Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Premiere
Vincent turned his head slowly, his dark eyes meeting mine with a vulnerability that he undoubtedly hated possessing.
“Because this was supposed to be a private industry screening for critics and investors downtown,” Vincent said, his voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the few patrons left. “Luca didn't want me there. He specifically told our mother that my presence would turn his premiere into a corporate networking event.”
“So you tracked down the only public, low-profile screening in the entire tri-state area just to sit in the dark where he wouldn't see you?” I asked, piecing the puzzle together.
“I wanted to see what he made,” Vincent replied defensively, looking back at the empty screen where the credits were nearly finished. “For three years, we haven't spoken. Not since our father passed away and left the logistics empire to me while Luca chose art schools and cheap apartments. I thought... I thought he was just wasting his life on childish fantasies.”
“And now?”
Vincent swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. “Now I realize he wasn't writing a movie. He was writing an audit of my entire life.”
I looked down at the armrest between us, where our fingers had nearly brushed earlier over the popcorn. Beneath the intimidating reputation, the tailored suits, and the whispered rumors of dockside enforcement, Vincent Moretti was just an older brother who had carried an impossible burden after their father's death, building an empire while inadvertently locking his own family out in the cold.
“You know,” I said gently, “the father in the movie walked away because he didn't know how to apologize without bringing his wallet with him.”
Vincent let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “And what is your expert psychological diagnosis, Ms. Bennett? Should I wire him twenty thousand dollars with a sticky note attached?”
“No,” I said firmly, standing up and brushing stray popcorn kernels off my lap. “You should go backstage. The indie Q&A session starts in five minutes in the small reception hall behind the screen.”
Vincent looked up at me, genuinely startled. “How do you know about that?”
I tapped my ticket stub against my palm with a grin. “Because I read the local arts paper, Mr. Moretti. Not everyone in South Philly spends their time dodging your associates.”
He stared at me for a long moment, the heavy burden on his shoulders seeming to shift just a fraction of an inch. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up to his full, imposing height. For a man accustomed to issuing commands from high-rise corner offices, he looked remarkably hesitant.
“If I go back there,” Vincent murmured, “he’s going to throw a glass of scotch in my face.”
“Then duck,” I replied brightly. “It builds character.”
A genuine, startlingly handsome smile finally broke across Vincent Moretti’s face—a rare, unguarded expression that completely transformed his severe features.
“Thank you, Claire Bennett,” he said quietly, using my name for the first time.
“Don't mention it,” I smiled back, stepping out into the aisle. “And for the record, you still owe me twelve dollars and fifty cents for ruining my movie.”
May you like
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill, and tucked it neatly into my empty popcorn bucket without breaking eye contact.
“Keep the change,” he said softly. “Consider it an investment in future cinematic commentary.”
