The next morning, at exactly 5:00 a.m., I sat in the kitchen of my modest apartment.
The left side of my face was swollen and purple, a brutal reminder of the thirty slaps my son had delivered.
I took a slow sip of black coffee, feeling the sting against the cut inside my cheek.
But I didn’t feel pain. I felt a profound, absolute clarity.
For thirty-two years, I had been Ryan’s father.
But as of last night, I was simply Leonard Mercer: the man who built an empire from dust.
And it was time to run this situation like a business transaction.
I opened my laptop and dialed Marcus Vance, my corporate attorney and closest friend for thirty-five years.
He answered on the second ring.
“Leonard? It’s early. What’s wrong?” Marcus asked, his voice instantly sharp.
“Marcus, I need you to initiate a wire-transfer sale for the Beverly Hills estate.
