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. Well, no one could see it, because 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 ridiculous, utterly insane situation that somehow, according to every headline, social media post, and police rumor, had his name written across it in bold letters like it was 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, slowly, thoughtfully.
He frowned, leaning closer to the window. The city looked innocuous, peaceful, almost mocking him with its normalcy. "But… I'm law-abiding. I do paperwork. I sit in my office. I drink tea sometimes. Sometimes coffee. Very civilized stuff. I… I cannot fight anyone. Or… can I? No, no. That's exactly the problem. People think I can, when really… I can't. Not without at least three rehearsals."
Vincenzo pulled a notebook closer and scribbled something. "Step one: Make people believe I'm… harmless. Step two: Maybe smile? But not too much… too much smiling looks suspicious. Step three: Twirl pen. Three times clockwise. People like magic. Or clockwise… or counterclockwise… hmm." He paused, stared at the pen in his hand, and whispered to himself, "Do I even know which way is clockwise? Maybe this is why they're scared of me."
He leaned back again, tilting his chair further, and imagined himself in a newspaper headline. "Local Crime Lord or Innocent Accountant? You Decide." He chuckled. "Ha! Accountants! Dangerous! Oh, yes, very scary. Terrifying, even. But wait, I'm not an accountant… technically. Business owner… sophisticated, yes… okay, dangerous? That's funny. Very funny."
Vincenzo's mind wandered further, taking tiny leaps like an over-caffeinated rabbit. "Maybe if I twirl my pen three times and bow slightly, people will understand I'm innocent. Or maybe a small dance? No… too suspicious. Maybe I should hum. Humming is safe. People like humming. Humming is innocent… yes. That is moral, logical, safe."
He paused. His finger hovered over the notebook again, as if daring to write down his "Plan to Prove Innocence Without Actually Explaining Anything." The first bullet point, as always, was the most important: Do not panic. Second bullet point: Do not punch anyone. Third: Do not accidentally intimidate anyone. He chuckled softly at the third one, because he realized that… well… maybe he had accidentally intimidated a few people.
Vincenzo's reflection continued in its relentless, humorously innocent way. He considered calling someone, anyone, just to explain that he didn't kill anyone, that he didn't orchestrate anything, that he wasn't a walking headline. But then… "Who would believe me? People are already scared. Even my family.... I'm… I'm so intimidating, apparently. Me! A human with tea stains on his shirt. Terrifying. Moral, moral, moral… okay, okay, think logically. Step one: behave morally. Step two: don't let them notice me twitching. Step three: don't twirl pen in the wrong way."
He stared at the city again, imagining all the police officers, gang members, journalists, and random social media people trying to connect dots they had no right to connect. Vincenzo Moretti – the criminal mastermind? Ridiculous. He bit his lip. "Dots… connections… I barely have time to connect my socks in the morning… how do they think I connected… 40 people in the city? Impossible." He shook his head with exaggerated horror.
Then a new idea struck him, and his expression lit up with sudden childlike delight. "Maybe… maybe I can do some good with my… well, terrifying reputation. Maybe… just maybe… if my name is scary enough, I can help someone. But… I must be subtle. Moral. Polite. Innocent. But scary, of course. Scary morally, harmlessly." He giggled quietly that would have scared anyone.
Vincenzo paused for a moment, thinking deeply, his hands pressed together like a monk, imagining himself as a paradox: "A terrifying person who helps others without knowing he's terrifying. Yes… yes, that is perfect. Moral chaos… very good, very… ethical."
The clock on the wall ticked slowly. He had been sitting for a long time, overanalyzing. He stood up, stretched his arms like a cat, and walked around the office. The office was large, minimalist, almost absurdly pristine. Monitors lined one wall, screens showing market charts, city cams, and occasionally, alerts that he never actually read. A coffee machine hissed softly in the corner. The city's reflection glinted in the glass, and he imagined himself as a tiny, harmless deity looking down at ants. "Yes… harmless. Moral. Innocent. Scary. Harmless." He spun in a circle, feeling satisfied with the sound of his own moral logic.
Then came a knock. Soft, polite, almost hesitant. Vincenzo froze mid-spin.
"Sir… Vincenzo… may I come in?" The voice belonged to his bodyguard, firm but respectful, cautious.
Vincenzo nodded quickly, a small grin crossing his face. "Yes… yes, come in.
The bodyguard but stepped inside bowing his head. "Sir… there is a message for you. From… Antonello Castellano."
Vincenzo's ears perked up. Antonello Castellano. The name alone sounded heavy, important, delicate. He tilted his head, curious, yet not understanding why the message mattered.
"Message?" Vincenzo asked, tilting his chair back slightly, swinging one leg. "Is it… good news? Bad news? Is someone… accidentally hurt?" He thought in his mind dramatically. "Not that I… well… I might accidentally hurt someone, but morally, I would never. Unless provoked. Or… mildly misunderstood."
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 he blinked again. He perched on the edge of his chair, hands clasped together like a child who just discovered magic.
"Oh… Antonello Castellano… that dying old man… what a good person he is," Vincenzo murmured to himself. "He… he actually… he still… talks to me. Even after… sigh… yes, after that little… accident… that almost… well… I had a tiny mishap involving him, but he still… still wants to… help." He leaned back, hand on chin, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
Vincenzo's mind spun, childlike in its innocence, with a hint of moral heroism: Maybe… maybe he believes I am… not evil? Not completely terrifying? Or… maybe he just doesn't know yet. Doesn't matter. Moral victory… yes… yes, I will help.
"You can go now" Vincenzo said to his bodyguard who quietly left the office.
"I… I promised to help his daughter… find a good husband," Vincenzo continued in his mind softly, pacing the office now, hands flailing slightly in emphasis. "Maybe that… that's why he still talks to me. My reputation… scary, yes… but if I find her a good husband… not abusive… moral… she… she will be safe. Yes… even with her disability… nothing will harm her. Morally… I am doing good. Accidental reputation can… help others. Very good."
He stopped at the window again, staring at the city lights now beginning to blink. "I… I am… good. Not evil. Just… misunderstood. Very misunderstood. But if even once… just once… my… terrifying reputation… can help someone… yes… moral… perfectly moral."
Vincenzo then sat again, folding his hands on the desk, tapping his fingers like he was conducting an orchestra of innocence and chaos. He imagined himself offering advice, money, small help… all in a morally pure, childlike way. He chuckled softly, a little to himself, realizing how ridiculous he looked, but morally, of course, it was justified.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead lightly against his palms, whispering: "Yes… yes, I will help. Respectfully. Morally. Innocently. And… if my reputation scares people… well… that is a bonus. Moral bonus."
For the first time in hours, Vincenzo allowed himself to smile. A quiet, victorious smile. He had a purpose now. Not because he was evil, or because he was feared, or because he was misunderstood. But because he had decided—purely, childishly, morally—to do something good for someone else.
He thought as his thoughts drifted away when he first met Antonello.