Ehhhh Si

The ballroom of the Grand Belvedere was a masterclass in calculated opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings like frozen explosions of light, casting a deceptive warmth over the men and women who, collectively, held the world’s throat in their hands. This was neutral ground—a sanctuary of silk, velvet, and unspoken threats.

Vincenzo, the undisputed head of the 'Ndrangheta, adjusted the cufflink of his bespoke charcoal suit. Beside him stood Viggo, his second-in-command and the man who held his heart in a way the public would never be allowed to see. Their presence was a silent statement of power, a monolith of Calabrian steel.

"The air is thick tonight," Viggo murmured, his voice low enough to be lost in the swell of the orchestra. "Too many wolves in one pen."

Vincenzo’s dark eyes scanned the room. "Wolves are predictable, Viggo. It’s the snakes I worry about."

They moved toward a private alcove where Adreana, the formidable head of the Neapolitan Camorra, stood with her partner and second-in-command, Nerina. Adreana was a vision in midnight-blue silk, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. Nerina, standing slightly behind her, kept a hand habitually near the small of her back, where a concealed blade likely rested.

"Vincenzo," Adreana greeted, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "I see you brought your shadow."

"And you yours," Vincenzo replied, nodding to Nerina. "The South seems well-represented tonight."

"We were just discussing the seating arrangements," Nerina said, her eyes flicking toward the far side of the room. "The British are looking particularly sour, and the Mexicans haven't stopped eyeing the Scots. It’s a miracle no one has bled on the carpet yet."

The four of them formed a small, impenetrable circle of southern Italian power. Unlike the rest of the room, where tension vibrated like a high-tension wire, there was a strange, grim ease between them. They were rivals by blood, but allies by culture and a mutual, unspoken understanding.

As they spoke, various figures drifted past. The head of the Mexican cartel, a man whose smile never reached his cold, reptilian eyes, offered a curt nod. A group of Scotsmen, smelling of peat smoke and expensive whiskey, argued in low, gravelly tones. The Cosa Nostra from New York moved with a certain swagger that Vincenzo found distasteful—too much flash, not enough substance. Even a few French enclaves and Portuguese representatives moved through the crowd, paying their respects like pilgrims at a shrine of shadows.

The atmosphere shifted abruptly at 9 p.m.

A sharp, crystalline chime rang out—the sound of a silver spoon against a glass. The room fell silent as the head of the Yakuza and his wife stepped onto the raised dais at the far end of the ballroom. His face was a mask of stoic fury.

"I will not waste your time with pleasantries," the Yakuza head began, his voice carrying with a terrifying, quiet clarity. "A great operation was launched against our interests in Japan. The authorities were tipped. Not by an accident, but by a rat. Someone in this room believes they are above the code. Someone believes involving the law is a valid tactic of war."

A ripple of unease swept through the room. In the world of the underground, there was no greater sin than 'omertà' broken.

"I will find you," the man promised, his gaze lingering on the various heads of state. "And when I do, mercy will be a word you have forgotten how to scream."

The Yakuza head stepped down, the tension in the room now reaching a breaking point. He made his rounds, eventually stopping before the Italian contingent.

"Vincenzo. Adreana," he said, his eyes searching theirs. "Do your channels whisper of this betrayal?"

"My channels are silent on this matter," Vincenzo said firmly. "But you have my word—if I find the one who brought the police into our house, I will hand them to you myself."

"As will I," Adreana added, her jaw set. "The Camorra does not tolerate rats."

The Yakuza head nodded and moved on, but the gala had lost its festive veneer. It was now a room of suspects.

Then, the second chime rang.

Heads turned toward the stage, expecting another declaration of war. Instead, they saw a girl.

She looked no older than seventeen. Her hair was a wild nest of short brown curls with streaks of cerulean blue that caught the light. She wore a dark blue tank top, exposing arms that were a map of history—raised, jagged scars crisscrossing her skin, interwoven with intricate tattoos. Dragons, thorns, roses, and daggers bled into depictions of nightshade and belladonna. A dark blue cloak with purple lining draped over her shoulders.

On her belt hung an arsenal that looked more medieval than modern: shuriken, vials of glowing liquids, pouches of herbs, and two daggers with strange purple veining.

"Hello," she said, her voice echoing with a natural power that demanded silence. "I am sorry for whatever gala I am stopping, but I need all of you to not talk for a second. Please, thank you."

The reaction was instantaneous. A hundred holsters clicked open. A hundred barrels of cold steel were leveled at her chest.

The girl didn't flinch. Her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes swept the room with a look of profound boredom. She paused when her gaze landed on Vincenzo, Viggo, Adreana, and Nerina. They were the only ones who hadn't drawn their weapons. She offered them a small, fleeting smirk before addressing the room at large.

"Please," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I just snuck into whatever great gala you have, which is visibly pretty protected, given the lot of bodyguards and the fact that half of you are pointing guns at me. But do you feel the need to really point guns at me, given I snuck in? Really adorable."

Vincenzo frowned, leaning closer to Viggo. "She has no idea where she is," he whispered. "She thinks this is a socialite party."

"Or," Viggo replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his own weapon but not drawing it, "she knows exactly where she is and simply doesn't care."

The girl looked up at the massive crystal chandelier hanging above the center of the room. "Luna! You have five seconds to get down!"

She began to count, her fingers folding down one by one. "Five... four... three... two..."

The chandelier began to rattle violently. With a screech of metal, it started to unscrew itself, revealing a dark aperture in the ceiling. A small head poked out—a blonde girl who looked about eight years old.

"Oh! Hey, Melz!" the child chirped.

The older girl, Melusine, sighed heavily. "Luna, get down now!"

The child jumped. It was a drop that should have broken her legs, but she landed with the grace of a cat, her blonde pigtails bouncing. She hurried over to Melusine’s side.

"Sorry, Mom," Luna said, scratching the back of her head.

"You better be sorry!" Melusine snapped, her voice icy. "The hell did you do?"

"Fireworks," Luna muttered.

"I saw the fireworks! I have eyes that work perfectly fine, thank you very much," Melusine retorted, her hands on her hips. "What I want to know is how you ended up here. This is a whole city away from where you were supposed to be."

"Pipelines," Luna said simply.

Melusine closed her eyes as if praying for patience. "Pipelines. How many times have we gone over the pipelines?"

"Twenty-five," the girl whispered.

"And what did I say about the pipelines?"

"Only use them if there is a danger of the worst kind. No escaping via pipelines."

"And why are we not allowed to escape using the pipelines?" Melusine asked, prompting her like a teacher.

Luna sulked. "Because it’s too easy."

"Yes! It is too easy. Ayyo, allama. Really?" Melusine muttered something under her breath in a language Vincenzo didn't recognize. She pulled a phone from her cargo pants and dialed.

The room remained in a stunned, murderous silence. The most dangerous people on the planet were watching a domestic dispute between a teenager and a child.

"Pronto," Melusine said into the phone.

A male voice drifted from the speaker, audible in the hushed ballroom. "Melusine? Why are you calling?"

"I'm gonna need a ride for Luna."

"Yeah, sure," the voice replied, sounding tired. "Where do I send it?"

"I have strictly no idea," Melusine said, looking around the room.

The man on the phone sighed. "Melusine... where are you?"

"Um, it’s like a gala? People with guns. They’re pointing them at me. The men are wearing suits, and the women are wearing dresses. Not a single woman is wearing a suit, which is actually kind of disappointing, but I do suppose that's not what you wanted to know."

Vincenzo saw Adreana’s eyebrow twitch at the comment about the suits.

"Fine, that'll do," the man said. A frantic clicking of keys followed. "I got you. Wait... Melusine? You are in the middle of the annual mob meeting."

"Oh," Melusine said, her expression unchanging. "Okay, great."

"That mob meeting," the voice emphasized.

"Oh! You mean the one with the assholes who can't correctly plan a drug transfer and a weapons dealership without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for the feds?"

A collective gasp of outrage hissed through the ballroom. Several men took a step forward, their faces purple with rage.

"Please do not insult them while I'm speaking to hear you," the man on the phone groaned.

Melusine looked at the gathered mafia bosses and shrugged. "Ah. Oops."

"Is that all you're gonna say? Oops?"

"Sí, ups," she replied. "Ehh. Sorry not sorry."

"I'm sending a van to pick you up," the man said. "Try to stay alive until then, yes?"

"Yep, promise."

"You're gonna be the death of me, princesa."

The line went dead. Melusine tucked the phone back into her pocket and looked at the crowd. "So, um, hello?"

Luna pulled on Melusine’s arm. "Ma, why? Why do I need to be picked up?"

"Because life’s not fair," Melusine said flatly.

"Life is not fair! Last month, you planted bombs in the Ministry and no one told you anything!"

Melusine gave her a deadpan stare. "First of all, primo, I did not plant bombs in the Ministry. I planted fireworks. Second of all, it wasn't in the Ministry. It was strategic placements in trash cans across the perimeter. Third of all, when I do pranks or when I try to heist people, I actually don't get caught. And what is the first rule of chaos?"

Luna hung her head. "Don't get caught."

"And what did you just get?"

"I got caught by you, Mom."

"Yes. So, no more chaos for you, little moonbeam."

The silence finally snapped.

"Who the hell are you?" the head of the British mob roared, his face contorted. "You think you can just walk in here and insult us? You mentioned the Ministry! You mentioned heists!"

"Where are your people?" the head of the Mexican cartel demanded, his gun still leveled at Melusine’s forehead. "Is this a distraction? A hit?"

The room erupted into a cacophony of shouting and threats. The different heads of the families began barking orders to their guards, the air filling with the sound of sliding bolts and mounting aggression.

Melusine didn't answer. She simply looked at Luna, and the two of them sat down on the edge of the stage, their legs dangling over the side as if they were waiting for a bus rather than facing a firing squad.

Vincenzo watched them with a piercing intensity. He wasn't yelling. He was observing.

"Viggo," he whispered. "Look at them."

"I'm looking," Viggo replied, his voice tight. "The girl—the older one. She called her 'Mom.' But there’s barely an eight-year gap between them. And the scars... those aren't from a playground."

"They don't look alike," Adreana noted, having drifted closer to Vincenzo’s side during the chaos. "And look at the way they sit. They aren't afraid. They’ve been in worse places than this."

"She talked about the Ministry and heists as if they were chores," Nerina added. "And the Yakuza's rat problem... she mentioned the feds."

Vincenzo’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Melusine. She was currently leaning her head on her hand, watching the most dangerous men in the world scream at each other with an expression of mild amusement. She was a ghost in their machine, a variable they hadn't accounted for.

"They aren't part of any family we know," Vincenzo said. "They are something else entirely."

The shouting continued to escalate, but the two girls remained a calm island in the center of the storm. They didn't care about the territories, the drug routes, or the broken codes. They were architects of a different kind of chaos, and as Vincenzo watched Melusine smile at something the little girl whispered, he realized that for the first time in his life, he was looking at someone who truly had nothing to fear from the world he ruled.