Carlos marched through the dim corridors of the Moretti estate, his shoes striking the polished floor with a clipped, steady rhythm. His face was carved from stone, but his mind churned with urgency, fragments of Vivian's call replaying over and over. A priest. A name. Jennifer. Secrets too dangerous for the open air.
He reached Vincent's study, that grand oak door towering like the gate to some old cathedral. He rapped his knuckles once, then pushed it open.
Inside, Vincent stood by the window, bathed in the waning light of afternoon. His silhouette was sharp, broad-shouldered yet burdened, his hands tucked behind his back. He gazed over the sprawling estate gardens as if searching for something beyond the horizon. The resemblance to Sebastián was uncanny, and for a fleeting moment, Carlos's heart twisted with guilt and sorrow. He had watched one Moretti burn his life down. He feared he was watching another walk into the same fire.
"Ser," Carlos said, his voice gravel but respectful. "New information has come up."
No reaction. Vincent remained fixed to the window, eyes half-lidded, jaw tense.
Carlos cleared his throat. "Vivian didn't say it outright, but I have a hunch—it's about Ms. Jennifer."
That name broke the silence. Vincent turned slowly, his eyes lowered, shadows clinging to his expression.
"What do you need?" he asked quietly, as though each word weighed a hundred pounds.
"Permission to act on your behalf," Carlos answered firmly. "The man insists on seeing you, but we can't risk that. Not when Voss is lurking."
Vincent studied him for a long moment, unreadable, before finally nodding once. "Do what you have to do, Carlos."
Carlos turned to leave, but Vincent's voice cut through the silence again. "And Carlos—"
Carlos froze, turning back. "Ser?"
Vincent's eyes lingered on him with a strange curiosity. "Do you enjoy working for me… the way you did for my father?"
The question blindsided him. For a moment, Carlos had no words. Then he breathed out. "Working for you is an honor, Ser. Truly. But if I'm being honest—" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "—working for your father was thrilling. Dangerous. I broke noses for him. Shattered jaws. There was never a dull moment."
A faint smile ghosted across Vincent's lips, bittersweet and fleeting. He turned back to the window. "I was afraid you'd say that."
-‐‐
Half an hour later, a black Maybach pulled up before Moretti Homes, its sleek body gleaming beneath the unforgiving Beverly Hills sun. Reporters swarmed nearby, their cameras clicking like the buzz of insects. They had caught scent of Vincent Moretti's car. But when the door opened and only an older man in a tailored suit stepped out, his expression like carved granite, their courage faltered. Carlos's glare was enough to make even vultures hesitate.
Inside the lobby, Vivian was waiting, her presence sharp, commanding, every line of her tailored dress exuding authority. Yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. Something in the air felt wrong, like thunder pressing down before a storm.
"You got here faster than you normally do," Vivian quipped, her attempt at levity thin and brittle.
Carlos offered her the smallest of smiles. "Father," he said with a nod toward the shabby old man seated quietly, clutching his photograph. "This way."
Vivian followed, unable to shake the sense that shadows were crawling closer. She told herself she only wanted to see him off safely, that once this priest was in the car, the knot in her chest would loosen.
Outside, reporters inched closer, their lenses glinting like hungry eyes, but none dared step too far. Carlos guided Father Andrew to the waiting Maybach, holding the door open for him like a shield.
And then—
The air split with the shriek of tires. A black G-Wagon tore down the street, its engine snarling like a beast unleashed. Cameras swung, onlookers gasped. At first, it seemed like a drunk driver. Then the tinted windows lowered.
The metallic glint of an assault rifle appeared.
Time froze for a heartbeat. Then chaos erupted.
Gunfire cracked through the air—piercing, thunderous, merciless. Reporters screamed. Glass shattered. The Maybach's windows exploded like fragile ice under a hammer.
Father Andrew jerked violently as bullets tore through the air. His frail body crumpled, collapsing against Carlos's arms.
"NO!" Carlos roared, dragging the priest down, shielding him with his own body. Vivian's scream ripped the air behind them, raw and broken.
The G-Wagon screeched away, vanishing as quickly as it had come, leaving only smoke, fear, and silence in its wake.
Carlos looked down. Blood spread hot and dark across his hands. Father Andrew's lips trembled, his breath shallow, wheezing. His fingers clutched at Carlos's suit with desperate strength, trying to force out words—but only a wet cough of blood escaped.
"Stay with me, Father! Stay with me!" Carlos barked, his voice both command and plea.
But it was no use. The old man's grip weakened, his eyes fluttered, and in one final shuddering breath… he went still.
Carlos held him tighter, jaw clenched, every vein in his neck taut with fury and grief.
Vivian stood frozen, tears streaking down her face, her hands trembling at her sides as the weight of what they had just witnessed sank in.
By the time the medics arrived, sirens wailing, Father Andrew's body had already gone cold.
And the truth he carried—the secret that could have saved Jennifer Lawrence—died with him.
***
The news hit Moretti estate like a thunderclap.
Carlos walked through the front doors with blood still on his sleeves. The old soldier's face was carved from stone, but in his eyes lay something heavier than fatigue—failure. The staff who caught sight of him froze. They had seen him return from skirmishes bruised, bloodied, but unbroken. Tonight was different. Something darker clung to him, something final.
He didn't wait for permission. He stormed straight to Vincent's study.
The door opened with a low groan. Vincent stood at the window, his back to the world, his hands folded behind him in that controlled manner that made him look more statue than man. He didn't turn immediately, but the sound of Carlos's heavy boots across the floor and the metallic tang of dried blood in the air made him pause.
"Ser," Carlos rasped. His voice was hoarse, as though scraped raw.
Vincent finally turned, his gaze falling on the dark stains across Carlos's shirt. The air stilled, as if even the fire in the hearth bowed under the weight of it.
"What happened?" Vincent's voice was calm—too calm. A calm so tight it rang with the echo of thunder behind it.
Carlos swallowed hard. He had faced ambushes, betrayal, bullets meant for him, but this was harder than any of them. "The priest… Father Andrew—" his voice faltered, cracked. "He's dead."
For the first time, Vincent's composure shifted. His jaw tightened, his brows furrowed, but the rest of him was a mask of control. "Dead? How?"
"They were waiting," Carlos bit out, his words thick with venom. "A G-Wagon. Blacked out windows. Assault rifles. They knew exactly when he'd be leaving the building. We didn't stand a chance. It was an execution, Ser."
Vincent's hands curled into fists at his sides. He stepped closer, his voice dropping low and sharp. "Did he say anything? Anything at all before—"
Carlos's throat tightened. He shook his head. "He tried. He looked me in the eye like he had something to give, but…" Carlos's eyes fell to the floor. "It was gone before he could breathe the words."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The ticking of the grandfather clock at the corner of the study marked each second like a hammer against bone.
Then—Vincent moved. He slammed his fist against the wooden frame of the window so hard the glass trembled in its pane. His voice thundered through the room.
"Every damn time I take a step forward, they strike harder!" Vincent's roar shook the study, guttural and raw. "First shadows in the dark, now gunfire in broad daylight! They're not hiding anymore—they want me to bleed."
Carlos stood in grim silence, letting the storm pass through his master. When he finally spoke, his voice was iron. "This was no accident, Ser. It wasn't a strike. It was a message."
Vincent turned, his eyes bloodshot, burning with rage. "Then let them come. If Voss wants war, he'll have one."
Carlos didn't flinch. He simply nodded. "A war it is."
The fury inside Vincent didn't calm—it sharpened, calcified into something colder than anger. A promise.
***
Later that night, the world knew.
The televisions in the estate's lounge flickered with breaking news.
"Good evening. We interrupt this broadcast with a tragic report out of Beverly Hills. Father Andrew Malloy, a priest affiliated with St. Raphel's Catholic School, was gunned down this afternoon in broad daylight outside Moretti Homes corporate headquarters. Witnesses describe a black G-Wagon that opened fire with automatic weapons before fleeing the scene. Police have not released any further details, but sources suggest the killing was carried out with military precision."
The anchor's voice carried a rehearsed calm, but the images on the screen told a different story—flashing lights, shattered glass across the pavement, the lifeless body of an old priest being wheeled under a white sheet.
"Speculation has already begun to swirl," the anchor continued. "Father Andrew was reportedly at Moretti Homes for a meeting just before the attack. The Moretti family has declined to comment. Authorities are calling this a targeted assassination."
The broadcast cut to shaky phone footage—reporters screaming, bullets tearing into the car, Father Andrew's body crumpling in Carlos's arms. The estate staff watching gasped, some covering their mouths.
Vincent didn't watch. He already knew. The estate was quieter than usual, the staff whispering in corners. Vivian poured herself a drink she didn't touch. Carlos sat in the hall, his gun dismantled on the table before him, cleaning each piece with ritual precision, though his mind was elsewhere.
Vincent sat alone in his study, the firelight flickering against his face. His thoughts spiraled—Jennifer's frightened eyes, Father Andrew's wasted sacrifice, and the growing sense that the world was moving pieces against him faster than he could react.
A knock came. Slow. Deliberate.
Carlos opened the door cautiously. No one stood there. Only a small, black velvet box sat on the marble floor.
Carlos's chest tightened. He picked it up, heavy as a coffin, and carried it in. He set it on Vincent's desk without a word.
Vincent's hands hovered over it, then opened the lid.
Inside lay a single playing card.
The Black King.
Its edges were crisp, deliberate, as though it had been placed there with surgical precision. No words. No signature. Just a silent promise.
Vincent stared at it for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then his lips parted in a whisper that burned the room.
"Voss."