The office doors closed with a soft click, shutting out the muffled sounds of the mansion. Shadows pooled across the polished wood floor, interrupted only by the glow of a television screen and the silent guards stationed in every corner. Vincenzo stood near his desk, his posture casual yet imposing, his expression unreadable as always.
Luca and Enzo entered, backs straight, their steps echoing faintly in the heavy silence. Their eyes swept over the room—the monitors, the muted news footage, the calm figure of their cousin—and their stomachs tightened with the familiar weight of walking into his presence.
Before either of them could speak, Vincenzo turned slightly, his voice low, calm, direct.
"I know it has nothing to do with you," he said, almost dismissively. "Don't worry. I'll handle it."
The words were simple, almost gentle, but in Luca and Enzo's ears they thundered like a verdict. Of course he already knew. Of course he had already anticipated this. Before they even arrived, he had seen every angle, every possibility, every consequence.
Luca's jaw tensed. He thought: He already calculated the fallout before we even set foot here. He doesn't need us to explain. He doesn't need us at all.
Enzo felt a chill slide down his spine. We're just here to witness his plan unfold. He doesn't ask. He doesn't suggest. He just knows. And us? We're… replaceable.
Neither spoke, both bowing their heads slightly, as if in reverence. Vincenzo turned back to the screen, his face unreadable in the dim light.
---
Earlier That Day
The television flickered in the quiet of his apartment, and for the first time, Vincenzo saw the footage that had shaken the city.
The reporter's voice was dramatic, theatrical, almost gleeful:
"Breaking news—shocking footage from Portovelo's central park. A man, believed to be the leader of the Santoro gang, was last seen dragged before none other than Vincenzo Moretti himself…"
The shaky video played. There he was, on the bench, calm, unreadable, his bodyguards around him. The terrified man struggled, pleaded, fell to his knees. And then—Vincenzo's own voice, clear as day, chilling in its simplicity:
"Don't let this happen again. Take him outside."
The man was dragged away. The video cut.
Vincenzo blinked at the screen, his brows furrowing slightly. Then he leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"…Ah. So that's why he looked like I was the Grim Reaper himself," he muttered to the empty room. "He thought I ordered an attack."
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "But how could I attack anyone? I'm a law-abiding citizen. I pay my taxes on time. I don't even jaywalk."
The footage replayed, and he squinted at it again. His bodyguards, tall, suited, sunglasses on even at dusk. He frowned.
"…Alright, I'll admit, they do look like gangsters. Big coats, scowling faces… even I'd think twice about walking past them at night. That poor bastard must've thought they were the ones who tore up his gang."
He crossed his arms, staring at the terrified man on screen. "So he panicked. Thought fighting them was his only chance. And then when they dragged him to me, he misunderstood my words too. I meant 'outside' as in—fresh air! Calm him down! Not… bury him in it!"
His hand slapped against his forehead, groaning softly. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I tell them to let him go, and the whole world thinks I ordered an execution. Wonderful. Just wonderful."
He tilted his head, replaying the clip in silence. "Wait… his face. That terrified expression… now I get it. He thought I was the one who attacked Santoro. Me. As if I, who hasn't even broken a parking law, would storm a gang hideout with a… with a what? A stern look and an apartment key?"
A bitter laugh escaped him, though quiet. "They really believe I wiped out a whole gang. Alone. In ten minutes. Incredible. I should run for mayor with this reputation."
---
Vincenzo's Reasoning
Despite the absurdity, Vincenzo pieced together his own explanation, logical in his own mind.
The Santoro gang must have been attacked by another gang—one big enough to wipe them out.
Their leader, desperate, had fled.
Seeing Vincenzo's bodyguards, dressed like mobsters, he mistook them for enemies.
In panic, he fought, got caught, and was brought to Vincenzo.
Vincenzo told them to let him go. That was all.
After being thrown outside the park, the real attackers finished him off and dumped the body back.
Someone recorded the whole misunderstanding, edited it, and now… Vincenzo was the villain again.
He nodded firmly to himself. "Yes. That makes sense. My cousins had nothing to do with it. They left right after I said to let him go. Their clothes were clean, not a scratch. And when they came back, it was only minutes later—impossible to kill a whole gang that fast. They aren't psychos. They're kids."
He waved a hand at the screen as though dismissing it. "So… once again, I'm framed. Sitting in a park, minding my own business, and now I'm apparently the city's executioner. Brilliant."
For a brief moment, he almost smiled. "If I knew drinking coffee on a bench could cause this much trouble, I'd have stayed home."
---
Return to Present – The Office
The flash of memory faded. Back in the office, Luca and Enzo stood stiffly by the door, watching Vincenzo's still figure as the news looped again on the muted screen.
To them, his silence was strategy. His casual dismissal—"I'll handle it"—was not reassurance, but confirmation of an already perfected plan.
They thought: He doesn't need us. He sees ten steps ahead. We can't even see two.
But Vincenzo's thoughts were elsewhere, brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath, barely audible:
"…How do I keep getting blamed for crimes I didn't commit? I was literally just sitting in a park."
The cousins didn't hear the words, or if they did, they interpreted them as something else entirely—coded frustration at the inefficiency of his enemies, perhaps, or disdain for the law's blindness.
Every gesture, every sigh, every flicker of his eyes only deepened their conviction: Vincenzo was untouchable. They? Just burdens.
The room hung in silence, thick and heavy. The news replayed, the words looping, the image of Vincenzo on that bench burned into history.
The office doors closed behind them with a final echo.
And the cousins, standing there with their breath caught, realized once more the immovable truth: Vincenzo did not need them. Vincenzo was the plan.
---
Luca lowered his gaze, eyes cool and thoughtful.
He already knew before we stepped inside. He always does. No panic, no hesitation… he sees the whole board while we only see the pawns. I thought bringing information mattered, but to him it's already irrelevant.
There was no envy in him, only sharp recognition. If I'm not his equal in intellect, then I must adapt. Learn. Observe him until I can predict the next move, until I can act before he needs to speak. A right hand isn't born—it's trained. If I can't be his brain, I'll become his memory, his precision, his silent extension.
His fists unclenched slowly. Others might think we're burdens. But if I sharpen myself enough, even burdens can become weights that keep a storm like him anchored.
---
Enzo's jaw locked, his body coiled like a spring.
He dismisses this mess like it's nothing. Like the law itself bends before him. And here I am, standing useless. No fists, no blood, no way to fight on his level. Damn it—why am I even here if I can't strike down what threatens him?
The thought burned, but didn't break him. If brains are his weapon, then strength will be mine. Let him play chess—I'll smash the board when it matters. If I can't plan ten steps ahead, I'll make sure no one survives long enough to take even one step toward him.
He ground his teeth, but the anger sharpened into resolve. I don't need to be his equal. I'll be his shield, his blade, his fist. The world may think we're replaceable, but I'll prove my worth in the simplest language I know—violence.
---
Both cousins stood there in silence, each processing the same truth: Vincenzo did not need them.
But instead of despair, it forged them. One into calculation. The other into violence.
They would not ask to be his equals—only to be irreplaceable in their own way.
---
Outside the Office
The heavy door shut behind them with a quiet click, muffling the silence inside. For a moment, neither spoke. The corridor stretched long and dim, their footsteps echoing softly against marble tiles.
Enzo broke first, fists tightening at his sides.
"Damn it. Did you see him? Not a flinch, not a blink. He looked us in the eye and already knew. Like we were… pawns on a board he built himself."
Luca's expression remained unreadable, eyes fixed ahead. "That's because to him, we are pawns. And yet…" He slowed his pace, voice calm, deliberate. "…pawns can still decide how the game unfolds, if they move with purpose."
Enzo scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Purpose? He doesn't need our purpose. He doesn't need us at all. You felt it too, don't lie."
Luca's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Yes. He doesn't need us. That's exactly why we must make ourselves indispensable."
Enzo turned sharply, heat in his glare. "And how do you plan to do that? Sit at a desk and calculate his greatness? Count the seconds between his breaths?"
"Observation," Luca answered smoothly, unbothered. "If I can learn how he sees the world, I can anticipate his needs before he even speaks. That's how I stay useful."
Enzo's laugh was bitter, sharp. "And me? What am I supposed to do, Luca? Solve puzzles?" He slammed a fist lightly against the wall, the sound carrying down the hall. "No. My way is simpler. If anyone ever raises a hand against him, I'll be the one to break it. If anyone dares to step into his shadow, I'll be the one to cut them down."
Luca stopped walking, turning to face him fully. His eyes held a quiet steadiness. "Then that's your role. His blade. His shield. Not his rival."
For a moment, Enzo's jaw worked in silence. Then he exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. "Hmph. His blade, huh? Fine. As long as I'm not left useless."
"You won't be," Luca said simply, resuming his pace. "But remember this: even a blade needs direction. A reckless swing is as dangerous to the hand that wields it as to the enemy."
Enzo grunted, half an acknowledgment, half defiance. Yet as they walked further down the hall, his fists unclenched. For once, his fire seemed less like frustration—and more like fuel.
Together, though different, they carried the same unspoken vow:
If Vincenzo didn't need them, then they would force the world to see that he did.