He didn't move for a long moment. Just stood there, coffee mug in hand, his reflection caught in the polished marble of the counter. The steam from the cup curled upward and vanished into the silence.
Jennifer watched him from where she sat on the counter, her legs hanging loosely, the mug warm between her palms. She could see it — the shift in him. A quiet rigidity settling over his shoulders. The kind a man wears only when he's about to face a ghost.
Then, at last, he placed the cup down with a soft clink.
"Show her in," he said.
Carlos bowed slightly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "Yes, sir."
He disappeared down the hall, and the soft echo of his retreat seemed to grow louder with every step.
Vincent remained still. His expression unreadable. The golden light spilling in through the wide kitchen windows traced his face — jaw tense, lips pressed, eyes unfocused. He had faced corporate wolves, seen empires rise and crumble under his signature, but there were few things in life that could make the heir of the Moretti name hesitate. His mother was one of them.
Jennifer slid off the counter slowly, her bare feet whispering against the cool tiles. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked.
He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. "No. Stay." His voice was calm, but the undercurrent beneath it was fragile — almost pleading.
They didn't have to wait long.
Footsteps — lighter now, but sharp — approached from the grand corridor. Then came the scent of perfume before the woman herself appeared: Elena Moretti.
She filled the doorway like a presence that did not require permission. Her coat was dark mink, draped perfectly over her shoulders. A string of pearls caught the light. Her hair, silvered at the edges, was gathered in a low twist that spoke of discipline and expensive taste.
For a fleeting second, she looked at her son. Her lips softened, but only just. "Vincent."
"Mother."
There was silence again — the kind that stretches like a blade between two people who share blood but no peace.
Her eyes shifted to Jennifer. Not in hostility, but in study — as though she were a painting she needed to appraise before deciding whether it was worth her time. Jennifer swallowed and lowered her gaze instinctively.
"You've started bringing guests home again," Elena said quietly, her tone not cruel but measured.
Vincent didn't respond. He poured himself another cup of coffee instead, the liquid swirling darkly in the white porcelain. How long has it been since he last saw her?
"Why are you here?" he asked finally, setting the cup down.
Elena exhaled — a delicate sound, like someone preparing for war. "You think I would come if it wasn't serious?"
"I think you come when you want to control something. Or tell someone they're living wrongly" he replied without looking up.
A faint, humorless smile curved her lips. "Then maybe you know me better than I thought."
Jennifer turned slightly away, pretending to sip her coffee, but her ears were sharp. There was something brittle in the air — the clash of two worlds she didn't belong to.
Elena placed her gloves on the counter with practiced grace. "The police called this morning," she said. "They're investigating a one Father Andrew's shooting. They believe it was connected to you or someone you knew." her eyes peeled off to Jennifer.
Vincent froze. His fingers curled loosely against the edge of the table.
"They'll come here again" she continued, her voice even, though her eyes were sharp as glass. "They're not saying much, but it sounds like someone is… implicating you."
Jennifer's breath hitched. She looked at Vincent, whose face had become a perfect mask.
"I know that," he said finally. His tone was detached, surgical.
Elena hesitated — only a fraction of a second — before answering. "Tracy."
The sound of the name landed between them like a curse. Jennifer blinked, confusion spreading across her face. Vincent didn't move, didn't speak, didn't breathe. Then, without warning, he laughed softly — the kind of laugh that carried no joy at all.
"Of course," he said under his breath, voice low and sharp. "But I still don't see why you're here."
Jennifer took a step closer, her voice careful. "Vincent—"
But the rest of her words drowned beneath the slow ooze of bad blood that seeped through the air between mother and son. The silence was haunting — thick as fog — and their stares were scorching, burning through the air like a candle pressing a hole through paper.
Elena's composure faltered for the first time. Her lips parted, a faint tremor betraying what the rest of her face refused to show.
Jennifer's heart began to pound.
And Vincent… he only smiled — that thin, dangerous curve of a man long accustomed to disappointment. A smile that spoke of wounds left to rot beneath old pride.
He reached for his coffee again and took one final sip, though it had long gone cold. "Well," he murmured, "if you're here for the will he left you, I can have Carlos fetch it. You can be gone before the sun's fully up."
Jennifer flinched. The cruelty in his tone startled her. Why was he so cold — so venomous — to the woman who brought him into the world? She'd never heard Vincent speak like that to anyone. It didn't sit right in her chest.
"My life hasn't been easy for the last seventeen years," Elena said, her voice quivering but still proud.
"Twenty, Mother. Twenty," he cut in sharply. His jaw flexed, eyes flickering with something between anger and grief. He didn't know which stung more — that she'd forgotten how long it had been, or that she believed he no longer cared enough to count.
"I should have the guards throw you out," he said, his voice darkening. "You've outstayed your welcome the moment you stepped foot here."
"Why not do it yourself, boy?" Elena snapped, her voice cracking like thunder in the still morning. "As a failed wife, perhaps I deserve your contempt — but as a mother, I raised you better than this." Her eyes drifted to Jennifer, sharp and unkind. "Better than to bring her under this roof."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. His hand gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. "Careful now, Mother," he growled. "She knows more about companionship and loyalty than you ever did — or ever will."
Elena's lips quivered. She saw where this was heading, but couldn't stop it.
"I left your father," she began quietly, "because the life he sought was no longer the life we dreamed of."
"You left him," Vincent snapped. The roar that tore from his throat made both women startle. "What about the vows you exchanged? Did they mean nothing to you? Was your pride stronger than your promise?"
His voice shook — not with fury, but with hurt that had lived too long in silence. He turned away from her, walking toward the great window overlooking the gardens. Beyond the glass, the estate stretched endlessly — acres of manicured green and roses in perfect rows. A kingdom unaware its king was crumbling.
Elena's voice softened, trembling. "That life was no longer for me, Vincent. Your father's thirst for power… it became insatiable."
"You weren't there," he said. His back remained turned, his reflection faintly trembling against the glass. "You weren't there when the panic attacks started. When sleep abandoned him. When he called for you in the middle of the night, whispering your name like a prayer."
He exhaled shakily, his voice fraying. "You weren't there when he became a shadow of himself. When he lost the fight to the ghosts he'd built around him."
He turned slightly — just enough for her to see the glint of tears that refused to fall. "You weren't there when he pulled the trigger."
"What?" Elena's voice cracked open. She took a step forward, hand trembling.
Vincent laughed — a hollow, broken sound. "I had just tucked him into bed," he said, his voice distant, haunted. "He told me to find you. I promised I would. I had barely reached your portrait in the hallway when I heard the gunshot. Not once… but twice."
Jennifer gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth.
Vincent turned around suddenly — too quickly — and Jennifer flinched at the movement. His eyes blazed.
"Do you know what that means, Mother?" he said, stepping toward her, voice rising with each word. "He wanted to live… but he wanted to die more. The first shot failed, and still — still — he pulled the trigger again."
He stopped inches from her. His voice dropped to a whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout. "Do you know how much a man has to hate his own life to do that twice?"
Elena's mouth opened. "I didn't know…" she stammered.
"Of course you didn't!" Vincent roared. "You went off to God knows where. You — the one he trusted most. The one he loved most."
"I didn't—"
"Leave!" he screamed. The veins in his neck stood out like cords, his voice raw with the kind of pain that didn't heal.
Elena froze. For all her pride, for all her elegance and poise, she knew that tone. The wrath of a Moretti was not something to meet — only to flee.
She turned away, her hands shaking, her eyes darting once more to Jennifer before she left. The heavy sound of her heels faded down the corridor until silence reclaimed the room.
Vincent's body trembled. His breath came ragged, shallow — as though he'd been running from a nightmare that finally caught him. His hand gripped the table for support.
Then, gently, Jennifer stepped behind him. Her arms — small, warm, trembling — wrapped around his chest. She didn't say a word. She just held him.
He closed his eyes. Forced the tears back, though one slipped free, tracing a clean path down his cheek.
For a long, quiet minute, the mansion breathed with them. The ghosts of the past watched silently as the heir of Moretti — a man born of fire and ruin — fought to hold himself together.
And in that silence a siren cried out. The cops. What again?