*OFFICE OF LUCA"
Luca didn't speak at first.
The news came without drama, delivered the way dangerous truths always were—flat, quiet, final.
"Vincenzo Moretti has been arrested."
That was all.
Luca sat at the long table, hands folded, eyes fixed on nothing. The room around him—maps of territories, financial routes, old photographs—felt suddenly heavier.
Arrested.
Not shot.
Not ambushed.
Not erased.
Arrested.
That alone was unsettling.
After a long moment, Luca asked the only question that mattered.
"How?"
"No resistance," the man answered. "Police surrounded the mansion. He walked out."
Luca's fingers tightened.
That wasn't relief.
That was concern.
"No resistance," Luca repeated slowly.
The city believed Vincenzo was a monster a planner.
And Luca knows it.
He believes Vincenzo is a planner.
A man who never moved without calculating three outcomes ahead.
If Vincenzo had resisted, it would've made sense.
If blood had been spilled, it would've fit the legend.
But silence?
Submission?
That meant choice.
"They moved early," Luca said, standing and walking toward the window. "Earlier than anyone expected."
He looked down at the city, the same city that whispered Vincenzo's name like a curse.
"Because of Mateo," he continued. "Everyone knew about the witness."
The man behind him nodded. "The leak spread faster than they predicted."
"And once the city knew," Luca said, "hiding the witness stopped being protection."
If Mateo vanished, the case would collapse.
And Vincenzo would walk free, untouchable again.
"So they arrested him before he could act," Luca said calmly. "Before the board shifted."
He turned back, eyes sharp.
"Which means they think they outplayed him."
No one responded.
Because everyone in the room understood the implication.
"You don't catch Vincenzo Moretti by accident," Luca said quietly.
"You catch him because he allows it."
One of the men hesitated. "You think he planned this?"
Luca didn't answer immediately.
Then:
"I think he calculated that prison is safer than chaos right now."
He paused.
"And that whatever comes next… will happen on his terms."
-------
*AT THE PORT*
Enzho slammed his fist against the table.
"So it's true," he snapped. "The kid exists."
No one corrected him.
No one needed to.
Mateo had become a name that moved faster than bullets.
Not public news — but city news.
The kind whispered between dealers, cops, fixers, and men who survived by listening more than they spoke.
A witness.
A recording.
Santaro's blood still fresh in the park.
Enzho laughed — sharp, humorless.
"Of course it's Mateo," he said. "I was wondering how long it would take before something like this surfaced."
One of his men said carefully, "If the city knows about the witness… doesn't that mean Vincenzo miscalculated?"
Enzho's head snapped toward him.
"Miscalculated?" he barked. "You think that man miscalculates?"
His jaw tightened, memories flashing — a quiet room, Vincenzo's dead eyes, the way he spoke as if the world already belonged to him.
"I' know him," Enzho growled. "grew up with him. He doesn't move unless he's already ten steps ahead."
He paced, restless, heat rolling off him.
"You think Mateo recording him is an accident?" Enzho continued.
"You think Vincenzo didn't know someone was watching? Didn't feel it?"
He scoffed.
"He knew about Mateo before the city did. That's the kind of monster he is."
Another voice hesitated. "Then why let the video exist at all?"
Enzho stopped pacing.
Slowly, a grin crept across his face — not happy, not sane.
"Because it benefits him."
Silence.
"Look at it," Enzho said, voice rising.
"Blurred face. No clean angle. No direct order on audio.
Just enough for people to panic.
Just enough for the cops to rush."
His fist clenched again.
"That's how Vincenzo fights," he said.
"He doesn't erase threats. He controls the timing of them."
Someone muttered, "The city thinks he'll kill the witness."
Enzho laughed loudly.
"Of course they do. That's the story they've been telling themselves for years."
He leaned forward, eyes burning.
"But that's exactly why he won't."
A beat.
"Not yet."
The Santaro massacre, the dragged leader, the park —
it all fit the image the city already worshipped and feared.
Vincenzo didn't need to prove anything.
"He's letting them chase their own shadows," Enzho said.
"Letting them tighten their grip.
Letting them expose themselves."
His teeth clenched.
"And if he really gets arrested?"
The room went still.
Enzho's answer came without hesitation.
"Then it's part of the strategy."
No doubt.
No fear.
"That man doesn't get caught," Enzho said.
"He chooses when to be contained."
He straightened, breathing hard.
"Mateo being alive means the game isn't over," Enzho finished.
"It means Vincenzo wants everyone watching."
A pause.
"And when the city finally thinks they've won…"
Enzho smiled — hot, reckless, dangerous.
"That's when people start dying."
----
*ACONO SCHOOL*
The classroom door was locked.
Not quietly.
Not officially.
A metal chair had been jammed under the handle from the inside, legs scraping the floor until the latch screamed and held. Outside, the bell rang for the next period. Footsteps passed. Voices faded. Another class continued like nothing was wrong.
Inside, the room was alive.
Desks had been pushed back to the walls, forming a crude circle. Bags lay open, books trampled, pages torn and smeared with shoe marks. Laughter bounced off the walls—sharp, ugly, uncontrolled. Boys and girls crowded close, some standing on desks, others sitting cross-legged on tabletops, phones half-raised but never fully out. Everyone knew better than to record without permission.
In the center, two students were on their knees.
One had blood on his lip. The other was crying so hard she couldn't breathe properly anymore.
A boy kicked the first one in the ribs—not hard enough to break anything, just enough to remind him where he was. A girl laughed and stepped on the fallen books, grinding her heel into the pages like she was putting out a cigarette.
"Say it again," she said sweetly.
The girl on her knees shook her head.
Another slap landed. Louder.
Around them, the others laughed.
Not nervously.
Not uncertainly.
This was routine.
At the front of the room, a single chair faced the circle.
Cathy sat there like a queen watching animals tear each other apart.
One leg was crossed over the other, skirt perfectly straight, posture lazy but deliberate. A cigarette burned between her fingers, ash growing long because she hadn't bothered to flick it yet. Smoke curled lazily around her face, softening her sharp smile but never hiding it.
Her eyes were bright.
Amused.
"Careful," she said casually, exhaling smoke. "Don't knock his teeth out yet. He still needs them."
The boy who had kicked the victim froze instantly.
"Sorry, boss."
She waved a hand, dismissive. "Relax. I said yet."
Laughter rippled through the room again.
Cathy leaned back further, chair creaking slightly under her weight. She watched the two kneeling students the way someone watched insects—curious, entertained, completely detached.
"Look at you," she said, voice light, almost playful. "Shaking like that. You'd think I was killing you."
Her gaze slid to the crying one.
"You still remember me, right?"
The girl stiffened. Her eyes lowering in fear—in recognition. She shook his head anyway, desperate.
"I—I don't—"
A shoe pressed down on her shoulder, forcing him lower.
Cathy clicked her tongue.
"Tsk. Lying again?" She tilted her head, cigarette glowing faintly as she inhaled. "That's disappointing. I hate it when people forget important things."
She leaned forward slightly.
"But that's okay," she continued. "I remember for both of us."
She didn't explain what she meant.
She didn't need to.
The ones holding the victims laughed harder. Some looked away—not out of guilt, but because even they knew better than to stare too long when Cathy decided to enjoy herself.
She finally flicked the ash, letting it fall onto the floor near the kneeling boy's hands.
"Clean that," she said.
He hesitated.
The chair scraped.
Cathy stood.
The room went silent instantly—no laughter, no whispers, no movement except the smoke drifting upward. Even the two victims stopped breathing for a second.
She stepped forward slowly, boots tapping against the floor. She stopped right in front of the boy who had hesitated, looked down at him, and smiled.
"You don't pause when I tell you to do something," she said softly. "That's how people get hurt."
He dropped immediately, hands shaking as he wiped at the floor with his sleeve, smearing ash and dirt together.
"Good," Cathy said, satisfied.
She turned back toward her chair—
—and stopped.
There was a knock at the door.
Once.
Sharp. Controlled.
Every head snapped toward it.
No one knocked on this door unless they were stupid… or confident.
Cathy's smile didn't fade. If anything, it widened.
"Who is it?" she called.
A man's voice came through the wood, calm and respectful.
"May I come in, Miss Moretti?"
A beat.
The room held its breath.
Cathy glanced around at the mess—the crying, the blood, the kneeling bodies, the grinning dogs waiting for her cue. She took one last drag from her cigarette.
Then she smiled.
"Sure," she said. "Why not?"
She nodded.
Two boys rushed to pull the chair away from the handle. The door opened.
The man who entered wore a black suit, perfectly tailored, the kind that didn't belong anywhere near a school. His hair was neat, his posture straight. He didn't react to the scene—not the blood, not the fear, not the smoke.
Behind him, two more men waited in the hallway.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"Say it," Cathy told him, already walking back to her chair. "What you want, out loud."
Cathy didn't think it was any important news
The man inclined his head slightly.
"Yes, miss."
He turned to face the room, voice carrying easily.
"boss, your cousin," he said, evenly, "Vincenzo Moretti—"
The name alone sent a visible shiver through the students.
"—has been arrested."
The reaction exploded.
Gasps.
Sharp inhales.
Wide eyes.
Cathy froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Her cigarette burned down to the filter without her noticing.
"…Arrested?" she repeated.
The man nodded. "Yes."
For a moment, the room waited.
Then Cathy laughed.
Not softly.
Not nervously.
She laughed like she'd just been told the best joke she'd heard all year.
"Arrested?" she said again, wiping at her eye as if something genuinely funny had happened. "You're serious?"
The man didn't smile. "Completely."
Her laughter slowed. Stopped.
She leaned back in her chair, studying the ceiling like she was doing math in her head.
"…Wow," she said at last. "They finally decided to move."
She looked at the two kneeling students again—faces pale, terrified, hope flickering despite themselves.
Her smile returned.
Slow. Sharp. Certain.
"See?" she said lightly, gesturing at them. "This is why you never panic early."
She crushed the cigarette under her heel and stood.
"If my cousin is 'arrested,'" Cathy continued, voice calm and confident, "then it's because he wanted to be."
She turned her gaze back to the man in the suit.
"And if the city thinks this means they've won…"
Her eyes gleamed.
"…they're about to embarrass themselves."
The room erupted into laughter again.
Not because they understood.
But because Cathy did.
*Prepare the car i am going to meet him*
She said slowly as if to see herself how he will deal with the situation.
---
*MORETTI ESTATE*
The silence in the Moretti estate wasn't shock.
It was calculation.
Everyone in the room already knew about Mateo.
The witness. The recording. The blurred face. The park. Santaro's blood still fresh in the city's memory.
So when the words finally landed—
"Vincenzo has been arrested."
—no one screamed.
Because suddenly… it made sense.
---
Rafael was the first to speak, his voice low and tired.
"They moved early."
Marco nodded immediately. "They had to."
Antonio scoffed at first, then stopped himself halfway through. His anger stalled, replaced by something sharper.
"Because of the leak," he muttered.
Everyone understood.
Mateo's name had already spread through the city like smoke. Not publicly, not on the news — but in the places that mattered. Among cops. Among gangs. Among people who survived by assuming the worst.
"If the city knows there's a witness," Marco said, "then the police can't afford to wait."
Isabella folded her arms tightly. "Because waiting means assuming Vincenzo won't act."
Her eyes hardened.
"And no one in this city believes that."
---
Nick leaned forward, jaw clenched. "So they arrested him to protect the kid."
Frank exhaled sharply. "To stop him."
Not because they were ready. Not because they were certain.
But because they believed time was running out.
---
Klein spoke next, calm, precise.
"From their perspective, it's simple.
Mateo is the only thing standing between suspicion and conviction.
If Mateo dies, everything collapses."
He paused.
"And if Mateo dies… everyone will say it was inevitable."
Because that was the city's truth.
That was Vincenzo's reputation.
---
Clara pressed her fingers against the table, voice strained.
"They think he was going to kill him."
No one denied it.
No one said, He wouldn't.
Because none of them could.
---
Antonio ran a hand through his hair, restless. "So they rushed it. Surrounded the mansion. Cameras ready. Arrest first, ask questions later."
Marco nodded. "Exactly. They didn't want to give him a window."
Frank's voice was bitter. "And they think they closed the door."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Knowing.
---
Lucia finally spoke again, small but sharp.
"But he didn't resist."
That part still didn't fit.
Isabella's gaze lifted slowly.
"Because resisting would confirm everything they already believe."
Her voice dropped.
"A violent arrest would make him look exactly like the monster they've been preparing the city to see."
Rafael let out a slow breath. "So he walked out."
Marco finished the thought.
"Calm. Controlled."
Antonio's fists clenched.
"Which only makes him look worse."
---
No one said it out loud, but they all understood the irony:
The police arrested him to stop him from killing a witness.
And by doing so, they fed the image that made killing the witness believable in the first place.
---
Klein leaned back.
"From the outside, this looks perfect.
A mastermind finally cornered.
A witness under protection.
A city holding its breath."
He glanced around the table.
"But from the inside?"
No one answered.
Because from the inside, it felt like the opening move of something far larger.
---
Clara whispered the thought none of them wanted to claim.
"If he really intended to kill the boy…"
She stopped.
Then finished quietly.
"He wouldn't have let himself be arrested first."
The room stayed silent.
Not because they disagreed.
But because that single sentence made everything worse.