"Whoa. This is your car?"
Jessica Jones walked a slow circle around the black Lincoln Navigator, raising an appreciative eyebrow. She gave Vincent a thumbs-up.
"Honestly, how do you make this kind of money?" she asked, genuine curiosity breaking through her usual indifference. "Wait, actually... what is the name of this famous book you wrote?"
She remembered now. He had mentioned being a published author.
Vincent glanced around the parking lot. A group of shadowy figures were eyeing the luxury SUV with predatory intent. If Jessica—whose reputation in the Kitchen was well-known—wasn't standing there, they would have likely made a move already.
"Get in. I'll tell you," Vincent grinned.
Jessica hopped into the passenger seat without hesitation.
"I'm dying to know," she pressed as he started the engine. "What kind of novel pays for a ride like this?"
In just a few days, Vincent's display of wealth had ignited a firestorm of gossip in her mind.
Vincent leaned over, lowering his voice conspiratorially, and whispered the title.
Jessica's eyes widened. Her dark, smoky eyeliner seemed to stretch as her jaw dropped.
"You're kidding me."
"Nope."
"But... you barely just turned legal," she sputtered, blinking rapidly. "You wrote Fifty Shades of Grey? You?"
"How the hell did you write that?" she fired off a rapid sequence of disbelief.
"Trade secret," Vincent winked, merging onto the main road. "And you have to keep it a secret. If this gets out, my life becomes a circus."
"Wow. I'm friends with a freak genius," Jessica shook her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "If the media found out... global meltdown. The headlines would be insane."
But Vincent knew she was tight-lipped. Jessica Jones didn't gossip. She was a private investigator and a superhuman recluse; keeping secrets was her currency.
"Aren't you worried your agent or lawyer will sell you out?" she asked suddenly.
"My lawyer is blind," Vincent chuckled. "And I have dirt on him that ensures his silence."
Jessica raised an eyebrow. "Matt?"
Hell's Kitchen was small. A blind lawyer wasn't exactly a common archetype. Vincent didn't confirm it, but the silence was answer enough.
Park Avenue. The Penthouse.
Julia, the real estate agent, was waiting in the lobby. Dressed in a sharp, form-fitting business suit that accentuated her curves, she drew admiring glances from everyone who walked by.
"Mr. Hall, the transfer is complete. You can move in immediately," she said, her voice dripping with professional honey.
"Thank you, Julia."
Vincent took the keys. Julia's fingers lingered on his palm for a fraction of a second too long, her smile turning coquettish before she turned to leave.
Jessica watched the interaction with a knowing smirk. "Looks like I'm interrupting something, Mr. Hall."
Vincent shrugged. "I told you. I'm eighteen now."
Jessica paused, actually looking at him. She had always seen him as "The Kid"—the tragic orphan she needed to protect. But the way he handled the car, the agent, the money...
He had changed. Or maybe he had just grown up. He didn't have the restless energy of a teenager anymore. He carried himself like a man who had seen the world and conquered it.
"It's getting late," Vincent said, breaking her reverie. "I had Julia stock the fridge. Let me cook for you. Consider it a thank you for the heavy lifting."
Jessica smiled. She really was hungry.
"I can't wait."
They took the private elevator up. Most of the boxes were carried by Jessica. Super-strength came in handy on moving day. Vincent knew about her powers, and she knew he knew. It was the foundation of their strange friendship.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse.
It was a duplex with a private rooftop terrace. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline.
"Not bad," Jessica admitted, looking around. "The view is killer. The decor isn't terrible either."
It was "light luxury"—modern, sleek, expensive. Compared to her rat-hole apartment in Hell's Kitchen, this was a different planet.
"When Julia showed me this place, I took it immediately," Vincent explained, walking to the kitchen island. "The previous owner was a Wall Street broker. He poured a fortune into this place. Unfortunately, he also poured a fortune into Stark Industries using embezzled client funds."
Vincent laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated schadenfreude.
"I thought the deal might fall through when Stark came back. The stock rallied on Friday, gave the guy hope."
Jessica leaned against the counter. "Then he must be suicidal today. I heard the stock tanked 40%. Tony really screwed the little guys."
"Exactly. The owner needed cash. Liquid cash. Today. To cover his margin calls."
Vincent poured a glass of water and slid it to her. "Drink this. Give me twenty minutes. How does Wagyu steak sound?"
Jessica's eyes lit up. "I thought you were going to make Chinese food."
"Chinese food takes too much prep time," Vincent replied, pulling a slab of marbled beef from the fridge. "I don't want to serve you something rushed. Besides, you're hungry now. I can't let a beautiful woman wait."
Jessica stared at him for a moment. The compliment was smooth, delivered without the awkwardness of a boy trying to flirt. He was operating on a different frequency now.
Vincent moved with practiced ease. The beef was top-tier Japanese A5 Wagyu, expensive enough to make a normal person weep.
He plated the steaks and reached for the wine rack.
"1991 Harlan Estate," he murmured, reading the label. "The best vintage. The previous owner left it. Nice of him. Saves me the trouble of trying to buy alcohol without ID."
He flashed a charming grin at Jessica.
"If you want to do community service, I won't stop you from drinking," Jessica teased.
In the US, the drinking age was 21. Underage drinking was a ticket to community service if caught.
"This is my house," Vincent said, popping the cork with a satisfying thwack. "You won't tell, I won't tell. Who's going to know?"
He poured two glasses of the deep red liquid.
"To new beginnings," he toasted.