Chapter 66 Leverage Markets
Sloane’s POV
Zurich looked even cleaner in the morning, which felt rude.
The sky was bright, the lake glittered like a stock photo, and I was walking into a private dining room full of people who could decide whether Mercer lived or died while eating croissants.
They had booked us a round table in the corner of a high floor restaurant. Floor to ceiling windows, neutral art, the quiet clink of expensive cutlery. A small circle of high level investors waited when I walked in. Some I knew. Some neutral faces. A couple with faint Council fingerprints on their portfolios.
“Ms Mercer,” one of them said, standing to shake my hand. “Thank you for meeting us.”
“Thank you for not shorting us yet,” I said. It got a few tight smiles.
We sat. Coffee was poured. Plates appeared. No one touched the food at first.
A gray haired woman from a sovereign wealth fund started. “We are here because Mercer has been a good bet for us,” she said. “Innovative, stable. The last year has… changed the risk calculus.”
“What she means,” a man in a navy suit cut in, “is that you have been poking a very large bear. Publicly. Some of us are not sure you understand how sharp its claws are.”
“That bear is running kill switches on hospitals and arranging convenient balcony accidents,” I said. “I understand the claws quite well.”
A younger man at the far end let out a small laugh. Luca Rossi. Early forties maybe. Smart eyes, no tie, open collar in a room full of perfect Windsor knots.
“Some of us,” he said, “are also not sure we want to stay inside that bear’s den forever.”
A murmur of disapproval from one side. Interest from another.
“The question,” the gray haired woman said, “is whether Mercer is still a good bet dug in against the Council. Or whether we should quietly rotate out before you drag us into open war.”
Honesty was cheaper than trying to spin people who read balance sheets for sport.
“I cannot promise you the Council will not hit back,” I said. “They already are. I can promise that if I started taking their money to stay quiet, you would not have Mercer. You would have a shiny front for the same system we are all pretending to investigate.”
Luca leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What if,” he said, “there was a third option.”
Everyone looked at him.
“I run a fund that likes weird bets,” he said. “As you know. People who break things on purpose to see what better looks like. I am interested in putting money behind something that is not Lattice shaped.”
I raised a brow. “And your definition of not Lattice shaped is what exactly.”
“A joint initiative,” he said. “Mercer. Ward. Alina Marković’s firm. Watchdog work. Training. Independent audits. A counterweight. Not just you shouting into the void, but an actual alternative power center people can point to when they say, ‘We do not want Helix 2.’”
My pulse picked up a little. Building something new instead of just tearing down. It was a seductive prospect.
“Catch,” I said.
He smiled. “I am an investor, not a philanthropist. I want influence. A seat at the table. A voice in how your ethical alternative wields its own power. You already know how dangerous unaccountable tools are. I would like to make sure you do not become what you hate.”
Some of the others looked scandalized. Others looked relieved that someone had said it out loud.
Internally, the math was messy. Refuse all money with strings and we die on principle, slowly strangled by lack of resources while the Lattice got creative. Say yes to the wrong money and we stand up on a pretty stage in five years and realize we have built Council 2.0 with a better logo.
“I am interested,” I said. That got a few raised brows. “But hypothetical funding packages will not save us if we become the thing we are fighting.” I met Luca’s eyes. “We will need governance models that do not look like this room.”
He nodded, unfazed. “Good. Bored men in suits are a leading indicator of doom.”
The meeting ended with no signed documents, but with something like possibility hanging in the air. The investors filed out, some colder, some warmer. Luca lingered.
“You have a choice, Ms Mercer,” he said quietly as we shook hands. “Die a righteous martyr to decentralization, or build something that outlives you. I am offering a tool, not a throne. You decide how you use it.”
After he left, I found Eli in the hotel lounge, pretending to read a local paper and actually watching everyone’s hands.
“How did it go,” he asked.
“They are trying to decide if I am worth the trouble,” I said, dropping into the chair opposite him. “One of them offered money for a counter Lattice coalition. Mercer. Ward. Alina. With him standing nearby to make sure we do not install our own secret kill switches.”
He nodded slowly. “You interested?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Terrified. If we refuse all money with strings, we die on principle. If we say yes to the wrong money, we become the thing we hate.”
“Maybe the difference this time,” he said, “is that you are building it with people you choose. And with your eyes open.”
I thought about that. About the girl in my father’s dining room pouring wine for men who used words like strategic partnership while never looking at her. About the woman now sitting in Zurich, being asked outright what she wanted to build.
“Whatever circle of influence you build,” he added, “I want to be in it with you. Not watching from the perimeter.”
Something in me loosened. “Then promise me,” I said, leaning forward, “if I start acting like my father or Noah, you will drag me out if you have to.”
He half laughed, half grimaced. “I will throw you over my shoulder if necessary,” he said. “In front of whomever needs to see it.”
The image made me snort despite myself. “Harper will be thrilled.”
We sat there for a moment, the hum of the lobby around us, the weight of what we were considering pressing in.
I pulled out my phone to check in with Harper before the time zones completely swallowed our overlap.
Her text came through before I could type.
Stateside update, it read. Mariah is spinning your Council refusal as high risk extremism. Sentinel Gate just won a big domestic contract. The Lattice is consolidating.
I stared at the screen, jaw tightening.
So while we sat here talking about ethical alternatives, the old system was already closing ranks. Tying off loose ends. Rebranding our defiance as recklessness.
I handed the phone to Eli. He read, mouth flattening.
“Looks like we are not the only ones building coalitions,” he said.
“No,” I said. The coffee in my stomach turned to acid. “But we are going to be the ones who make theirs cost more than it is worth.”
He reached across the small table and took my hand. Not for comfort. For agreement.
This was not just about surviving anymore.
It was about who got to write the terms.