Chapter 3 - The Secret World of Darren ColeThe transition from the sprawling lakeside estate to a cramped, brick-fronted townhouse off 47th Street felt like an execution to Lucas Mercer.
By Friday afternoon, his luxury sports car was locked in the estate garage, his smartphone had been replaced by a cheap prepaid flip phone, and his designer wardrobe had been reduced to two duffel bags dumped in the middle of a sparse, dusty living room.
He sat on a sagging thrift-store sofa, staring at the blank television screen, a deep, burning resentment eating away at his chest.
It was all her fault.
Nia Bennett.
That interfering, audit-counting, self-righteous housekeeper had upended his entire life in eighteen days. She hadn't cried. She hadn't quit. She had looked at him like he was a stray dog tracking mud onto a clean rug, and his father—his invincible, untouchable father—had actually listened to her.
A sharp knock rattled the front door.
Lucas stood up, opening it to find Darren Cole standing on the concrete stoop, holding a six-pack of beer and wearing an expensive cashmere jacket.
"Whoa, Mercer," Darren laughed, stepping past him into the cramped living room and whistling at the worn furniture. "What is this chic minimalist aesthetic? Did your dad finally hire an interior designer with brain damage?"
"Shut up, Darren," Lucas muttered, slamming the door shut.
"I'm serious, man. You weren't answering your main line, so I had to track down your burner number. The guys are heading down to the marina tonight for a poker game at Miller’s place. You driving?"
Lucas stared at the prepaid phone resting on the kitchen counter like a radioactive brick. "I don't have the car. My dad took the keys."
Darren stopped mid-laugh. His eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. "Wait. You got kicked out of the mansion? Over a maid?"
"She sprained her ankle or some bullshit," Lucas snapped, pacing across the scuffed linoleum floor. "She manipulated him. She’s acting like she owns the place. She even told my dad how to parent me!"
Darren set the beer on the counter, shaking his head with a sympathetic grin. "Man, that’s brutal. You let the help get the upper hand. You gotta show people like that where they stand, or they walk all over you. My dad always says poor people only respect power when you remind them who pays their wages."
Lucas felt a familiar spike of dark satisfaction at Darren's words. It justified the anger simmering in his gut. "I'm not done with her. Not by a long shot."
"Good," Darren said, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket and sliding it onto the counter. "Because Miller’s poker game tonight has a high buy-in, and my liquidity is a little tight this week. Since your old man cut off your black card, I figured you could do me a quick favor to cover my buy-in."
Lucas frowned. "What kind of favor?"
"Just a little paperwork," Darren smiled smoothly. "Your dad’s logistics company handles shipping manifests through the South Chicago docks every Tuesday. If you grab a copy of the security clearance codes from his private study—you still remember the passcode to his desk safe, right?—I can make sure a few independent trucks clear customs without a hitch. Easy five grand."
Lucas hesitated. He knew the safe code. He also knew that copying shipping manifests for Darren's sketchy associates crossed the line from college prank territory straight into federal felony syndicates.
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"I don't know, Darren," Lucas muttered. "My dad checks those logs weekly."
"Relax," Darren clapped him on the shoulder. "You want your life back, don't you? You want to prove to your old man that you're smarter than his precious housekeeper? This is how you play in the big leagues."
