Thunder crawled across the sky as the ground beneath the Moretti estate trembled.
The first sign of trouble was not the sirens—there were none—but the sudden thump-thump-thump of rotor blades slicing the air. Shadows swept over the courtyard as six helicopters formed a black circle above the mansion, their spotlights slicing down like blades of judgment.
At the front gates, the iron doors groaned under the weight of armored vehicles parking nose-to-nose. Two tanks, a convoy of tactical trucks, and a full line of riot-geared officers formed a barrier so thick it looked like the start of a war.
Inside the security room, alarms blared.
"Sir—!" a guard shouted through Vincenzo's office intercom.
"We have incoming. Not just police. Tactical… a lot of tactical."
But Vincenzo remained seated, unaware of the scale outside—pen still in hand, mid-signature.
Downstairs, the confrontation had already exploded.
Moretti bodyguards poured into formation, guns raised, forming a human wall in front of the gate. The police mirrored them, gun barrels leveled with absolute precision. Tension cracked like electricity—one wrong twitch and someone would bleed.
The lead officer stepped forward, voice amplified through a megaphone:
"Lower your weapons! This is an official arrest operation! Pointing firearms at officers is obstruction and assault on law enforcement!"
One of Vincenzo's bodyguards snarled back,
"This is private property. No one crosses that gate without the boss's permission."
"Permission?" the officer barked. "We have an arrest warrant. Open the gate or we will breach."
Helicopters angled lower, winds tearing across the garden.
Snipers took positions on every rooftop around the perimeter.
Even the trees shook.
This was not a visit.
This was not a warning.
It was a siege.
Inside his office, Vincenzo finally stood, sensing something was wrong as the glass windows vibrated from the downwash of helicopter blades. His fingers tightened around the edge of his desk.
"…What the hell is going on out there?"
The floor vibrated beneath Vincenzo's shoes as he walked toward the balcony.
The curtains snapped wildly from the storm of air pressure outside.
He pushed them aside—and froze.
Below him, the estate courtyard looked like the front line of a battlefield.
Helicopters hovered so low their lights burned through the night like miniature suns.
SWAT teams, riot police, armored squads, and two tanks aimed straight at his property.
Snipers glinted on neighboring rooftops.
Drones buzzed like mechanical hornets.
For a moment, Vincenzo didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
"…This… is for me?"
He whispered it, not in fear, but in disbelief.
Behind him, two of his top bodyguards rushed into the room.
"Boss! Stay inside! They have a full tactical unit."
Another added, "They came prepared like they're attacking a terrorist cell."
Vincenzo exhaled slowly.
In his head, he replayed the old man's flashback message—only through marriage—and now this.
"Great," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I help one person, and suddenly half the country wants to break down my door."
Down below, the shouting intensified.
The lead officer, Daniel Kane himself, stepped forward with a megaphone.
The spotlight from the helicopter above him illuminated every hard line of his furious face.
"Vincenzo Moretti!"
His voice boomed across the estate.
"You are ordered to surrender immediately! Step out with your hands visible!"
The bodyguards around the gate tightened their grips and shouted back:
"The boss has done nothing! You're violating private territory!"
Daniel growled,
"He will step out, or we move in. Five minutes."
A timer began ticking inside every officer's head.
Vincenzo leaned slightly on the balcony railing, eyes narrowing—not scared, just irritated this was the first time something like this happened at this scale.
"Five minutes…" he murmured.
"…They brought an entire army for a misunderstanding."
His head of security stepped closer.
"Boss, what are your orders? Do we engage? Evacuate? Lockdown?"
Vincenzo turned his gaze from the war zone below to the chaos forming inside his own thoughts.
"None of this makes sense," he said quietly.
"But one thing is certain—if I walk out there, they won't listen to a single word I say."
A beat of silence.
Then he added,
"…Because they already believe I'm guilty."
The helicopters roared overhead like mechanical beasts agreeing with him.
----------
*2 HOURS AGO AT POLICE STATION*
The hallways of Central District Police HQ buzzed with tension.
Every entrance was locked.
Every hallway armed.
Every elevator shaft guarded.
Because inside was someone, surrounded by ten officers, riot shields—
Mateo sat trembling in a chair.
He wasn't handcuffed.
He wasn't accused of anything.
He was their only witness.
Their only card.
Their only hope of proving that the man on that blurry video—the silhouette on the bench, the one the media whispered was "devil"—was Vincenzo.
To the police, this was their chance.
To Mateo, it was a nightmare.
--------
Detective Lena Hart stood infront of her laptop
"Daniel—now everyone knows about Mateo and Vincenzo's brother and cousin even talked in their class."
Daniel Kane turned sharply.
"What now?"
Lena slammed the laptop onto the table.
"Someone leaked mateo's identity, we need to find the mole and worry about what Vincenzo would do."
"is Mateo not safe here even in our security" Daniel said clenching his fist.
"yeah, the person who leaked it must also leaked this location," she finished.
The room went silent.
Marcus, the senior officer, whispered,
"That's likely possible."
Lena nodded, voice tightening:
"Someone knows he's here.
Not just in the building—
They may even know the exact room."
Marcus stepped forward, voice hard.
"We move Mateo again. Now. Before they make a move."
Daniel shook his head.
"No."
Marcus frowned.
"No?"
Daniel slammed a folder onto the table—a printed copy of Mateo's statement.
"Listen carefully. If Mateo dies, we lose EVERYTHING."
He pointed at the evidence.
"The video he uploaded is grainy. The face isn't clear. It could be anyone. Without Mateo's testimony, any defense lawyer will say—"
He mimicked a lawyer's voice:
'The video is fake.
The witness is missing.
There is no proof Vincenzo Moretti was involved.'
Ethan nodded grimly.
"And the court will agree."
"So?" Marcus asked.
"So hiding Mateo won't fix anything!" Daniel snapped.
"Every safehouse can be leaked."
Lena added:
"And more importantly…
If Vincenzo wants Mateo dead…
we are running out of places to hide him."
Daniel exhaled, voice steady but furious.
"There's only ONE way to keep Mateo alive."
Everyone looked at him.
Daniel continued:
"We take away the threat."
Alex blinked.
"You mean—"
"Yes."
Daniel's expression turned cold.
"We arrest Vincenzo BEFORE he can act."
Marcus frowned.
"That's extreme. He's a buessenes Man on surface even though everyone knows the truth but still on surface he is—"
Daniel's voice cut like a knife.
"This is our only shot.
If we wait, Mateo is dead.
If he's dead, the case collapses.
And Vincenzo walks free, AGAIN."
Silence.
Then—
The police chief entered the room.
He had overheard everything.
He spoke one sentence:
"Do it. Bring me Vincenzo."
---
THE PREPARATION
Within minutes, the station transformed into a war room.
Officers moved with urgency.
Rifles loaded.
Armor checked.
Helipads activated.
Tactical squads assembled.
City roads were blocked.
Maps of the Moretti mansion appeared on every screen.
The chief barked orders:
"He has private guards. Heavy legal weapons. A fortified perimeter.
So we bring MORE."
Daniel grabbed his helmet.
"No warnings. No calls.
We go now."
--------
*Present*
The heavy double doors of the Moretti mansion swung open.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just a slow, steady push — the kind that made the world outside freeze, as if someone pressed pause on reality.
A cold gust of wind swept in.
Papers fluttered.
Guards tensed.
And Vincenzo Moretti stepped out.
One foot.
Then the other.
Black shoes touching the marble veranda like a king taking a casual stroll… completely unaware that the entire city's law enforcement had turned his home into a war zone.
The day exploded with sight and sound.
Spotlights from helicopters carved bright white lines across his face.
Red sniper beams dotted his chest.
Dozens of rifles snapped up in unison.
Hundreds of boots shifted, forming a half-circle of steel and authority.
Yet he walked forward calmly, adjusting his sleeves.
To him, this looked like a ridiculous misunderstanding — maybe a perimeter drill, maybe police looking for someone else, maybe just another stupid coincidence that always seemed to follow him.
His expression remained blank, almost bored.
All around him, chaos built like a storm.
His bodyguards filled the balcony and the steps behind him — black suits, armored vests, rifles raised, triggers half-pressed. Their shadows stretched across the stone like the edges of a blade.
The police commander yelled through a megaphone:
"VINCENZO MORETTI!
BY ORDER OF THE CITY — YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!
DO NOT TAKE ANOTHER STEP!"
Vincenzo blinked once.
Just once.
He genuinely wondered:
"…Me?"
He glanced left.
Then right.
As if maybe they were shouting at somebody standing beside him.
The ground rumbled as armored trucks repositioned.
The tank treads clanked on the concrete.
The helicopter blades thumped harder, kicking dust into a spiral around him.
Behind the police line, officers whispered:
"Is he serious?"
"He looks confused…"
"Why does he look so calm?"
"He's planning something. Stay sharp!"
From the mansion roof, his head bodyguard muttered into the radio,
"Boss, stop walking. Please. We're… surrounded."
But Vincenzo only raised his eyebrows.
Surrounded?
Why?
It never happened before. Atleast not at this scale
And What did he even do today?
He had lunch.
He red books after meeting his cousins.
He stared at a wall thinking about some old man talking about marriage.
That's it.
He stepped forward again, hands relaxed at his sides.
One more step.
Every police weapon tightened.
Every sniper finger tensed.
"MOVE AGAIN AND WE WILL FIRE!"
the commander shouted, voice cracking from the force of it.
And still—
Still—
Vincenzo didn't understand.
In his mind, he was thinking something painfully simple:
"Why are they shouting?
Why are there tanks?
Did someone escape?
Is there a criminal hiding near my gate?"
He looked directly at the commander, face open and honest.
"Are you… sure you have the right house?"
he asked softly.
The silence that followed rippled like shockwaves.
To the police?
This wasn't innocence.
This was confidence.
This was arrogance.
This was a warlord mocking them in their faces.
To Vincenzo?
It was a genuine question.
Behind him, his guards stepped closer, rifles aimed down at the police line.
On the police side, shields lifted.
Triggers tightened.
Every unit was one heartbeat from open fire.
A single breath could start a war.
And Vincenzo, still clueless, stepped down from the final stair, coat moving with the wind—
Right into the brightest spotlight.
And the entire world held its breath.
For a moment, the world became a photograph.
A single still frame.
Vincenzo stepped into the cone of white light cutting down from the helicopter, dust swirling around his shoes like rising smoke. His coat shifted with the wind, dark cloth fluttering like a bird's wings.
Every officer felt their pulse spike.
Most criminals hid.
Vincenzo?
He walked into light so bright it carved a halo around him.
A devil stepping into heaven's glare.
Or a saint stepping forward with absolute calm.
No one could tell.
Not even him.
His eyes glowed black in the harsh beam, but the expression behind them was painfully, stupidly innocent.
He raised one hand slightly—not threatening, just a tiny wave.
"Good evening."
The police flinched like he'd drawn a blade.
Guns clicked.
Safeties snapped.
Red laser dots jittered over his heart.
Behind him, his own guards moved too — one step forward, one step lower into a firing stance, barrels focusing on the police command line.
The commander screamed through the megaphone, voice shaking:
"HOLD YOUR POSITIONS! NOBODY FIRE UNTIL MY ORDER!"
But several rifles were already trembling, fingers white on triggers.
Because from their eyes…
Vincenzo wasn't waving.
He was signaling.
Some coded gesture.
Some silent kill-order only his assassins understood.
But in reality, his thought was:
"Should I greet them properly? Is waving rude? What if they think I'm being disrespectful… and kill me i don't want to die"
He regretted it instantly.
---
THE COMMANDER STEPS FORWARD
The police commander finally stepped out from behind the shield wall, breath fogging in the cold night.
He looked up at the mansion.
He looked at the rooftop guards.
He looked at the sniper silhouettes.
Then he looked back at Vincenzo.
He swallowed.
"Vincenzo Moretti—"
He struggled to keep his voice steady.
"You are under arrest for suspicion of orchestrating the mass murder. We have every legal right to detain you. DO NOT resist."
Vincenzo's brows furrowed.
Not angry.
Just… deeply confused.
"….mass murder?"
The sincerity in his voice nearly made some officers falter.
But the rest?
They took it as the greatest mockery they'd ever heard.
A monster pretending he didn't know what he did.
A kingpin acting surprised.
The devil himself blinking like a confused schoolboy.
The commander continued:
"Step forward, hands visible. If you cooperate, this ends peacefully."
Behind Vincenzo, a bodyguard barked:
"With all due respect, Commander—if you take another step toward our boss, we will—"
"DROP THE WEAPONS!"
the commander roared.
"POINTING GUNS AT LAW ENFORCEMENT IS A FEDERAL OFFENSE!"
"AND SURROUNDING A PRIVATE RESIDENCE WITH A TANK ISN'T?!"
one of the guards shot back.
Guns rose higher.
Lasers danced on foreheads.
Snipers on both sides whispered through radios.
The helicopter tightened its circle.
Officers braced shields against their shoulders.
The entire mansion grounds became a pressure cooker.
---
Vincenzo lifted both hands slowly — not in surrender, just a polite gesture.
His voice was calm, steady, almost warm:
"Everyone… relax.
Please.
Let's not hurt anyone today."
His tone was so gentle it hurt.
But to the police?
This wasn't gentle.
It was chilling.
Because the most terrifying criminals were always calm before violence.
The commander viewed that tone as confirmation:
He's stalling us.
He's buying time.
He's planning something.
Some officers began breathing faster.
Some clenched their jaws.
A few tightened their grip so hard their fingers went numb.
Meanwhile, inside Vincenzo's head:
"Why are they always dramatic?
Maybe they arrested the wrong guy.
Maybe someone with the same name?
Should I ask for ID? Is that rude?"
He stepped forward again, hands still raised slightly.
"Commander… I didn't attack anyone.
Can we talk—"
Every single gun snapped up toward him instantly.
"STOP MOVING!"
"DON'T COME CLOSER!"
"GET ON YOUR KNEES!"
"DOWN!"
"DOWN NOW!"
Voices exploded in every direction.
His guards screamed:
"BOSS, THEY'RE GOING TO SHOOT—GET BACK INSIDE!"
But Vincenzo just sighed.
"Why would they shoot me…?
I literally didn't do anything today."
And he kept walking.
Slow.
Unbothered.
Tragic.
Like a man completely unaware that one inch more and the entire city might explode into gunfire.