They already knew her. She had been here before.
By the time she stood within sight of the barricades again, her name had already outrun her.
Moretti.
His cousin.
Blood.
Cameras swung toward her before their operators fully understood why. Microphones drifted in her direction. Even the police line shifted, postures tightening from routine control into something sharper.
Cathy Moretti gave none of it any acknowledgment.
Her steps stayed even. Measured. The walk of someone who needed no permission.
The crowd's focused fury fractured the moment she appeared.
A few voices climbed higher, sharper.
"And this one!"
"They're all the same!"
"Monster blood!"
Others stumbled into hesitation. Rage worked cleanly against a chained man in the distance. It grew unsteady when family walked forward without fear.
Reporters surged forward.
"Cathy Moretti!"
"Miss Moretti, do you deny the allegations against your cousin?"
"Are you here to intimidate witnesses?"
She did not slow. Did not glance at them. Her eyes remained fixed ahead.
On him.
Vincenzo Moretti stood under the floodlights exactly as the later footage would capture him — handcuffed, surrounded, motionless. His back stayed straight, his face unreadable. Not defiant. Not broken.
Simply present.
Accusations flew at him from every side, words meant to strip flesh.
"Cannibal!"
"Devil!"
"You ate children!"
"My family died because of you!"
Rocks sailed again — wild, directionless. They clattered against shields and pavement. None reached him.
The police line shifted uneasily. They had braced for rage. They had not prepared for this heavy stillness.
Cathy reached the outer cordon.
An officer stepped forward, arm already rising. "Miss, you need to—"
"Don't."
The single word landed quietly.
The officer froze. The two beside him did as well, one with his baton half-lifted. It wasn't fear exactly. It was the sudden, instinctive knowledge that pushing further would be a mistake they couldn't take back.
The line parted without any spoken order.
Cathy walked through.
Up close, the roar around them dulled, narrowed down to a single point. She stopped directly in front of Vincenzo.
For the first time since stepping into view, her expression shifted — not softer, only more focused.
She inclined her head, small and precise. Respectful.
"Big brother," she said quietly.
Her voice carried none of the cruelty she reserved for the rest of the world. No mockery. No performance.
"I shouldn't be here," she continued, just as low. "Antonio and Nick were stopped at the estate. No one else moved. Luca and Enzo held everyone back — even the uncles. They're watching. This place isn't safe."
Her gaze flicked once toward the crowd, the cameras, the tense police line.
"Not for family."
Vincenzo looked at her. Nothing in his face changed, but his attention settled on her completely, as though the rest of the world had dimmed.
"You should have stayed away," he said. A flat statement.
"I know." No argument. "But this is the first time they've done this to you. Publicly."
Her eyes returned to his, sharp.
"I wanted to see how you would stand."
Not if.
How.
Around them the reporters were losing coordination.
"They're talking — get closer!"
"What did she say?"
Microphones pushed in again.
"Mr. Moretti, do you deny the accusations?"
"Miss Moretti, are you here to support a mass murderer?"
Neither answered.
The silence between them felt heavy.
Cathy spoke once more, voice lowered for him alone.
"They think this is the end. They're louder than I expected."
A short pause.
"But they're not brave. Just desperate."
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"And the family stopped the others because they're afraid this will turn ugly. They're right."
She met his eyes directly.
"I know this is your move. I know you didn't misstep."
She asked for nothing more. That was not her place.
Vincenzo held her gaze.
"Go," he said.
The word carried the same flat certainty as everything else he spoke. Cathy heard it for what it was — an instruction wrapped in danger.
She held his eyes a moment longer than necessary, then gave one small, precise nod.
She stepped back.
The line closed again, and the sound rushed back in.
First came the murmurs — angry, confused.
"Did you hear that?"
"What did he say?"
"Why did they let her through?"
Cathy turned and walked away exactly as she had come — steady, unhurried, head high. Cameras trailed her for a few steps before swinging back to their main target.
Him.
Vincenzo remained where they had left him. Handcuffed. Surrounded. Unchanged.
The floodlights carved hard shadows across his face. His coat shifted lightly in the night air. Dust still clung to the hem.
Bodies in front of him stared with pure hatred.
For not shrinking.
For not pleading.
For not reacting the way a monster was supposed to when cornered.
A raw scream tore out first — wordless, just release.
Then language followed.
"You think you can just stand there?!"
A man lunged against the barrier, face twisted purple, veins standing out. Police shoved him back. He kept shouting.
"My wife burned alive in one of your warehouses! You think chains fix that?!"
Another voice cracked over the top, thick with grief.
"My brother disappeared after one meeting… they found his teeth in a bag…"
Every cry was captured. Stored. Replayed.
Vincenzo listened without blocking it out. The sound reached him fully.
Inside, his thoughts moved slowly, almost sluggishly.
What am I supposed to do here?
He had heard shouting before. Threats. Fear. This felt different. This was pure release, like a dam breaking.
A rock exploded into fragments near his foot. Another bounced off a shield. A bottle shattered against a raised arm, spraying glass.
Police tightened their formation, some faces tense with confusion rather than open hatred.
"Keep them back!"
"Shields up!"
A woman dropped to her knees, sobbing.
"They hurt him… they cut him while he was alive… they sent me the video…"
Her phone slipped from shaking hands and clattered on the ground, screen still lit.
The bodies near the front picked up a chant, ragged at first, then louder.
"Devil… Devil… Devil…"
The word rolled over him in waves.
Vincenzo's eyes moved across the blurred faces — red, wet, contorted. Mouths open. Teeth showing.
He thought, distantly:
Why are they all like this?
A reporter forced his way closer, microphone thrust forward, nearly stumbling in the surge.
"Mr. Moretti! Do you deny the suffering of these people?!"
Another voice screamed over him:
"Do you feel anything at all?!"
A third:
"Are you satisfied?!"
The questions piled on top of each other, tangled and useless.
Behind the line, a stone struck an officer's helmet with a dull crack. Blood trickled down the man's temple.
The crowd roared, sensing the break in control.
Police batons rose.
"BACK UP! MOVE BACK NOW!"
Bodies slammed together. Someone fell. A scream cut off under boots.
Vincenzo saw it all only in pieces.
A man had pushed right up to the front now, close enough that spit landed on Vincenzo's cheek as he screamed.
"You RUINED EVERYTHING!"
The man's eyes were wild, pupils wide.
"My kids grew up without a mother because of you! You don't even look sorry!"
Vincenzo blinked once.
What am I supposed to look like here?
Another rock clipped his shoulder. He barely registered the impact beyond the new dust on his coat.
The cameras caught it. Zoomed in.
Inside the cordon, one officer muttered to another, voice tight with unease.
"Jesus… he's not even reacting."
A reporter suddenly broke past the final layer of control, shoving right up to Vincenzo, microphone nearly touching his face.