They already knew her, she was here before.
By the time she again stood within sight of the barricades, her name had moved faster than her body ever could.
Moretti.
His cousin.
Blood.
Cameras adjusted before their operators consciously realized why. Microphones drifted in her direction like iron filings toward a magnet. Even the police line stiffened, posture shifting from crowd control to something closer to anticipation.
Cathy Moretti did not acknowledge any of it.
Her pace never changed.
Measured. Deliberate. Not hurried, not hesitant — the walk of someone who knew exactly where she was going and did not need permission to get there.
The crowd's fury, which had been focused and singular only moments ago, fractured the instant she entered their vision.
Some voices rose higher, shriller.
"Another one!"
"They're all the same!"
"Monster blood!"
Others faltered — not in mercy, but in uncertainty. Rage was easy when aimed at a single, distant figure in chains. It became unstable when that figure had family who walked into the open without fear.
Reporters surged.
"Cathy Moretti!"
"Miss Moretti, do you deny the allegations against your cousin?"
"Are you here to intimidate witnesses?"
"Do you condone the crimes attributed to the Moretti family?"
She did not slow.
Did not look at them.
Her eyes were already fixed ahead.
On him.
Vincenzo Moretti stood under the floodlights exactly as the footage would later show him — handcuffed, surrounded, silent. His posture was straight, his expression unreadable. Not defiant. Not submissive.
Present.
The accusations screamed at him from every direction.
Words meant to flay.
"Cannibal!"
"Devil!"
"You ate children!"
"My family died because of you!"
Rocks began to fly again — not coordinated, not aimed with precision, but hurled with raw, directionless hatred. They struck shields, pavement, the side of a police vehicle. None reached him.
Not one.
Police shifted uneasily.
They had expected rage.
They had not expected stillness.
Cathy reached the outer police line.
An officer stepped forward automatically, arm extending.
"Miss, you need to—"
"Don't."
The word was quiet.
It did not echo.
It did not rise.
It simply arrived.
The officer froze mid-movement.
So did the one beside him.
So did the one behind them, baton half-raised.
It wasn't fear that stopped them.
It was recognition — the instinctive understanding that crossing this line would be a mistake they could not undo.
Vincenzo's voice carried no emotion.
No warning.
Only certainty.
The cameras caught the pause.
The crowd felt it.
The line parted without command.
Cathy walked through.
Up close, the noise dulled — not because it faded, but because her attention narrowed to a single point.
She stopped in front of him.
For the first time since stepping into the open, her expression changed.
Not softened.
Focused.
She inclined her head slightly — not submissive, not theatrical.
Respectful.
"Big brother," she said quietly.
Big brother.
Her tone was composed, controlled, stripped of the cruelty she offered the rest of the world. No mockery. No amusement. No performance.
"I shouldn't be here," she continued, just as quietly. "They stopped Antonio and Nick at the estate. No one else was allowed to move."
A pause.
"Big brother luca and big brother enzho, stopped everyone including uncle's too. — watching. As this place isn't safe."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the crowd, the cameras, the barely restrained police line.
"Not for family."
Vincenzo looked at her.
Nothing in his face shifted, but his attention settled fully on her, as if the world beyond her shoulders had dimmed.
"You should have stayed away," he said.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't concern.
It was a statement of fact.
"I know," she replied immediately. No argument. No defiance. "But this is the first time they've done this to you. Publicly."
Her gaze returned to his face, sharp and intent.
"I wanted to see how you would stand."
Not if.
How.
Around them, reporters were losing cohesion.
"They're talking — get closer!"
"What did she say?"
"Is this coordination?"
Microphones pushed forward again.
"Mr. Moretti, do you deny the accusations?"
"Miss Moretti, are you here to support a mass murderer?"
"Do you believe this arrest is legitimate?"
Neither of them answered.
The silence stretched.
Not empty.
Weighted.
Cathy spoke again, lower now — for him alone.
"They think this is the end," she said. "They're louder than I expected."
A beat.
"But they're not brave. Just desperate."
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"And The Family They stopped the others because they're afraid this turns ugly. They're right."
She met his eyes directly.
"I know this is your move," she said. Not a question. "I know you didn't misstep."
She did not ask why.
She did not ask what comes next.
That was not her place.
Vincenzo held her gaze.
"Go," he said.
The word did not echo.
It didn't need to.
It slipped out of Vincenzo's mouth with the same flat certainty as everything else he said, and Cathy heard it for what it was — not dismissal, not rejection, but an instruction shaped by danger.
She held his gaze for a fraction longer than necessary.
Around them, the world waited without knowing it was waiting.
Then she nodded.
Once.
Small. Precise.
No defiance. No hesitation.
She stepped back.
The space between them closed immediately.
Police hands returned to Vincenzo's arms, firmer now, as if touching him again required courage they had momentarily lost. Metal rattled softly as chains shifted. A baton scraped against a shield. Someone cleared their throat too loudly.
The line re-formed.
And with it, the noise came rushing back.
Not all at once — not yet.
First, it was murmurs.
Angry ones.
Confused ones.
"Did you hear that?" "What did he say to her?" "Why did they stop?"
Cathy turned, walking away exactly the same way she had arrived — measured, unhurried, head high. Cameras followed her for a few steps before snapping back to their real prize.
Him.
Vincenzo Moretti stood where they left him.
Handcuffed.
Surrounded.
Still.
The floodlights bleached color from his face, carving sharp lines where exhaustion and indifference met. His coat stirred slightly in the night breeze. Dust clung to the hem from the earlier scuffle near the barricades.
The crowd stared.
They hated him for it.
For not shrinking.
For not pleading.
For not reacting the way monsters were supposed to react when finally cornered.
Someone screamed first.
A raw, tearing sound — not a word, just a release.
Then another voice found language.
"You think you can just stand there?!"
A man surged forward against the barrier, face purple with rage, veins bulging at his neck. Police shoved him back, shields slamming into ribs. He didn't stop yelling.
"My wife burned alive in one of your warehouses! Screaming! Trapped! You think chains erase that?!"
The accusation didn't wait for proof.
None of them did.
Another voice layered over it, higher, cracked with grief.
"My brother disappeared after one meeting! They found his teeth in a bag weeks later! THAT WAS YOU!"
Phones were raised higher.
Zoomed tighter.
Every scream became content.
Every tear became validation.
Vincenzo listened.
Or rather — he did not block it out.
The sound reached him.
He just didn't know what to do with it.
Inside, his thoughts were embarrassingly slow.
Why are they yelling like this?
He had heard shouting before. Threats. Insults. Fear.
But this was different.
This wasn't negotiation.
This wasn't warning.
This was release.
Like a dam breaking.
A rock hit the pavement near his foot, exploding into chalky fragments. Another bounced off a shield. Another clanged harmlessly against the armored van.
Police shifted into tighter formation.
"Control the crowd!" "Keep them back!" "Shields up!"
A woman sobbed openly, collapsing to her knees.
"They hurt him… they cut him while he was alive… they sent me the video…"
Her hands shook so badly her phone slipped from her fingers, clattering against the asphalt, screen still glowing with a paused image she couldn't look at anymore.
Others took courage from her pain.
"That's him!" "Say something!" "LOOK AT US!"
Someone threw a bottle.
It shattered mid-air against a raised shield, spraying glass across boots and uniforms. An officer flinched, then swore under his breath.
The crowd fed on it.
On every sign of strain.
On every moment the police looked human.
A group near the front began chanting — disorganized at first, then louder.
"Devil." "Devil." "Devil."
The word stuck.
It rolled over him in waves.
Vincenzo's eyes tracked movement without focus. Faces blurred together — red, wet, contorted, furious. Hands. Mouths. Teeth bared like animals fighting for territory.
He thought, distantly:
Are they all blaming me.
A reporter shoved forward again, microphone raised, nearly losing his footing as the crowd surged.
"Mr. Moretti!" he shouted, voice hoarse with adrenaline. "Do you deny the suffering of these people?!"
Another reporter screamed over him:
"Do you feel anything at all?!"
A third:
"Are you satisfied?!"
The questions overlapped, tangled, meaningless.
Vincenzo didn't answer.
Not because he was calculating.
Not because he was refusing.
He genuinely didn't know which one he was supposed to respond to first.
Behind the police line, someone hurled a stone harder than the others.
It struck an officer's helmet with a dull crack.
Blood ran immediately — a thin line down the man's temple.
That did it.
The crowd roared.
They smelled weakness.
Police batons came up.
"BACK UP!" "MOVE BACK NOW!"
Bodies slammed together.
Someone fell.
A scream cut short as boots trampled over it.
Vincenzo saw none of it clearly.
He was staring at a man directly in front of him now — close enough that spit hit his cheek when he screamed.
"You RUINED EVERYTHING!"
The man's eyes were red, unfocused, pupils blown wide by rage and something chemical.
"My kids grew up without a mother because of you! You don't even LOOK SORRY!"
Vincenzo blinked.
Once.
Am I supposed to look sorry?, but I am innocent too.
Another rock flew.
This one glanced off his shoulder.
Didn't hurt.
Didn't even register until he noticed dust on his coat.
The cameras caught that too.
Zoomed in.
Slowed down.
The headlines were already forming.
Stone hits Moretti — he doesn't flinch.
Inside the police line, an officer whispered to another:
"Jesus… look at him."
"What?"
"He's not even reacting."
"Of course he's not. That's what scares me."
The noise peaked.
The air felt stretched.
Like something had to snap.
And then —
A voice cut through everything.
Close.
Too close.
Not shouted from the crowd.
Not amplified by a megaphone.
A reporter had pushed past the last layer of control.
Right up to him.