By 7:15 a.m., every major network had settled into the same rhythm: rapid speech, tight faces, repeated footage. No one shouted. The tone was controlled and professional, the kind used when something large has already happened and the only question left is how bad the fallout will be.
"—confirmed at least forty-seven dead inside the precinct, including the key witness Mateo Ruiz—"
"—more than sixty injured—"
"—the blast occurred minutes after Vincenzo Moretti was moved from holding—"
"—authorities are treating this as a deliberate attack on law enforcement."
Headlines scrolled in steady red and white across every screen:
**POLICE STATION BOMBED**
**TERROR ATTACK ON PRECINCT**
**WITNESS DEAD — MORETTI LINKED**
**PUBLIC SAFETY UNDER THREAT**
In Portovello itself, the streets were already awake with anger.
Outside a small café near the old market, a group of locals stood around a phone propped on a table. One man, a mechanic with grease still under his nails, pointed at the screen. "It was him. Of course it was him. He walked out right before it went up. He doesn't care who dies."
A woman beside him, arms crossed, nodded slowly. "We've been saying for years something was wrong with that family. Now the whole country sees it."
Further down the street, at a bus stop, two older women spoke in low voices. "I was also there to protest. I saw how many died. That monster destroyed so many lives."
The anger was not loud. It was tired. Familiar. Like a long-simmering resentment finally given permission to breathe.
Across the country, the reaction was different.
In the capital, three hundred kilometers north, office workers gathered in the plaza during breakfast break, phones in hand. A young accountant frowned at his screen. "Who even is this guy? Portovello? Never heard of anything coming out of there before."
His colleague sighed. "Some local businessman, apparently. The clip is bad. I feel bad for the civilians. They're seeing what we used to see here in the capital every day."
Another female colleague lowered her voice. "This city is also suffering silently. Many fight for territory. If not for the ten families holding off those criminals, it could have been here."
In the eastern industrial cities, factory canteens buzzed with speculation. "I've heard the name Moretti once," a shift supervisor said, stirring his coffee. "My sister lives in Portovello. She said he runs things quietly down south. But blowing up a police station on live TV? That's not how you stay quiet."
On social media, the divide was sharper.
Local voices from Portovello wrote:
"He finally showed his claws. We told you this city was rotten."
Someone from the capital replied in confusion: "Then why didn't you say this on the internet before?"
"We did. Many times. We recorded videos, posted pleas. But whenever we did, they got taken down," a man in his thirties typed furiously. He was right. Even when the posts stayed up, they never gained attention. Other cities had bigger, louder problems. Their pain went unnoticed.
"Yeah, our city doesn't have good internet, and not many of us are online," a young person from Portovello replied with helplessness. "Even if the videos were there, no one cared because different cities get more attention."
"And even now people are seeing it because of him"
"Hey cheer up, now that everyone's attention is here, the comments about him aren't disappearing."
---
From nearby towns an hour away:
"I've heard stories about that family. Never thought it would reach this level."
---
People from the larger cities were confusion and suspicion:
"Who is Vincenzo Moretti?"
"Just some guy from a small place no one cares about."
"Portovello? Akaka State? What does he even do there? Sell insurance?"
Akaka State wasn't a crime hub. Its geographical location meant no major player wanted it badly enough to fight for control. There were a few dangerous gangs, but nothing on the scale of other states. People had seen the park video and the live footage — cinematic, almost like a film. But they didn't see Vincenzo as one of the big players. He could do something dramatic, but it felt fleeting. The real powers could do far worse and still stay free.
Younger users on short-video platforms stitched the clip with captions. Slow-motion of Vincenzo's calm face as the explosion bloomed behind him. Comments ranged from uneasy fascination to dark humor:
"He asked if they'd believe he was innocent right before it happened."
"Though Portovello isn't that interesting, this clip is very good."
"New villain origin story unlocked."
"This clip will go more viral than the incident itself."
"Upstairs, what was the incident?"
---
In more mature corners of the internet, the tone was sad.
"This country is already suffering with so much organized crime. And now this Vincenzo again killed many. How many more people have to die?"
"Yeah, this country is one of the most dangerous in the world and a major supplier of everything — drugs, weapons, laundering, hiring hitmen, even young souls can be bought here. And that's not the end of it."
The tone was not admiration. It was wary observation mixed with sadness. This wasn't the biggest thing the country had seen. Cartel violence in the border regions and old syndicate wars in the industrial heartlands had claimed far more lives. And now a small-city figure stepping into the national spotlight in the loudest way possible still unsettled people.
---
At the state police headquarters in Akaka, the Chief stood behind a podium in the main briefing room.
Cameras flashed. Microphones waited. The room was packed with reporters from local and national outlets.
He spoke with measured authority, voice steady despite the exhaustion in his eyes.
"We are treating last night's explosion at the Portovello precinct as a deliberate terrorist-level incident. The blast resulted in significant loss of life, including key witness Mateo Ruiz. Vincenzo Moretti is the culprit. We are actively hunting him and have issued a one-million-dollar bounty for information leading to his arrest."
A reporter from the capital raised her hand. "Chief, the footage shows Moretti walking out moments before the blast. The public already has questions. Why hasn't he been arrested yet?"
The Chief's jaw tightened for half a second. "We are following every available lead. Moretti is considered extremely dangerous. We urge the public to remain vigilant and report any sightings immediately."
Another question came quickly. "Portovello has never seen anything on this scale. How did a local businessman become capable of something like this?"
The Chief paused, choosing his words carefully. "We are investigating all connections. At this time, we ask for patience as the investigation proceeds."
He stepped away from the podium as questions continued to fly. Externally, he remained composed. Internally, frustration and unease churned.
A few hours earlier, he had been ready to move.
The operation had been prepared with care. Vehicles staged. Teams briefed. They knew Moretti's location after the initial arrest—the man wasn't even trying to hide. He lived openly enough that locating the Moretti properties had taken minimal effort. The Chief had seen the files: a businessman on paper, no clear illegal ties directly, always through his men and his main general Felix Amerlo, who had been Vincenzo's best friend in school and now did every vile thing for him. Felix wasn't known to the public because no one had tried hard enough. The narcos department had special access, yet even they had missed the full picture at first.
Vincenzo was smart youth in his class but after his father's death. He changed and after that girls horrific death, he became crual. He is dengerous if left unchecked. As for his family. They are nothing to worry about. They don't have his intelligence. And even with his intelligence vincezho will die today let alone his family.
The Chief had thought it straightforward. Portovello wasn't a major hub. No major cartels operated there in force. The bigger players dominated richer, more strategic cities with real pipelines. This was a local issue. A local figure who had grown too comfortable. Kill him. Remove the threat before he could become something larger. Simple.
Then the call came.
From the President's secretary.
The voice had been calm. Direct. Uncompromising.
"Do not proceed with the arrest."
The Chief had been stunned. "He is a clear upcoming danger. The public is already waiting for his judgment. We need to end him before he grows like the others."
The reply was colder.
"If you proceed, you and your family disappear."
No explanation. No negotiation. The line went dead.
The Chief had stood in silence while his officers waited for orders that never came. The operation was quietly cancelled. The teams stood down.
Now, back at the podium, he delivered the official line with practiced calm.
"Vincenzo Moretti is on the run. We are searching for him. A bounty has been issued."
The lie sat heavy in his chest.
They knew exactly where the Moretti mansion was. They had known since the first arrest. Killing or arresting him would have been straightforward. He wasn't part of a vast, hidden network like the bigger syndicates. He was visible. Trackable. Yet the order from above had stopped everything cold.
The reporters kept pressing.
"Why can't you locate him if he's a local figure?"
The Chief gave the scripted answer. "We are pursuing all leads. Public cooperation is essential."
Inside, the frustration burned. He had wanted to end this quickly. Now the country watched, convinced of Moretti's guilt, while the system quietly held back. The public would see corruption. They would see weakness. They would see a man who could walk away from an explosion and disappear while the state pretended to hunt him.
The briefing ended. The Chief stepped away from the microphones as questions continued to echo behind him.
He knew the following days would only grow Vincenzo's name and his power — not because he was difficult to handle, but because, in the eyes of the public, he had evaded the law like the bigger players.
The next few days proved it.
The belief had hardened into certainty. No one debated whether he did it. The only question left was why the system seemed unable—or unwilling—to stop him.
And somewhere behind high walls, in the quiet of the Moretti mansion, Vincenzo sat in silence while the country decided what he was.
The explosion had ended.
The story had only begun.
---
Volume 1 ends here.
Establishing vincezho as big player.
The next volume will lean towards romance.
The main focus will still be on misunderstanding.