The house was quiet except for Jennifer's shallow breathing in the guest wing, the rhythm of her sleep still uneven from shock. Vincent stood by the study's window, his shirt streaked with someone else's blood, jaw tight as the lights of the city glimmered far below. Carlos entered silently, closing the door behind him.
"You shouldn't have called him," Carlos muttered, his tone low but edged with something like unease.
Vincent didn't turn. "I didn't have a choice."
Carlos folded his arms. "You always have a choice. Hale owes you, yes. But when you pull a favor like that, it's never free."
A beat of silence. Then Vincent finally glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were darker than Carlos had ever seen them. "Jennifer was in that car. Do you think I'd hesitate?"
Carlos exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw. "You're mixing things. Feelings make you reckless. You know it."
Before Vincent could answer, the desk phone rang — the old landline he kept for only a handful of people. Vincent picked it up without hesitation.
On the other end, Detective Marcus Hale's gravelly voice carried through the receiver. "It's done. The scene's clean. No chatter, no leaks. Not a whisper will hit the papers. Voss won't get the satisfaction of seeing your name dragged through headlines."
Vincent's fingers tightened on the phone. "And the bodies?"
"Handled," Hale said. "Officially, they don't exist. But listen to me, Vincent—this can't keep happening. You're making too much noise."
"Then turn down the volume," Vincent snapped, before cutting the line.
Carlos watched him for a long moment. "And when Hale decides he's had enough of cleaning your mess? What then?"
Vincent poured a drink, his hand steady now, the storm already locked back behind his eyes. "Then I remind him who saved his son from rotting in a cell. People don't forget debts that deep."
Carlos shook his head, muttering as he walked toward the door, "They do. Or worse, they find a way to balance them."
The door shut, leaving Vincent alone in the hush of the study. He sipped the whiskey, eyes fixed on the night outside, but the taste was bitter.
***
The Next Morning.
The sparrows' sweet songs woke her. She turned slowly under the soft mattress, her hair spilling across her face like a dark curtain. Parts of her body ached from the rough night. When the songs grew louder, sleep refused to return.
Now wide awake, she slipped out of bed and crossed to the window. With a gentle tug, she drew the curtains open. A rush of cool morning air drifted inside, brushing her skin.
The guest wing was on the north side of the house. From there, she could see the garden. The white canopy where they had dined still stood proudly on the lush green lawn. The birds scattered, startled by the sudden motion of the window.
A tall, beautiful tree caught her eye — carefully trimmed, shaped with purpose, as though someone had built it into a haven for the small creatures. The sparrows nestled along its branches, their wings rustling softly. She watched them for a long, quiet moment before finally turning back to the room.
The room was wide. The walls were dressed in muted cream paneling, each molding finely carved with flourishes that whispered of centuries past. A tall window, framed by heavy damask drapes in a shade of deep wine, allowed a shaft of pale morning light to spill across the room, softening the austerity with a golden warmth. The ceiling rose higher than any she'd ever seen in a bedroom, crowned with an ornate plaster medallion from which a crystal chandelier hung, its drops catching light like frozen stars.
The bed itself was an antique four-poster, carved from dark mahogany, its canopy draped in rich fabrics that gave it a quiet regality. Yet the linen beneath her hands was crisp, white, and modern—a subtle balance between old-world grandeur and present-day comfort.
Along the far wall stood a fireplace of veined marble, no longer lit but still carrying the faint scent of last night's woodsmoke. Above it, a gilded mirror reflected the morning light back into the room, casting the chamber in a subdued, honeyed glow.
Her eyes drifted to a tall bookcase tucked between two windows. Its shelves were lined not with pristine collector's editions but with worn, well-loved volumes. Some were bound in fading leather, their spines cracked, others in cloth with edges frayed by time.
Jennifer slipped from the window, her bare feet sinking into the plush Aubusson rug, and reached for one of the books. The inscription on the inside cover stopped her breath short: a woman's name written in elegant cursive, followed by a date decades past.
They had belonged to Vincent's mother.
For a long moment she stood there, fingers grazing the faded ink, the weight of it sinking in. This room wasn't simply decorated—it was a memory, preserved and layered with pieces of a life once lived. She felt like an intruder and a guest at once, enveloped in a space that seemed to hold both sorrow and grace.
The knob turned. She dropped the book sharply and folded her arms behind her.
Vincent strolled into the room with a calmness that startled her. His face that morning carried a small smile — nothing like the man who had wrecked havoc through Santa Monica just a night ago.
"You must be hungry." He wasn't asking.
Jennifer nodded, fighting to hold his gaze. He turned back to the door.
"Breakfast's almost ready," he said over his shoulder, and the door closed behind him.
She sighed. God, he's charming. Her heart fluttered. Then she stopped and rebuked herself.
The bathroom was as fitted as the room — tall ceilings, soft yellow and white lights. She checked the shelf: it had been lined with feminine wash soaps, deodorants, new sets of towels, and a red silky dressing robe. Her mind ticked. Was another woman living here?
She let the hot water kiss her skin, the shampoo rinse through her hair. When she stepped out, she smelled like a bouquet of flowers. Her skin gleamed like smooth petals. She wandered toward the large walnut wardrobe.
When she opened it, her eyes widened. Rows of dresses greeted her, in an array of cool and bright colors. And there it was again — that name she had seen in the books. This collection had belonged to his mother as well.
She picked out a cream linen dress. Flared at the hems. Small straps. She dressed herself and styled her hair to one shoulder. She checked the mirror, uncertain. Was she wearing the clothes of the woman who bore a man so dangerous yet so safe? A man who snatched lives? She shut her eyes and walked out.
---
Vincent laid the table himself. He placed down cutleries with the ease of someone who had grown up learning under Carlos. His mother rarely cooked, and seldom ate with him and his father as a family. It was many years later that he understood why.
Footsteps. He turned. His breath stalled. For a moment he was struck with shock and nostalgia.
She descended the arch of the stairs like a lady of some high lord. The cream dress hugged her features, yet flowed when she moved. His heart squeezed itself. Samantha.
He snapped back to reality. Then, masking himself, his gaze shifted away, uninterested.
He lowered himself into the chair. She settled too.
Her plate arrived like a piece of art — seared ribeye, sliced against the grain, edges charred and caramelized, the center glowing a tender rose. Two eggs lounged beside it, yolks golden and trembling, threatening to spill at the first touch. A tumble of rosemary potatoes, crisped to perfection, gave off a warm herbed perfume, while a ribbon of emerald chimichurri trailed across the steak like sunlight through leaves. Even the sourdough toast leaned elegantly against the mound, a simple crown to a breakfast that felt far too decadent for the hour.
She gulped. There were no signs of Carlos, nor anyone else around the mansion. Did he make this himself?
"Thank you," she blurted, her voice unstable. "For yesterday."
He simply nodded and ate silently. His composure unsettled her. Why was he so nonchalant this morning?
He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't speaking. Just chewing. It needled at her, like a hundred tiny pins pricking her skin.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He looked up. Said nothing. But his eyes did.
The guards had told him she'd stepped out for air. She realized it at once, and understood why he was being indifferent.
"It's my fault. I should have let the guard follow me," she said softly, placing her fork down.
His eyes softened when she said that. She was reckless, yes — but he couldn't deny her moment of self-reflection. He himself could use a late-night walk.
"It's okay," he finally said.
She looked at him. If this was going anywhere, he had to come clean. He owed her that, at least.
"Who are you?" she asked after a pause. He looked up, surprised. "And I don't mean what the society sees you as. I mean, what kind of life you live."
There was no way a real estate guru would counter a kidnapping with a bloodbath. And Voss — she knew him. She had seen what he did to men like Vincent, and not one dared to fight back. But this man before her, who shifted between fire and ice, had slapped Voss across the face.
He drank from his glass of water, hesitated, then looked her in the eye.
"I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe," he said firmly.
Of course, he avoided the question.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. She cleared the plates with him to the kitchen. He didn't stop her.
When she placed the cleaned dishes away, his eyes caught the faint red bruise on her knuckles. He grabbed her hand.
She shuddered at the sudden contact. He stepped closer — close enough for her to feel his hot breath. She shut her eyes, unsure of what he was doing.
"You're hurt."
He let go of her hand. She watched him pull a first-aid box from a high shelf.
He took her palm again, cleaning the bruises with wool. Then he applied ointment, sealing it with small bandages.
He put the kit away, but his hand lingered on hers, giving final touches to the bandage.
She watched him. His hands moved gently — the same hands that had been stained with blood yesterday. Was he even the same man?
"There," he said at last, finishing. But his hand still held hers. Her fingers were tender, warm. Why would anyone want to hurt a gentle creature like her?
Their eyes locked. They were close — so close he could feel her breath against his face. Her heart raced in anticipation. Her skin caved in. Her knees wobbled. Just when, just when —
Their lips almost connected.
Carlos entered, carrying a tabloid.
They broke away hastily. She flushed crimson while Vincent shut the shelf door with a sharp motion.
"What is it?" Vincent asked, calm but tight.
"Trouble." Carlos's tone was grave. He lifted the paper. "Our attorney just lost the motion to dismiss the trial. You're going before a jury."
The words hit like poison. Vincent leaned back into the counter, arms sagging in defeat.
Jennifer and Carlos both watched as his world crumbled before him.