Her First Day as a Prosecutor Should Have Been a Triumph—Then She Opened a Case Tied to Her Brother

For twenty-four hours, the stone manor above the Hudson became an operational command center combining the terrifying intelligence network of the Mercer empire with the razor-sharp legal acumen of an elite federal prosecutor.

Perry Shaw laid out the wiretap transcripts. Colton Price brought the suppressed banking records from Switzerland. And Felicity reconstructed the entire narrative of the last twenty-five years.

The conspiracy was breathtaking in its audacity.

Warren Hail had not merely kidnapped Rosalind; he had created a secondary network of dummy corporations—including Caelum Logistics—to launder illegal payoffs to corrupt officials across three states. Nelson Gould had been the primary beneficiary, receiving over twelve million dollars in offshore trusts to protect Hail’s empire while systematically targeting Patrick Mercer’s legitimate holdings.

When Warren died, his nephew Victor took over the network, using Gould to orchestrate Knox’s federal indictment. Gould had intentionally assigned Felicity to the case, knowing that if Knox discovered her identity, Knox would either hesitate and be destroyed, or lash out and kill a federal prosecutor, ensuring his execution under federal treason and racketeering statutes.

"They didn't anticipate one thing," Felicity said, pinning a photograph of Nelson Gould to the chalkboard in Knox’s study.

"What's that?" Knox asked, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed.

"They thought because I grew up in foster homes, I was weak," Felicity said, her eyes flashing. "They thought I was just an ambitious kid looking for a promotion. They didn't realize that everything I survived taught me how to spot a predator."

At 6:00 a.m. the following morning, Felicity walked into the United States Attorney’s Office in Lower Manhattan through the main security entrance.

She was dressed in a sharp, pristine charcoal suit. Her hair was pulled back into an elegant knot. In her right hand was a single leather briefcase.

The marshals at the desk stared in shock. Rumors of the shootout in Newark had already circulated through the department; Gould had put out an internal memo claiming Davenport was missing and possibly abducted by Mercer’s syndicate.

"Morning, Carl," Felicity said cheerfully to the lead security officer, swiping her badge. "Beautiful day for justice."

She rode the elevator directly to the fourteenth floor and walked straight into Nelson Gould’s corner office without knocking.

Gould was sitting at his mahogany desk, on the phone with what sounded like a high-ranking Department of Justice official. When the door swung open and Felicity stepped in, his face drained of all color. The receiver slipped an inch from his ear.

"I’ll... call you back," Gould stammered, slamming the phone down.

He stood up, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with trembling fingers, trying to muster his usual authoritarian sneer. "Felicity! My God, we’ve had every federal agency looking for you! Where have you been? Are you out of your mind showing up here alone?"

Felicity walked to the center of the office, placed her briefcase on the leather chair opposite him, and unclasped the brass locks.

*Click. Click.*

"I’m not alone, Nelson," Felicity said calmly.

She opened the lid, pulled out a thick, blue-backed document, and dropped it onto the glass blotter of his desk.

"What is this?" Gould asked, his voice cracking.