That morning Carlos had tried to dissuade him from going to Moretti Homes—"bad for the media," he said—but Vincent went anyway. The moment his car pulled up outside, reporters swarmed him like fleas. He walked with his hands in his pockets, a black coat draped over his shoulders, and made his way through them without answering a single question.

The lobby itself seemed to shudder at his presence. Employees who had come down for breakfast froze in small groups; no one came out to greet him. He didn't look in their direction or say a word. He went straight to the elevator. On the thirtieth floor, he stepped out and walked across to the archives. For most of them, the only Moretti floor they'd ever seen was the fiftieth—the floor visited with trepidation—so his appearance there was like a chilling wind. After a throbbing silence, the staff composed themselves and offered hurried greetings.

"Good morning, boss," some said, bowing their heads slightly. To their surprise, he replied.

"Good m