gone still. “They’re protecting the family name.”
“No,” Victor says. “They’re protecting the seat.”
That changes the calculation.
Alexander Rothman isn’t only a prisoner. He’s evidence with a pulse, and his family has spent nearly a year constructing a version of him the public is prepared to defend.
Mercy scrolls farther down. “There are statements from senators, university boards, hospital foundations, and research institutes. Every one of them describes him like a national treasure.”
Daniel’s mouth tightens. “That isn’t concern. It’s reputation management.”
“It’s also a warning,” Faith says. “They’re showing how many respectable institutions will repeat the family’s version before anyone asks for proof.”
If the Rothmans discover HAVEN has him, they won’t search like ordinary people. They’ll mobilize lawyers, private security, bought officials, media contacts, and every institution already invested in preserving the lie.
Felicity looks up from her screen. “The article was seeded across twelve outlets within forty minutes. Same wording, different bylines.”
“Coordinated distribution,” Grayson says. “Someone wanted the story established before questions started.”
Victor studies the names beneath the article. “Save every endorsement.”
Mercy looks over. “For what?”
“The day Alexander Rothman becomes public,” he says. “Every politician, hospital, foundation, and university that vouched for him becomes part of the story.”
Faith’s fingers pause above her keyboard. “If we release him with the evidence attached, the family doesn’t only lose Alexander. Their protection network has to explain itself.”
“Exactly.”
I glance at Jan. Her coffee sits forgotten in her hand.
Nine missions taught us how Meridian makes women disappear.
This article shows how Legacy makes predators look respectable afterward.
Victor closes the article, but Rothman’s smiling face remains on the evidence wall.
“We control when the truth reaches daylight,” he says. “Until then, the Rothmans can keep polishing the lie.”
Mercy’s expression hardens. “And every person who repeats it gives us another name.”
Victor nods once.
“Let them talk.”
Marino’s Italian Restaurant, MacLeod’s Baby Bump Hotel, Sausalito, California. 1300 hours
By one o’clock, Riley has cleared the women for lunch downstairs.
Not long, not unsupervised, and with Jan, Liberty, Matthias, and Dr. Josh keeping an eye on them from different points around the restaurant.
But downstairs. In public.
With sunlight coming through the windows, wine glasses catching the light, and a long table covered in more Italian food than any reasonable group could finish without a written strategy.
For the rescued women, it might as well be a parade.
Bliss sits beside Matthias, a scarf wrapped loosely around her paint-stained hair and color stuck beneath her nails.
Naomi and Camille sit close together, both restrained at first, then slowly drawn into the noise around them.
Iris is pale but upright, wrapped in a soft cardigan Riley insisted on.
Maribel’s hands still tremble, but the worst of the withdrawal has eased enough that she can hold her fork and laugh when Eduardo sweeps toward the table like the entire restaurant has been waiting for his entrance.
“Ladies, gentlemen, heroes, troublemakers, and one baby who is clearly the best dressed person in the room,” he announces, flourishing a napkin over one arm.
Claudine sleeps through the compliment in her pram beside Destiny’s chair. Angus looks down at his daughter with the grave attention of a man guarding state secrets.
Eduardo clasps both hands to his heart. “The baby has ignored me. Devastating. I may never recover.”
Destiny laughs and reaches for Claudine as she stirs.
Within three minutes, the baby is passed from Destiny to Sophia, from Sophia to Shereen, who’s sporting her own baby bump, from Shereen to Zara, and then to Elena, who accepts her with the focused concentration of a woman handling a priceless prototype.
Marcus leans closer, his voice low. “Careful, love. You’ll make me want another.”
Elena looks down at Claudine’s tiny face, then back at him with a soft smile. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Marcus stills for half a second. Then his smile changes completely.
Across the table, Brian raises his glass toward Dante. “We built a hotel, brother, and somehow it became a recovery ward, restaurant, command post, and baby relay station.”
Dante shrugs. “Efficient use of space.”
Brian’s booming laugh rolls down the table. “That may be the most Dante answer ye’ve ever given.”
The food arrives in waves. Antipasto boards, fresh bread, bowls of pasta, roasted vegetables, seafood, slow-cooked sauces, and platters Eduardo describes with such theatrical reverence that even Victor pauses long enough to listen.
Renzo sits beside Ecstasy, who doesn’t open her own restaurant until six but manages to inspect every plate like kitchens everywhere are personally accountable to her.
Her Serbian-Italian fusion place has become impossible to book lately, and the pride in Renzo’s face when someone mentions it is almost subtle enough to miss.
Almost.
The table fills with conversation.
Victor has one rule around the lunch table. Work is a four-letter word. Anyone who brings it up buys dessert.
It’s just food, teasing, baby passing, laughter, and the strange, stubborn sound of people choosing life after someone tried to steal it.
Adrian stands near the head of the table with Riley beside him. He lifts his glass, and the conversations quiet.
“To HAVEN,” he says. “For the women we brought home, for the people who refused to leave them behind, and for everyone we haven’t reached yet.”
Glasses lift around the table.
“To HAVEN,” everyone answers.
I look down the length of the table.
At the rescued women eating slowly, carefully, but eating.
At Jan laughing softly beside Liberty and Cole, Faris’s nose poking out of her jacket like he’s personally approved lunch.
At Matthias watching Bliss choose another cannoli because she can.
At Claudine sleeping in the pram while Angus pretends he isn’t monitoring every breath from three feet away.
For a few hours, the war waits outside.
Inside, there’s warmth, food, and proof that Meridian doesn’t get the final word.
Jan’s hand finds mine beneath the table.
I hold on.
One piece at a time.