~Some Hours After Vincent Left The Estate~
Vincent told Jennifer he had something to take care of in Beverly Hills. He did — only, he made it sound like he was seeing an old acquaintance.
But tonight wasn't about handshakes or memories.
It was about war.
Carlos eased the black sedan off the road and rolled slowly up a narrow drive. The street was quiet — almost too quiet — the kind of silence that precedes a storm. Pale streetlamps glowed weakly against the curtain of mist, and the tall coconut trees swayed like mourners in the dark.
Vincent climbed out, buttoning his shirt as the wind tugged at his sleeves. He scanned the house before him — a duplex crouched in the shadows, its windows dark, its lawn too neat to be lived in. A house that looked like it had been holding its breath for years.
"Wait for me," Vincent said.
Carlos nodded and stayed behind the wheel.
Vincent crossed the path and climbed the steps. He knocked three times. No answer.
The third knock echoed, dull and heavy against the wood — then silence.
He turned the knob. It gave way.
He stepped inside.
The air was stale with smoke and the faintest trace of charcoal. The living room was a half-forgotten space: heavy curtains drawn, newspapers stacked, one ashtray brimming with burnt-out cigarettes. Only the fireplace gave life — a low, flickering flame painting gold against the cracked stone wall.
Vincent closed the door behind him. His eyes drifted toward a thin line of smoke curling up from a cigarette resting on the edge of the ashtray. Still burning. Still fresh.
Someone was here.
He bent, picked up a book that lay face down on the carpet — a crime novel, spine broken, pages bent from restless hands.
"Hale," Vincent said calmly, straightening.
"You can come out now."
From behind the curtain's shadow, Marcus Hale stepped out. The detective's hair was a storm of grey, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness. In his hand, a black pistol.
The muzzle pointed straight at Vincent's head.
Vincent didn't flinch.
He turned slowly, met the weapon with a smirk.
"That scared of me, Marcus?"
"No shit, Mr. Moretti," Hale said, his voice gravel and exhaustion. "You don't just drive up to a man's house by ten p.m. and walk in."
"I knocked. Three times." Vincent's tone was even, almost dry. "You know what they say about third times."
The gun didn't lower.
Vincent sighed. "You gonna put that away, or should I do it for you?"
That did it. Hale slipped the gun under his belt. He moved to a table littered with files and poured two glasses of bourbon.
"Drink?" he muttered. He didn't wait for an answer. He poured anyway.
Vincent accepted the glass. "What's got you so worked up?"
Hale sniffed, then took a long swallow before speaking. "I got a black king."
His hand trembled as he poured again. "I've sent Brenda and Allen to my mother's in Queens." His voice cracked. "Couldn't risk it. Not with what I've seen."
Vincent's brow tightened. "I'm sorry."
Hale let out a bitter laugh that wasn't laughter at all. "No shit, Vincent. I warned you this would happen. You're making too much noise."
"And I asked you to tune it down," Vincent said.
"Well, I didn't. And all we did was poke the bear." He gave a hollow smile. "Between the both of us, you're the one with the better running shoes."
Once again, someone was paying the price for his war.
Vincent set the glass down. His eyes flicked to the fire — gold tongues rising and dying like lost souls.
"I can't be seen with you," Hale said after a moment. "My career's hanging by a thread. Now my life too."
"Then help me end this."
The words came sharp.
Vincent almost hated how desperate they sounded.
Hale let out a strangled laugh — the kind men make when they realize they're cornered.
"The great Vincent Moretti asking for help. Never thought I'd see that before I die."
He emptied his glass and poured again.
"These beasts won't stop unless I find something to put them down with," Vincent said.
"And why do you suddenly have a personal vendetta against the most dangerous man in this corner of the world?" Hale asked, voice low.
"Because," Vincent said quietly, "I took someone from him."
The crack of realization was loud as thunder.
Hale's head snapped up. "That model. The one who started this scandal… it's her, isn't it?"
Vincent didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"Jesus, Vincent. Just give the man his woman back."
"She doesn't belong to him."
"And she belongs to you?" Hale's voice flared, hands thrown in disbelief.
"You don't get it," Vincent said. His voice was calm, but the tremor beneath it was dangerous. "This man extorts people. He preys on the weak — women, children. Jennifer was the first victim I crossed paths with."
"And now you're what?" Hale snapped. "Superman? Batman?" he paused and added "You don't take something from that man and live, Vincent. No one does."
"She's not a thing!" Vincent's voice boomed through the empty house.
Hale blinked, startled by the ferocity in his eyes.
"What does it matter, Vincent?" he asked softly. "Is she worth ruining your life for? Mine?"
"Yes."
The word came before thought could stop it.
Silence stretched. The fire popped softly, and Hale studied the man before him.
For the first time, he saw Vincent not as the tycoon — not as the Moretti heir — but as a man drowning in something raw and fatal.
Love. Obsession. Redemption. Maybe all three.
"Well," Hale muttered, rubbing his face. "I hate to ruin your grand declaration of love, but I'm not going down for her. Or for you."
Vincent's head snapped up. "You remember the man who saved your son?"
"Vincent—"
"No, you listen to me!" Vincent's voice thundered. "I pulled that boy from the jaws of death. I put him back on his feet — gave you your family, your career, your goddamn peace of mind! You don't forget that!"
Hale flinched. "So that's what this is? A debt, not a friendship?"
"Help?" Vincent hissed. "There's no such thing. It's all favors, disguised as kindness. So let's not pretend. You owe me — and you're going to prove to those law bigots that I am as innocent as a child."
Hale turned away, rubbing his temples. His shoulders slumped under the weight of it all.
When he finally faced Vincent again, the decision had already been made.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Father Andrew," Vincent said. "I want his connection to Jennifer, and to Voss. That's where it starts. That's how we end this."
"That's like sniffing around a lion's den," Hale muttered.
"Ever heard of the honey badger?" Vincent replied, dryly.
Hale let out a humorless laugh. "The Vincent I knew would never fear this man."
"I don't." Vincent's eyes were steel. "But if I'm going to bury him, I'll do it by the book."
"That way he can't claw his way back." Hale nodded, almost impressed.
Vincent picked up the book he'd dropped earlier and held it up to Hale's face before calmly setting it on the table. "Then stop reading fiction, Detective, and start writing the real story."
He turned for the door.
"You said the DA's monitoring me," Hale said quietly. "But that's not why you came, is it? You wanted to look me in the face when you asked. You wanted me to see the man behind the monster."
Vincent paused at the threshold.
"See?" he said, without turning. "Detective instincts still work."
"When is my debt paid, Vincent?" Hale's voice wavered.
Vincent hesitated. Then, without looking back, he said softly —
"After this."
The door opened. Cold air rushed in.
And as he stepped into the night, the fire behind him dimmed to embers.