He’s whisper-yelling into the phone now, low and dangerous, like someone trying to keep a storm in a bottle. “We didn’t lose this much overnight. Something’s been siphoning off the accounts. Find it. Track every cent. If it’s internal—if it’s a mole—you cut it out. Now.”
There’s a hatred in his voice I haven’t heard in years, the old animal thing from before the suits and the PR statements. I stop a few paces back, close enough to feel the heat from him, far enough that he can’t hear me breathing. My chest tightens.
He stops pacing, shoulders squared, and listens for a few seconds. Whatever comes through that phone, it doesn’t soothe him. It sharpens him.
Then, without warning, he hurls it.
The sound of glass and plastic detonating against the marble floor slices through the air, sharp and final. The pieces skid across the tile, one chunk still blinking faintly like a dying heartbeat.
Vincent stands there, chest rising hard, hands braced on the counter as he exhales through his nose. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares at the wreckage of the phone, the reflection of the city lights flickering across the shards.
I take that as my cue and step forward, clearing my throat loud enough to be heard but soft enough not to be a threat.
“Guess I can crossnew phoneoff your Christmas list,” I say, trying to sound lighter than I feel. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Vincent turns his head like the sound of my voice drags him back into his body. His eyes are darker than usual—hollow, sleepless, feral around the edges.
“Fuck off, Cast.” He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a humorless laugh that sounds like it hurts his throat.
“I’m serious,” he mutters, still staring at the broken phone. “You shouldn’t be listening in on my private confidential phone calls.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “You know that line doesn’t work on me. Nothing in this house is confidential.”
He doesn’t answer, just presses the heel of his palm against his eyes like he’s trying to wipe out the last ten seconds. “It was nothing Cast, just go.”
I glance down at the shattered phone, then back at him. “Whatever that was,” I say carefully, “it doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Vincent finally looks at me, jaw tight, and for a second I see it—the exhaustion, the crack in the armor. But then it’s gone. He draws in a shallow breath, straightens his shoulders, and gives me that practiced, distant smirk that’s meant to end conversations before they start.
“Don’t,” he says. “Just… don’t right now.”
He doesn’t move, just stands there breathing hard, the broken phone still blinking weakly between us like a dying thing.
“Don’t,” Vincent repeats, lower now, sharper—like a warning.
But I step closer anyway. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”
“I don’t owe youanything,Cast.”
“Like hell you don’t.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “You owe it to the rest of us to not fall apart in silence. What the fuck is going on? You’ve been off for weeks. You’re barely sleeping. You’re pacing like a fucking maniac. Talk to me.”
Vincent turns on me then, really turns, his jaw tight and his eyes darker than I’ve seen in months. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “And you don’t want to.”
“The hell I don’t,” I shoot back, stepping forward until we’re nearly chest to chest. “You think I haven’t seen this before? You spiral, you shut down, and then the rest of us are left cleaning up the mess. I’m not doing that again.”
“Then stop acting like I’m a goddamn child.”
“I’m acting like yourbrother.Someone who gives a shit.”
He closes the distance between us without warning, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the ghost of pine smoke from the fire upstairs. His shoulders are rigid, his hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t trust them to stay still.
“Mind your fucking business,” he snarls.
The words hit harder than a fist.
For a second, neither of us breathes. The sound of the heater hums behind us, too gentle for a moment like this.
My throat tightens, not from anger this time—but from that same ache that’s followed us since we were boys trying to rebuild the ashes of our father’s empire. “Every time we get close to something good,” I whisper, “you pull away. You think you’re protecting us, but you’re not. You’re just building walls I can’t climb anymore.”
