Vincenzo sat in his office, legs crossed on the chair, staring out of the large glass window at the city sprawled below him. The sun was dipping, painting golden streaks across the high-rise buildings. He could see the distant traffic, the small people below scurrying like ants, and somehow, it made him feel absurdly calm and ridiculously misunderstood at the same time.
A sigh escaped him, long and dramatic—though no one would see it. The office was empty. Perfect. Just him, his desk, the soft hum of the air conditioning, and the growing knot of thoughts in his head that insisted on taking over his sanity piece by piece.
He leaned back, letting his chair tilt slightly, and considered the recent news.
The Santoro gang incident.
That insane situation that somehow—according to every headline, social media post, and police rumor—had his name written across it like a neon sign flashing:
VINCENZO MORETTI – DANGEROUS PSYCHOPATH
Vincenzo's lips curled in a small, incredulous smile.
"Me? Dangerous? I… I didn't even raise my voice. Or touch anyone. Or do anything… except sit there, breathing, like a perfectly normal human being."
He tapped his fingers on the desk, slow, thoughtful.
He frowned, leaning slightly closer to the window. The city looked peaceful. Normal. Almost mocking him.
"I… I cannot fight anyone."
He paused.
"…Or can I? No, no. That's exactly the problem. People think I can."
Vincenzo pulled a notebook closer and scribbled something quickly.
"Step one: make people believe I'm harmless. Step two: smile… but not too much. That looks suspicious. Step three: twirl the pen. People like that."
He stared at the pen for a second, then nodded to himself as if he had just solved something important.
Leaning back again, he tilted the chair further and imagined a newspaper headline.
"Local Crime Lord or Innocent Accountant? You Decide."
He chuckled under his breath.
"That's actually not bad…"
His thoughts wandered, jumping quickly from one idea to another.
"Maybe I should just act normal."
He paused again, finger hovering over the notebook.
"Plan to Prove Innocence Without Explaining Anything."
He nodded once.
"Do not panic. Do not punch anyone. Do not accidentally intimidate anyone."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"…That last one might be difficult."
Vincenzo leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he stared out at the city again.
People down there—police, gang members, journalists—were connecting dots that didn't exist.
"Vincenzo Moretti… criminal mastermind?"
He sighed.
"How do they think I connected forty people in the city? Impossible."
He shook his head slowly, genuinely confused.
Then, suddenly—
His eyes lit up.
"Maybe I can use this… reputation to do something good."
He sat up straighter, interest sparked.
"If my name is scary enough… maybe I can help someone without even doing anything."
He pressed his hands together, thinking.
"Carefully."
A small, quiet laugh slipped out of him.
"A terrifying person… who helps people without knowing he's terrifying."
He nodded, satisfied.
"Yes… that makes sense."
Strange.
He had done nothing… yet the world reacted as if he had done everything.
-----
The clock on the wall ticked steadily. Vincenzo had been sitting for a long time, overanalyzing everything. He stood up, stretching his arms like a cat, then began walking slowly around the office.
For a moment, he imagined himself as something distant. Detached. Looking down at everything from above.
"…Harmless," he muttered under his breath.
Then came a knock.
Soft. Careful.
Vincenzo froze mid-step.
"Sir… Vincenzo… may I come in?"
The voice belonged to one of his bodyguards—firm, respectful, but cautious.
Vincenzo straightened slightly and nodded, even before realizing the man couldn't see him.
"Yes… come in."
The door opened, and the bodyguard stepped inside, bowing his head slightly.
"Sir… there is a message for you. From… Antonello Castellano."
Vincenzo's expression shifted immediately. His ears practically perked up.
"Antonello Castellano…"
The name carried weight. Not that Vincenzo fully understood why—but it felt important.
He tilted his head.
"A message?"
He leaned back into his chair, one leg swinging lightly. "Is it… good news? Bad news? Did something happen?"
The bodyguard cleared his throat.
"Sir… the message says: 'I am here for you, Vincenzo. Within my limits, I will assist you in anything you need.' Those are his exact words."
Vincenzo blinked.
Then blinked again.
He leaned forward, resting both hands on the desk, like a child who had just been handed something unexpected.
"Oh… Antonello Castellano…"
His voice softened slightly.
"That old man… he's a good person."
His eyes drifted upward.
"He still wants to help."
"…Even after that."
He exhaled quietly.
"Maybe he believes I'm not evil."
The thought lingered for a moment—simple, almost fragile.
Then he shook his head lightly.
"Doesn't matter."
A small, thoughtful smile appeared.
"I'll help him."
He waved a hand casually toward the bodyguard.
"You can go."
The man nodded and exited without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence returned.
Vincenzo stood up again, beginning to pace slowly.
"I promised to help his daughter… find a good husband."
He stopped briefly, thinking.
"Someone calm. Responsible."
A short pause.
"She will be safe."
He nodded to himself, as if confirming a decision.
"My reputation… if it scares people… that's useful."
He glanced toward the city lights beginning to flicker on outside.
"Maybe this time… it helps someone."
He walked back to his desk and sat down, folding his hands together.
For once, his thoughts felt… aligned.
Simple.
Clear.
"I'll help."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forehead against his fingers.
Quiet.
Certain.
A small smile formed—genuine, calm.
Not because he was feared.
Not because he was misunderstood.
But because, in his own way, he had decided to do something right.
Vincenzo closed his eyes, letting the memory surface.
The last time he had "helped" Antonello… things had gone wrong.
Very wrong.
Vincenzo, of course, remembered it differently.