~Some Hours after the bloodbath in Santa Monica~
The whiskey glass trembled ever so slightly in Voss's hand. That alone was enough to make his jaw lock. He had built his empire on menace, precision, and fearlessness—never allowing the world to glimpse a crack in the surface.
But tonight, in the cavernous hush of his penthouse office, with the city crawling beneath him like a field of dying embers, he felt something he despised with every cell of his body: unease.
The corpses had vanished. Not one, not three—an even dozen. An entire convoy gutted and erased as though the night itself had swallowed them. No police calls. No whispers. No leaks. Voss had spent his life teaching men that bodies always left a trail. But this? This was Vincent Moretti's message. Brutal. Clean. Loud in its silence.
He lifted the glass to his lips. The bourbon was too sweet, coating his tongue like syrup. He spat it back into the crystal, disgusted with the taste, disgusted with himself. For the first time in years, he felt played.
The door clicked open. His second in command, Sneak, hovered like a ghost. Voss didn't bother to look at him. "Tell me you found something."
Sneak swallowed. "Nothing that sticks. It's as if the cars never existed. The police… they don't even have notes."
Voss turned, slow and deliberate, fixing Sneak with a stare that could have cut through concrete. "Then find me someone who bleeds Moretti. I want his weakness. His bones. His ghosts."
That was how Tracy entered his orbit.
She arrived without announcement, her heels striking the marble of his penthouse like a metronome of arrogance. A fur coat, unnecessary for the weather, swung at her shoulders. Tracy moved as if the room belonged to her, as if Voss were merely another pitiful man she'd amuse until he was of no use.
"Vincent's ghosts?" she said, her lips curling into a smile too perfect to be human. "Darling, I've been dining on them for years."
Voss hated her instantly. The self-satisfied gleam in her eyes, the perfume that clouded the air with notes of poison and roses. But hatred was sometimes useful.
"You think you know him," Voss said flatly.
Tracy chuckled, removing her coat and tossing it over a leather armchair without asking. "I married him. Slept beside him. Watched him become what he is. And trust me, dear Grim, he's nothing more than a pretty boy with a temper. Break his empire, and he's dust."
"You want revenge," Voss said, leaning back in his chair, eyes sharp as razors.
"I want his crown," she corrected smoothly. "And the only way to pry it off his head is to make him bleed publicly. Court. Media. Lies. Whatever it takes."
Voss raised an eyebrow. "And why should I believe you?" He chuckled "You made it clear how much you despised this ship of ours when I proposed it."
Tracy leaned forward across his desk, so close he could smell the venom on her breath. "Because I've already begun. His trial? My doing. My attorney made sure the motion to dismiss was torn apart. Vincent is going to spend weeks dancing in front of a jury while his enemies creep closer."
Voss leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since the massacre, his lips spread into a smile. A predator recognizing another predator.
"Then perhaps," he said, "we should let the world chew on Vincent Moretti for a while."
***
A Week After Santa Monica
The trial hit the city like thunder.
Jennifer wasn't in court. She wasn't allowed. Vincent had insisted—no cameras catching her face, no reporters dragging her name through mud. So she stayed in the guest wing of the mansion, pacing, restless.
The television was her only window. CNN, Fox, local news—they all played the same loop of footage: Vincent stepping out of the black SUV in a charcoal suit, face carved from marble, surrounded by a wall of security. Reporters shouted his name, questions flew like daggers, flashes blinded the air. He ignored them all, walked through them like a storm.
Jennifer gripped the armrest of the sofa so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Beside her, Carlos sipped coffee like it was a lazy Sunday morning. "Relax, niña. He's been walking into cages his whole life. He knows how to tame wolves."
"Carlos…" Jennifer's voice cracked. "Look at them. They want to tear him apart."
Carlos shrugged. "Let them try. He's a lion. He won't explain himself to hyenas."
She almost laughed, almost. But the tension inside her chest only knotted further as the trial unfolded on screen.
---
The courtroom looked nothing like the dramas she'd seen on television. No glamour. No silver tongues. Just sweat, nerves, and sharpened knives hidden behind smiles.
Vincent's attorney, Dempsey, was relentless. He tore through the prosecution's claims with objections sharp enough to bleed ink. Tracy's lawyer, Charles Forstman however, was slick. Too slick. He moved with that practiced charm, the kind that could convince a jury poison was wine.
Jennifer watched Tracy take the stand. Her stomach turned. Tracy looked like an angel carved for sympathy—hair just loose enough to seem natural, blouse carefully chosen for soft humility. Her voice cracked at the perfect times. She spoke of betrayal, of secrets, of danger. And then, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, the photographs appeared.
Grainy images, blown up on the courtroom projector: Vincent exchanging envelopes with shadowy men, shaking hands with blurred figures in alleys. To an uninformed jury, it looked damning.
Jennifer gasped. "That's not real," she whispered at the screen.
Carlos smirked. "No, niña. That's Photoshop with extra sins."
But it didn't matter. The jury leaned forward. The press scribbled notes like vultures scribbling prayers. Even the judge's brow furrowed.
The gavel finally came down. "Adjourned. The matter will be taken up again in three weeks."
Jennifer exhaled, only to realize her breath shook. On screen, Tracy walked past Vincent, her smirk so venomous Jennifer thought it might seep through the glass and into her skin.
---
That night, the world turned on Vincent.
News anchors dissected the trial. Hashtags trended. Headlines screamed: REAL ESTATE TYCOON OR CRIME LORD? Public opinion swayed like wheat in the wind.
Jennifer sat in the dim guest room, screen glowing against her face, heart in her throat. The man who had saved her life, the man who cooked her breakfast, who bandaged her hands—now painted as a monster for the world to spit on.
Her throat tightened. "What if they—"
Carlos cut her off with a raised hand. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression calm, almost smug. "Jennifer. I watched a boy grow into that man. A Moretti never runs from fight let alone loose one." Those words were firm. His faith didn't waver but he had a sickening feeling. They had never faced anything like this.
She swallowed hard, but a flicker of hope sparked in her chest at Carlos's certainty.
***
The sparrows sang her awake again, those tiny voices chirping in the morning air. Jennifer stretched against the soft mattress, bones sore from the weight of everything that had happened. The curtains bled in with daylight, and for a moment she just stood by the window, staring at the gardens below.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Lourdes's agency: Be in Beverly Hills by ten. Your first day begins.
Her chest fluttered—half fear, half excitement. This was happening.
She chose carefully from the wardrobe, settling on a pale-blue blouse that fell soft against her skin and a clean skirt that flattered without trying too hard. She brushed her hair to one side, slipped on low heels, and caught herself in the mirror. The reflection stared back: nervous, but ready.
When she walked to Vincent's study, he was behind the heavy oak desk, papers scattered, his face carved in concentration. She lingered by the door until he glanced up.
"I'm starting at Veloura Models today," she said.
He didn't speak, just gave a single nod before returning to his papers. Cold, but not dismissive. She left quietly, her heartbeat still quick.
Carlos was waiting at the car, already holding the passenger door open. His gray hair was combed back, and the faintest smirk played on his lips.
"You look like someone about to take a final exam," he said as she slid in.
Jennifer laughed nervously. "I feel like someone about to fail one."
Carlos didn't know she couldn't laugh. What was happening?
"Nonsense," He muttered, pulling the car smoothly into gear. "Everyone in Beverly Hills is an actor. Models, too. Just remember—smile like you know a secret, and they'll trip over themselves trying to figure out what it is."
The drive was filled with his dry humor. He pointed at joggers with neon leggings: "See that? That's not fashion. That's a war crime." He nodded toward a man walking three tiny dogs in jeweled collars: "Even the pets here need therapy."
By the time they arrived, she was laughing so hard she almost forgot to be nervous.
***
Veloura Models was a flurry of lights and mirrors. Jennifer was swept into a whirlwind: posture training, walking drills, endless photographs.
Lourdes introduced her to the other girls—tall, lean creatures who looked like they'd been sculpted by Renaissance artists. Jennifer stumbled a few times on the walk, but the Cookie corrected her, patient and firm.
By lunch, she was exhausted, hair pinned, makeup wiped and reapplied more times than she could count. She learned how to turn her chin just so, how to walk without letting nerves betray her. For once, she felt…capable.
When evening came, the building grew quiet. Most of the girls left in groups, laughing into the night. Jennifer lingered near the curb, her bag on her shoulder, typing into her phone.
Carlos should be here by now.
That was when the shadows shifted.
Three men stepped out from the alley, their movements too sure, too rehearsed. One of them whistled low.
"Pretty thing like you shouldn't be waiting alone."
Jennifer froze. She backed up, clutching her phone, but one of them snatched her arm. Panic shot through her veins.
"Come on," another sneered, tugging her toward the alley. "We just wanna talk."
Her heart hammered. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.
And then—like he'd been waiting all along—Carlos appeared. He stepped from the glow of a streetlamp, his suit jacket still crisp, his face calm, unreadable.
"Let her go," he said. His voice carried no volume, but it cut like a blade.
The men laughed. "What's this, her grandpa?"
Carlos moved closer, his eyes hard as stone. "You've made two mistakes," he said softly. "First—you touched what's mine to protect. Second—you thought I'd forgotten how to deal with trash."
The tallest thug scoffed. "Old man, you'll—"
The sentence never finished. Carlos's hand shot out, bone cracking beneath his grip. A scream split the air as the man dropped, clutching his wrist bent the wrong way.
The second lunged. Carlos pivoted, a blur of efficiency, elbow meeting jaw with a sickening crack. The thug collapsed, blood spattering the pavement.
The last one staggered back, courage leaking out of him. But Carlos didn't let him run. He seized the man by the collar, pulling him close enough that the thug could smell death on his breath.
"Tell whoever sent you," Carlos whispered, voice colder than a grave, "the butler still remembers how to move."
He shoved the man aside like trash, then turned to Jennifer. Adjusting his cufflinks, as if nothing had happened.
"Come, niña," he said softly. "This place stinks."
Jennifer slid into the passenger seat, her pulse still erratic, her phone clutched tight. As they pulled away, the city lights blurred against the glass. She knew one thing for certain—she wasn't just stepping into modeling. She was stepping into a storm.
Meanwhile across the city, in the glass-and-steel tower of Moretti Homes, Michael Salvatore sat alone in his office. The city hummed outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, silence pressed on him. Papers lay forgotten, a whiskey glass half-drained by his elbow.
The phone on his desk rang. Not his office line—his personal one. The number was unknown.
He hesitated before answering. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end was calm, almost amused. "Mr. Salvatore. I trust you haven't forgotten our arrangement."
Michael's throat tightened. His hand gripped the phone harder. "I—I just need more time. The market's unstable, I can't move funds that quickly."
"You'll deliver by the deadline," the caller interrupted smoothly, "or the world will see you for what you are. Every tape. Every filthy indulgence. Every moment you thought the office security cameras weren't watching."
Michael went cold. His breath caught. His mind reeled back to those reckless nights—things no board, no shareholder, no jury would ever forgive.
The voice dropped lower. "Tick-tock, Mr. Salvatore. Tick-tock."
The line clicked dead.
Michael's hand shook as he set the phone down. Sweat beaded at his temple. For the first time in his career, the walls of his empire felt like they were closing in.
And he knew—if he slipped, Vincent Moretti wouldn't be the only one on trial.