That morning Carlos had tried to talk him out of going to Moretti Homes — "bad for the media," he said — but Vincent went anyway. No sooner had his car pulled up outside than reporters swarmed him like fleas. He walked with his hands tucked in his pockets, a black coat slung over his shoulders, and moved through them without answering a single question.
The lobby itself trembled at his presence. Employees who'd drifted downstairs for breakfast froze in small groups; no one stepped forward. He didn't glance their way or speak. He went straight to the elevator. On the thirtieth floor he stepped out and crossed to the file room. For most of them, the only Moretti floor they ever saw was the fiftieth — the floor you visited with dread — so his arrival there was like a cold wind. After a beat of stunned silence, the staff recovered and offered hurried greetings.
"Good morning, boss," some called, bowing slightly. To their surprise, he answered.
"Good morning." The words trailed after him as he walked away — a once-in-a-blue-moon courtesy: Vincent Moretti, arrogant billionaire, had returned their greeting.
Turning a corner, he nearly collided with a child. He caught her before she fell.
"Ivy!" he said.
"Uncle Vincent!!" Ivy screamed, leaping into his arms. He caught her before she could grab his chest too hard.
"What are you doing here?"
"I asked Mommy if I could come to work with her," she grinned, white teeth flashing.
"You must be having fun." He ruffled her hair.
"I saw the aquarium. It's beautiful."
Vincent leaned close and whispered, "How about we get you one for your room on your birthday?"
She squealed and flung her arms around him again. He carried her down the corridor to the astonishment of the few people on that floor.
At the file room he set her down. "Now I want you to call your mommy for me."
She dashed off without hesitation. "Okay!"
He pushed through the file room door. Eight people worked here, sorting contracts and shelving closed deals.
"Get out," he said, and they left as if a fire had broken out.
Vincent stood in the middle of the room and let nostalgia close around him like a familiar coat. This was where he'd started — where his father had started — crawling through the same boxes, learning the business from the ground up. A Moretti was never handed the reins simply for being a Moretti; they had to prove they were ready.
He scanned the shelves for a long minute. He'd come for one reason: somewhere in this maze of boxes was a file — a trace, a name — about Edson Fords.
He shrugged off his coat, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves. He dove into the first shelf, riffling through box after box. Half an hour later he'd gone through a dozen containers. Sweat dotted his forehead; brown dust marked the knees of his black pants.
A small knock sounded at the door.
"Come," he called without looking up.
Vivian stepped in, followed by Michael and Alfred.
"How did you skip the press?" she asked, moving to the table of files.
"I didn't," Vincent said.
"What are you looking for?" she asked, glancing at Michael as if he might answer.
"Edson Fords," he said, opening another box. "Did you ever come across that name?"
"Yes — in my first year," she replied. "Why?"
"Let's say I have a debt to honor." He sat and began the next batch.
"Michael." He called suddenly; Michael nearly jumped.
"Sir?" Michael answered.
"When were you going to tell me the DA had called both of us in for questioning?" Vincent looked up; his gaze landed on Vivian. She bit her tongue. The slight hitch in her breath made the question feel like it might tumble out of her.
"He tried to rattle us. Seems he lacks proof regarding the murder," Michael said.
"I know that," Vincent nodded. "My question was why — not what."
Vivian stepped forward. "I thought we could handle this on your behalf, given all you're carrying."
"I can carry my weight, Vivian. What I need is trust." He bowed his head over the files.
Guilt painted her features hot and obvious.
At that moment Vincent's eyes flicked to the other man in the room — Alfred.
"And what is he doing here?"
Alfred answered before Michael could. "Sir, the property in Santa Monica we pursued a few years back is back on the market at a twenty-percent reduction. I've made an offer."
Vincent shook his head. "Rescind it."
"I thought you wanted that beach," Vivian said, surprised.
"Things have changed. I don't owe anyone an explanation for withdrawing that offer." He turned to Alfred. "Do I?"
"No, sir." Alfred's attempt at favor-seeking had failed; he straightened, deflated. Michael hissed a quiet curse.
Vincent rifled through four more boxes and found nothing. His companions stayed silent. In the last box of the shelf he found a document: a property sold four years ago, signed by one Magdalena Francis. He barely paused. Given everything else pressing on him, the paper went into the pile with the rest.
He straightened — tired, hungry; his arms ached, his neck even more.
"I can have the cafeteria bring something up," Vivian offered. He shook his head.
"I'll leave soon."
Then the secretary who'd delivered the DNA envelope appeared in the doorway again, voice carrying down the file room.
"The DA is in the lobby downstairs."
Vincent's lips thinned. He rose and walked out.
***
Marcus Lee was mid–morning bagel and coffee when his phone buzzed. He savored the image of the secretary's face when she'd opened that DNA test; leverage was a slow, sweet thing. Now he had enough to make a push — and he already had Michael on the line. All he needed was the secretary.
"You better take that bagel and come downtown, Oliver," he snapped when his partner called. "Our guys just saw Vincent Moretti at his company."
"Shit," Marcus muttered, dropping the bagel on his desk, wiping his mouth and heading out.
Minutes later his car pulled up at Moretti Homes. His arrival didn't go unnoticed; last week his face had been in the papers as the DA promising to bring Vincent to justice. In this city, a prosecutor squared off with a Moretti and headlines followed. He smiled at the thought.
He paused beneath the trademark on the reception wall — the golden plate: VINCENT MORETTI.
Vincent stepped from the elevator. Marcus took him in, cocked an arm and pointed to the plaque. "See that? It won't be staying on that wall for long."
"You're not the first prosecutor to say that, and I'm not the first Moretti to hear it — and yet it's still there." Vincent's tone was flat, but there was a curl of mockery beneath it.
"We'll see what happens when I put your employees on the stand."
"That is not happening," Vincent said, hardening.
"It is. And I'll enjoy breaking them until they tell your sins." Marcus smiled, pleased with himself.
"But—" He stepped closer. "I could swing in and save you, just like I've saved dozens of guilty men." Marcus paused, smug. "Plead guilty, resign, and you're looking at twelve to fifteen years."
Vincent laughed — a sound that ripped through the lobby, animal and brutal, startling everyone. It was part outrage, part scorn.
"You should try comedy. I hear its lucrative. If you were doing that, you wouldn't be doing Murphy Donovan's bidding."
"Vile accusations, Mr. Moretti. I hope you have proof, because if I leave here empty-handed I'll be sure to tell Murphy exactly what you said."
"Take your leave," Vincent said thinly.
"Boy, you are tempting me." Marcus's eyes slid to Vivian.
"I met Harvey this morning — kind man, that one. Ivy must get that sweetness from him." Marcus' words were casual, but for Vivian they landed like blows; she hugged her stomach, forcing the words back down. Vincent glanced at her briefly.
At that moment Dempsey arrived; his reputation preceded him. He was the man you wanted across from the DA — ruthless, unbeaten.
"The boy scout decided to show," Marcus said. "And I see, Dempsey, you didn't take my offer."
"I didn't present a shitty offer to my client," Dempsey said, buttoning his suit with slow contempt. "He's not going to plead to something he didn't do, we all how you suck at your job," he spat.
"That's not what the Jury is going to think" Marcus said.
Dempsey leaned in. "Oh, the jury won't think. They'll see a man who's lost his touch and needs a big win to stay relevant. I'll make sure they see that. Now get out of my face so I can prepare how to kick your ass."
Marcus smiled, annoyed but resigned. He turned to Vincent. "I see why you like him — big talk. I'll bring the flood, Mr. Moretti. Noah won't be here to build your ark."
He left, the threat hanging like storm-clouds. When the lobby cleared, Vincent turned to Vivian.
"What did he mean about Harvey and Ivy?" His eyes pinned her.
"I have no idea," she lied, and slipped away before he could read the truth in her face.