Poised footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by a voice pleading for permission. The intruder ignored it, pressing forward.
Tracy looked up from her desk. She had heard the scuffle. This was her private villa — only a select few had access. Her mind raced. Vincent?
The door swung open. She rose abruptly, masking her surprise with a smug smile. But the man who entered looked nothing like Vincent. The scar across his face was warning enough. Behind him, two of her security men hovered at the door.
"I'm not here to hurt the little butterfly," the man said, his rough voice scraping the air. "They can all live, or I take my deal elsewhere. But know this — if I walk out without what I want, you go on my blacklist."
Tracy arched a brow, then waved her men away. When the door shut, the man lowered himself into a chair, propping his feet on her table. She frowned.
"You must be quite bold, sitting like that after threatening me in my own home."
She paced, tapping her phone against her palm before setting it down. "So. Grim Voss. What can I do for you?"
He glanced at his watch. "Forty seconds. Your men are good at their job." He smirked. "But it's more about what you can do for me."
Tracy's jaw tightened. "Excuse me?"
"Your ex-husband. I want him away from my merchandise." His Russian accent grated against her ears.
"That filth belongs to you?" Tracy growled.
"Yes. That filth is mine. And you're not doing enough to keep her away from him." The way he said that man made her skin crawl.
"I don't understand. You're a formidable figure. A man like Vincent shouldn't even matter to you. And a girl like her?" She smirked. "Insignificant."
Voss's face darkened, though he masked it quickly.
"This scandal is bad for business. The longer she stays in the middle of it, the worse it gets for my money. And I don't play with my money."
"I don't like being told what to do."
"Listen, butterfly." He leaned over the mahogany desk, his shadow swallowing the space. "People pay heavily for that girl. She's the hen that lays the golden egg. Whatever you have to do, get it done."
Tracy's gaze hardened. "You didn't hear me the first time. I don't like being told what to do."
Voss chuckled, his shoulders shaking. "It's a pattern, then. Maybach boy seems to have a thing for hard-headed women." He slid his hands into his pockets, pacing slowly.
Tracy stiffened. She had been forged under Murphy Donovan's iron hand, then married Vincent — a beast only a few knew. No man intimidated her. But Voss… he was darker than Voldemort.
"Tracy Donovan," he drawled. "What's the other name again?" He paused, then smirked. "Never mind."
The shift unsettled her. He knew something.
"I don't make deals. I take what I want. But since I've got a week full of small fries like you, I'll indulge. Hurry up and keep my merchandise in line… or the world will learn who's really at fault in this scandal." He turned toward the door.
"You're bluffing." Tracy's veins bulged. No way he had something on her.
"Am I?" Voss looked back over his shoulder. "Maybe Maybach boy would think otherwise."
"Stop." Tracy shot to her feet. He had cornered her. Her plans couldn't collapse now.
Voss strolled back, casual as ever. "The slander works, but it's not enough."
"I'm aware. You think I don't want something bigger to push the headlines? He's been careful. Especially after that gala."
"That's your problem. But here's a gift — he's relocated her and given her a modeling job."
Tracy's eyes lit with fury. So that's why Felicity Lourdes was at the gala. He had the audacity to rub it in my face? Vincent knew modeling had once been her dream, stolen by the family business — and now he was using it against her.
Voss watched the rage flare across her face. Perfect. He had given her motivation.
The door slammed shut. Tracy pulled the telephone. It rung twice.
"Ma'am" the voice on the other end greeted.
"I need you to keep an eye on Felicity Lourdes. Where she goes and who she meets with." He replaced the receiver.
***
Carlos eased the Maybach to a halt beside the curb. Vincent was back in Santa Monica. His tall figure unfolded from the car, every inch of him carrying an authority that bent the air around him. His eyes swept the neighborhood with soldier-like precision, searching, calculating. Only when satisfied with the strategic positioning of his guards did he move forward and enter her apartment.
He knocked. Once. Twice. On the third, the door cracked open. Jennifer stood there, hesitant, her frame small against the white doorway. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a quiet finality, as if sealing them both into a different world.
Her gaze froze on the bouquet of flowers in his hands. He didn't speak, just walked over and placed them carefully into the waiting vase on the table. The gesture was strangely gentle, so unlike the man who had broken into her life like a storm.
He turned to her, his voice low. "How are you?"
Jennifer crossed her arms, her eyes falling to her toes. Silence weighed between them like a stone.
"I don't…" Her voice broke, the words caught in her throat. She stuttered, afraid to finish. He tilted his head slightly, urging her to go on.
"I appreciate this. All of it. But you're breaking my life more than you're trying to fix it."
Vincent's jaw tightened. He shook his head slowly, frustration pressing into his chest. Why is she this stubborn?
"Jennifer…"
"I don't want any of this," she cut him short, sharp as glass.
His control snapped. "You want to live in Voss's world then?"
Her eyes flared with fire. "Excuse me? Until I met you, my life wasn't threatened."
The words sliced through him. His shoulders sagged, his anger bleeding into weariness.
"You had no life," he said, voice heavy. "Working for a man who thinks he owns you—that is not a life."
Jennifer's voice rose, trembling with fury. "Like you own me now? I can't cross the threshold without your men demanding what I want."
"They're here to protect you."
"And I'm saying I don't want any of that!" she screamed, her voice raw, shaking the air between them.
He turned, his hands raking his hair. He wanted to walk out—God, he should walk out. But every time his eyes touched her face, another image forced itself into his mind. Samantha. The ghost he could never bury.
"I can't," he said, his voice breaking at the edges. "If protecting you means forcing this on you, then forgive me. Because he's not getting his hands on you. Not ever. And you are not going back to that life."
"Why?" She moved closer, her eyes searching his face like a plea. He stepped back, flinching as if burned.
"She's not Samantha" he muttered under his breath, almost too soft to hear.
Her words hit him again, hammering at the cracks in the walls he'd built around himself.
"No one should live like that," he said hoarsely, turning toward her, his shadow stretching over hers. "No one should be given the kind of choices you've been given." His voice deepened, trembling. "How dare he."
Rage clawed up his chest, twisting with grief. He had been carrying it ever since Tracy's betrayal—every wound, every scar burning alive in him—and now she was back, circling, ready to take the only thing he had left. And he was losing.
He spun away sharply, shoulders trembling, fighting back a tear. His hand dragged roughly across his face, wiping it before it could fall. The sound of his sniff broke the silence, raw and human.
Then his phone buzzed.
Carlos's voice cracked through the line, urgent.
"We have a problem, ser. Your attorney called. Tracy is suing you for going back on your word."
The line went dead. A cold wave of dread surged through Vincent's chest. His fists clenched. He spun toward the door, and Jennifer's hand twitched to reach for him—but he was already gone, a shadow slipping through the frame. Moments later, the Maybach screeched off into blazing day.
Vincent's stride was a storm tearing through Donovan Couture. His presence shook the halls, security powerless to hold him back. He knew this building like a map burned into his veins. Carlos followed close behind, his eyes sharp, a hand brushing his jacket as if expecting a fight.
A receptionist darted forward, panic written across her face.
"Sir—you're not allowed to—"
"Try and stop me." His words cracked like a whip. Vincent slammed both doors of Conference Room C open, the sound rattling across the glass walls.
"How dare you?" His roar thundered through the room, vibrating through every polished surface.
Tracy lifted her eyes from the file in her hand, calm, venomous. A smirk tugged at her lips.
"Finally. Struck where it hurts."
"There was no deal between us!" Vincent's voice dropped to a growl, lethal.
"Oh, but there was." Charles Forstman, Tracy's lawyer, interjected, his tone cutting, smug. "July 6th, 2019. You promised my client twenty percent of your company if the two of you ever separated. And now—you're refusing to honor it."
He slid a blue folder across the table. It screeched against the glass. Vincent didn't even glance at it. His gaze was fixed on Tracy, who leaned back in her chair with infuriating ease.
"She's lying," Vincent spat. But his voice faltered. That smile on her face—the one she wore when she had him cornered—punched holes through his composure.
Tracy rose, slow, deliberate.
"I was willing to let that go, Vincent. Truly." Her eyes glinted. "But then I remembered—the little woman you had an affair with? She's nothing but a toy to me. You humiliated me."
"I did nothing wrong, and you know it," Vincent snarled. "You're finally becoming your father's daughter. He never wanted me in the first place."
"Watch your tone!" Tracy's voice cracked the air like a whip.
"I have done nothing but love you through the best and worst of these five years," Vincent shot back, raw emotion bleeding through his words.
"Cry me a river." Her laugh was hollow, cutting. She stepped closer, invading his space, her eyes locking onto his with ruthless precision.
"I'll strip you bare, Vincent. Piece by piece. Down to the last brick you own. Everything you built—I will bury it in the ground. I'll see you in court." She brushed past him toward the door, her perfume lingering like poison.
Then she paused, hand on the handle, and looked back, her smile sharper than any blade.
"Oh—I almost forgot." Her voice dripped with malice. "Your whore? She's being swarmed by reporters right now. Someone tipped them off about her location."
The words landed like a bomb, detonating in his chest.
Vincent's eyes burned black with rage, shadows swallowing the light in them. His jaw locked, his breath sharp, and without a word he turned, each step down the pavement pounding heavier than the last. Carlos was already moving, the Maybach screeching to the curb, headlights cutting through the swarm.
The car hadn't even fully stopped when Vincent ripped the door open and leapt out.
Jennifer was cornered. Her back pressed against the cold wall, her face pale under the blinding storm of camera flashes. Reporters circled her like vultures, voices sharp, their twisted questions echoing Tracy's venom. The crowd pressed closer, microphones shoved into her face as if she were prey and they were the hunters.
Vincent's blood boiled, molten fire racing through his veins. His vision tunneled. The sound of their laughter, their accusations, their snapping shutters—every second clawed at his sanity.
He tore his jacket off in one violent motion, the fabric cracking in his fists, revealing the cream shirt stretched across his frame. His heartbeat thundered like war drums.
The first reporter didn't even see it coming. Vincent's fist locked onto his collar, and with a feral roar, he hurled the man across the street. The reporter's body hit the asphalt with a bone-jarring thud, his camera exploding into shards of glass and plastic.
The crowd gasped, then froze.
Too late. Vincent snapped.
With brutal precision, he smashed his fists into cameras, kicked over tripods, and sent microphone stands skidding across the pavement. Every blow was a declaration, every swing a warning.
Carlos flinched, torn between stepping in and letting the storm run its course. He had seen Vincent angry before—but this was unchained.
Another reporter lunged forward, desperate for a shot. Vincent's hand shot out like lightning, clamping around the man's throat. The reporter gagged, his feet kicking air as Vincent's grip tightened, fury blazing in his eyes.
The crowd broke. Reporters scattered like frightened rats, their shouts dissolving into panicked screams. Still, Vincent held. His knuckles whitened as the man's face turned red.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he shoved him aside like discarded trash. The man collapsed, wheezing, clawing for air.
The last reporter stumbled, frozen in place, trembling as Vincent's shadow loomed over him. Vincent grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close until their foreheads almost touched. The reporter's eyes darted wildly, his entire body shaking.
Vincent's voice came low, raw, deadly—every word dipped in fire.
"Tell Grim Voss…" His breath hissed against the man's ear. "…I'm coming."
Then he released him.
The reporter bolted into the sunset, legs barely carrying him. Silence followed, broken only by Jennifer's shaky breath.
Vincent stood in the wreckage of shattered cameras and broken pride, chest heaving, fists trembling with rage.
And for the first time, every soul who had witnessed it understood one truth—Vincent Moretti wasn't just a man to be mocked. He was a storm.