Outside, the wind howled like an old song. It carried the restless whisper of the night — half memory, half lament — and the trees along the street swayed like ghosts caught between dance and prayer.
Vincent exhaled. He had missed this feeling — though he hadn't realized how much. The quiet. The chill. The space to think without the noise of people or power. For the first time in many nights, he felt something close to fulfillment. Maybe it was because, finally, he had moved his own piece on the board.
It was a quarter to midnight. The world outside lay hushed and watchful. Somewhere far away, the hum of Beverly Hills nightlife dimmed beneath the velvet dark. Yet in his mind, one thought pulsed like a heartbeat — Jennifer.
Knowing her, she wouldn't be asleep. She'd be wandering the halls, perhaps lingering by the lounge with a half-empty glass, waiting without saying she was waiting. It made him smile — how odd it felt to be waited for.
He'd never thought a woman would wait for him again. Not after Samantha, not after Tracy. But Jennifer Lawrence had. And in her own quiet way, she made waiting seem like strength, not desperation.
Their time together had been easy — no games, no pretense. For once, he felt like he was taking things at the right pace, saying the right things, maybe even being the right kind of man. But then she had gone and confessed her feelings — bold, unguarded, a thing few had dared with him. None of the women in his life had. And that difference… unsettled him.
Could pain change someone that much?Could heartbreak make a woman see a man more clearly — or make her blind to who he truly was?
He didn't know. But he knew one thing — before he let her too deep into his world, she had to see the truth of it. He had to show her what kind of man he really was. If she stayed after that, then she was not Samantha. If she didn't lose herself trying to become like him, then she was not Tracy.
Then maybe — just maybe — she was simply Jennifer Lawrence.
He smiled faintly at the thought. Time to get back.
Vincent descended the marble threshold and circled to the car. The night air nipped at his face, cool and thin. He slid into the backseat, still lost in the rhythm of his thoughts — he wanted to carry Jennifer in his mind all the way home, so that seeing her again would feel like stepping into a dream.
He shut the door and leaned back. The soft leather embraced him, sinking gently beneath his weight. Overhead, the custom ceiling glowed like a miniature night sky — hundreds of tiny jeweled lights glimmering above him, shimmering like constellations.
This was why his father had loved this car — the Rolls-Royce Phantom. A machine that let a man ride through the city in silence and still feel the beauty of the stars.
But something was wrong. The car was still. Quiet.
Too quiet.
His brow furrowed. The engine hadn't started.
"Carlos," he said without looking up. "We should get back."
"I would've, sir. But I'm preoccupied myself."
Preoccupied? The word hit him oddly.
His head snapped forward.
Carlos's hands were raised — trembling — and a gun barrel gleamed inches from his temple. The man in the passenger seat leaned back, face half in shadow, eyes lit with cold amusement.
"E wants a word," the man said, voice low and edged with mockery.
Vincent knew exactly who "he" was. But he asked anyway.
"Who?"
"You know who I'm on about, Mr Moretti." The man jerked his chin toward the street. "Out."
The door opened. Cold air slipped in.
Vincent climbed out, his senses tightening like drawn wire. He saw it then — an SUV parked two houses down, its engine still running. How the hell did I miss that?
"Stai heah," the gunman warned Carlos, his British accent sharp and ragged. The pistol twitched in his grip. "E moves, 'e's done for. If 'e so much as tails us, I can't promise ya'll be safe."
Vincent was marched toward the SUV as it pulled up beside him. The windows were pitch-black. No light inside. No sound.
Then — a soft click — and the rear door swung open.
"Go on," the man said, waving the gun.
Vincent growled quietly but obeyed. He climbed in. The door shut behind him, sealing him in darkness.
There were five men in total. Two on either side of him. Two in front — one driving, one with a pistol aimed lazily behind the seat. They were cautious. Too cautious. As if they knew what kind of man they were escorting.
He smirked and leaned back. Fine. If this was going to be a long night, he might as well be comfortable.
The car began to move.
They drove for nearly an hour, circling through Beverly Hills, then cutting toward Santa Monica. The road curved over the bridge, then down beneath it, where the city's glow dimmed into damp concrete and echoes.
The SUV rolled to a stop.
Vincent stepped out into the cool salt air. He counted at least a dozen more men waiting in the shadows near the parked cars. A quiet army. He chuckled under his breath and started walking toward them.
From one of the SUVs, a man emerged — tall, draped in a long coat, a pair of black gloves on his hands and small tinted glasses perched on his nose. A skull ring glinted on his finger.
Grim Voss.
"Weldone, Sneak," Voss said with a smug smile. "I knew you'd be the man for the job."
"Too easy, boss. If this the great Vincent Moretti, man's not impressed — senses dead like cold coffee."
Voss laughed softly, amused by the jab. "Don't beat a man, Sneak. Senses didn't dull." He turned to Vincent, his grin thinning. "It's what happens when a man bites more than he can chew."
Vincent smirked. "I'm not the one with a dozen men to protect me." His eyes swept the ring of men around him. "I've never had such a grand welcoming party from my haters before. I must say, I'm flattered, Voss… or is it Elias Crane?"
The name cut through the night like glass.
Voss's smile faltered. That name was buried — deep. Few alive even knew it existed, let alone dig for it.
He recovered quickly, straightened his coat. "I would expect nothing less of a Moretti."
A table was brought forward, two chairs placed on either side. The board between them gleamed like an altar — half light, half darkness — the battlefield of kings.
"Say we have a small game of chess?" Voss smiled.
"No," Vincent said almost instantly. "I don't want you to cry before your men when I humiliate you."
Voss chuckled. "I'm not afraid of some small tears."
They sat. The men circled, silent.
Voss nodded after he caught whiff of his cologne.
"You have taste." his said, his fingers hovering over his knight. He could feel Vincent's eyes watching him, steady, patient, waiting. He moved the knight, slow and deliberate, landing it in the center.
"I see why she interests you so much." Voss added.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Vincent's mouth. "Brave," he said softly. "Or foolish."
His bishop slid out a moment later, cutting across the board like a blade of glass. "I have an eye for beauty." He smiled.
Voss frowned. That single move had turned the board on its head. His center was open now, and Vincent knew it.
Voss cleared his throat. "We all can appreciate beauty" He pushed a pawn forward "But only when it's ours."
Vincent chuckled, Voss was hoping to buy himself space, but he was already there—already waiting. His queen came next, gliding with predatory grace.
"I can when there's no mark of possession." Vincent smiled, he leaned forward, voice turning to steel.
"Check"
The word hung in the air like a gunshot.
The men stiffened. Voss froze — then looked down at his defeated king. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached forward and tipped it over.
Vincent leaned back, expression unreadable. "You play from the heart," he murmured. "But heart's no match for patience."
Voss clapped lightly, forcing a laugh. "You've made your point, Mr. Moretti. Allow me to make mine."
Sneak stepped forward and dropped an envelope on the table.
Vincent glanced at it. "What's this?"
"Look at it," Voss said.
He opened it — a check. Vincent chuckled. "You even need lecturing on how to bribe a man?"
"Not a bribe. An offer. So we can deal in good faith."
"There's more?"
Voss smiled. Another check appeared. Triple the amount.
Then a blue file slid across the table — deeds to a beachfront property in Santa Monica.
Vincent's jaw tensed. He remembered that property — the resort that never was. A ghost dream buried by a mystery buyer.
"And I'm assuming you want something," he said.
"You know what I want." Voss leaned forward. "I want that woman."
"Woman?" Vincent repeated. "I've known you to call her that girl. Now it's woman. And all it took for you to see her as a woman, was just a modeling job?" He laughed.
"Don't be corky, kid. She's of no use to you. A man like you can get any woman he wants to play with."
"That you're right on. Dead right." Vincent's tone darkened. "Where you're wrong is thinking a bunch of zeros and some property can buy a life."
He rose to leave. The men raised their guns.
"It's over when I say it's over," Voss snapped.
Sneak slapped another file on the table.
"You might want to look at that one."
Vincent flipped it open. A ghost from his past stared back — the cover-up, the blood, the prints.
He slid it back calmly. "Give that to the DA. You already pinned a murder on my hands. This shouldn't be hard."
"You think I won't?"
"I don't think. I know you won't."
Voss sneered. "Why's that?"
Vincent leaned close. "Because I'm sure the DA would be happy to know what happened in Berlin." His voice dropped. "Or maybe what Victor Hale did in Hamburg."
Silence. Heavy. Cold.
They stared at each other, two men holding knives made of secrets.
"I'm going to get her back," Voss said finally.
"You'd have to pluck her from my cold, dead hands."
"I've eaten men like you for breakfast."
Vincent smiled. "I'm too much protein. At your age, it's unhealthy."
Voss's temper simmered. He rose and began pacing, voice thick with history. "I never met your father, a pity, but I've taken down men like your him. Dennis Craig. Joseph Morgan. The Lockwoods. Edson Fords. They thought they were untouchable too." He paused. "You remind me of them. Confident. Proud. Dead."
Vincent didn't flinch.
"It may interest you to know," he said quietly, "I'm nothing like those men."
"They all said that," Voss whispered. "And yet I'm the one still standing."
Vincent turned, started walking away.
"What's it gonna take, Mr. Moretti? Money? Power? I can make the priest charges go away. I can make your ex-wife back down from taking half of what you've built."
Vincent froze at the name — Tracy.
He turned his head just slightly. "Trust me, I can handle it all," he said. "Go on and have your breakfast. But make sure you bring an appetite."
And with that, he walked into the dark.
The sea wind howled beneath the bridge, carrying the salt and the echo of engines behind him.
Twenty minutes later, Carlos's car pulled up.
"For someone just driven off with a gun in his back," Carlos said, raising a brow, "you look satisfied."
Vincent only smiled and slid into the seat. Behind him, Santa Monica vanished like a ghost.