The courtyard of Saint Gabriel's Church was crowded long before noon.
Volunteers moved between folding tables carrying trays of food while a long line of people waited quietly near the entrance.
The summer heat made everyone restless, but the promise of a free meal kept them patient.
A small media presence had gathered near the side of the yard.
Two reporters stood near the shade of a tree watching the scene while a camera recorded the volunteers.
One man in particular attracted attention.
He wore a green volunteer apron over a dark shirt. His sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows, revealing strong forearms marked with faint scars. He greeted each person with the same calm expression and steady voice.
People thanked him as if he were simply another volunteer.
But he clearly wasn't.
"He looks like a movie star."
The younger reporter adjusted the camera slightly.
His colleague followed his gaze.
"You're staring at the wrong thing."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
The camera zoomed in.
The man smiled while handing a plate to an elderly woman before helping another volunteer lift a heavy container onto the table.
From a distance he looked approachable.
Friendly.
The kind of wealthy man who sponsored charity events to improve his image.
"That's him," the older reporter said quietly.
"Who?"
The younger reporter lowered the camera slightly.
"Alessandro Moretti."
The name carried weight in the city, with businesses across multiple industries were connected to him, be shipping routes, construction contracts, private security firms.
Officially everything was legitimate.
Unofficially, the rumors were far more interesting.
"Hard to believe," the younger reporter said.
"What is?"
"That someone like him comes here and serves food personally."
The older reporter shrugged.
"Public relations."
"Or guilt."
"Men like him don't feel guilt."
The camera kept rolling while Moretti continued working.
"Look at him," the younger reporter said after a moment. "If someone didn't know his name, they would think he was a celebrity or an athlete."
"That's part of the advantage."
"What advantage?"
The older reporter leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"People underestimate men who look civilized."
The younger reporter watched quietly.
"You remember the assemblyman who died three years ago?"
"The suicide case?"
"That's what they called it."
"You think it was something else?"
The older reporter didn't answer immediately.
"People connected to Moretti were involved in business deals with him before he died."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"No," he agreed. "But things like that rarely happen by coincidence."
Before the conversation could continue, someone stepped between them.
"You've both been working hard."
Two bottles of vitamin drink appeared in their hands.
The man offering them looked calm and professional, but something about him felt dangerous.
His posture was relaxed in the way of someone who knew exactly how much control he had over the situation.
Several small scars crossed the back of his hand.
"We appreciate coverage of our charity work," he said politely.
His tone remained friendly, but the words carried weight.
The reporters exchanged a quick glance.
"Of course," the older one replied.
"We're just documenting the event."
"Good."
The man smiled slightly, then he stepped away and returned toward the volunteers.
The younger reporter exhaled slowly.
"That was uncomfortable."
"You know who that is?"
"No."
"One of Moretti's closest men."
"Security?"
"Something like that."
Both reporters looked down at the drinks in their hands.
"Do you think he heard what we said?"
"Probably."
"That's not good."
The younger reporter hesitated for a moment before opening the bottle and drinking.
"Wait—"
Too late.
The older reporter stared at him.
"What if there was something inside?"
The younger reporter shrugged.
"If they wanted to poison us they wouldn't do it in front of cameras."
Across the courtyard, Alessandro Moretti looked directly toward them.
The younger reporter raised the bottle slightly in a polite gesture of thanks.
Moretti returned the gesture with a small smile before turning back to the people waiting in line.
For the next thirty minutes the charity event continued without incident, meals were distributed, volunteers cleaned tables, and several photographs were taken for newspapers and social media accounts.
From the outside, the entire scene appeared genuine.
When the line finally ended, Moretti removed the apron and handed it to one of the organizers.
"Thank you for your help," the woman said.
"Of course."
His voice remained calm.
But the moment he stepped away from the crowd, his expression changed.
The friendly warmth disappeared.
One of his men approached quickly with a phone.
"Sir."
Moretti accepted it and placed it against his ear, with the conversation on the other end was short.
His expression remained controlled, but his eyes sharpened briefly.
"I understand."
The call ended.
He handed the phone back.
"I'm leaving."
"Yes, sir."
"What happened?" the man asked cautiously.
"Our younger brother caused another incident."
The man sighed quietly.
"That one again."
They walked toward the parking area behind the church where a black sedan waited.
"What did he do this time?" the man asked.
"Alcohol, with drugs then went fighting."
The rear door opened and Moretti stepped inside.
The driver started the engine.
A message appeared on the screen mounted near the dashboard.
"Six injured," the driver said after reading it.
"One unconscious."
Moretti leaned back slightly in the seat.
"If he dies, it reduces the paperwork."
The driver gave a small nod.
Outside the window the church slowly disappeared behind them.
The car merged into traffic.
"What about the unconscious one?" the driver asked.
Moretti remained silent for a moment, then he spoke."No."
The driver glanced up toward the mirror.
"Keep him alive."
"Yes, sir."
"He might be useful."
The driver didn't question the decision.
Silence filled the car while the city passed outside.
To most people, Alessandro Moretti was a successful businessman who donated money to hospitals, charities, and public projects.
His companies employed thousands of people.
His name appeared regularly in newspapers beside headlines about development and investment.
That version of him was real.
But it was also incomplete.
Because the same man who served meals in a church courtyard also controlled networks that most governments preferred not to acknowledge.
Violence, influence, and information flowed through channels connected to him, and he managed them carefully.
A phone vibrated again.
This time the call came from one of his senior aides.
"Yes."
"Senator's son was involved in the fight."
Moretti closed his eyes briefly.
"Is he injured?"
"Minor injuries."
"Good."
"If the other man wakes up, he may talk."
"That won't happen."
"You want us to move him?"
"No."
Moretti opened his eyes again.
"Not yet."
"Understood."
The call ended.
Moretti watched the road ahead in silence.
Problems like this were irritating but manageable.
Young men with money often believed themselves untouchable until someone reminded them otherwise.
The car continued through the city.
Far across town, in a quiet apartment overlooking the skyline, Aria Vale studied the file that had appeared on her tablet.
A photograph filled the screen.
A tall man standing beside a group of volunteers, with green apron, calm smile, in a charity event.
She looked at the name beneath the image.
Alessandro Moretti.
Aria closed the file for a moment and leaned back in her chair.
This mission would not be simple.
Men like him rarely made mistakes, but everyone had patterns.
Routines.
Weaknesses.
And if she was patient enough—
she would find them.
The hunt had begun.