His father's penthouse was cold in all the ways money couldn't warm.
The dinner was formal, filled with gray suits, sharper smiles, and thinly veiled interrogations disguised as conversation. His father, Matteo Nightwinn, was dressed in custom Italian tailoring and suspicion.
"You've been distracted," Matteo said as their guests laughed elsewhere. "The new book?"
"In part."
"In full."
Andres sipped his wine, already bored. "What do you want to ask but won't?"
His father smiled without warmth. "Your mother would say you're obsessed again. You get that look — before you spiral into something reckless."
Andres' expression flickered. "You didn't know her as well as you think."
"I knew enough," Matteo said, leaning in. "And I know you. There's a shadow behind your smile, son. You hide it well, but not from me."
Andres looked away.
A memory surfaced — his mother at the piano, her fingers trembling on the keys. Her voice whispering to him: "There's beauty in sadness. But never mistake it for safety."
He never did.