Pronto

The Grand Ballroom of the Chateau d'Argent was a masterpiece of gilded architecture, dripping in crystal and smelling of expensive lilies and even more expensive cologne. It was a room designed for the gods of the underworld, a neutral ground where the geography of crime was mapped out over flutes of vintage Bollinger. In every corner, the air hummed with the low, dangerous vibration of men and women who could order a death as easily as a drink.

Vincenzo, the head of the ’Ndrangheta, stood with his back to a marble pillar, his posture radiating a predatory stillness. His fingers were laced with those of Viggo, his second-in-command and partner in every sense of the word. They didn't hide their connection, but they didn't flaunt it; in their world, a weakness was only a weakness if you allowed someone to use it against you.

"Look at the Scots," Viggo murmured, nodding toward a group of men in sharp charcoal suits who looked like they were itching for a pub brawl despite the five-thousand-dollar fabrics they wore. "They’ve been staring at the Mexicans for twenty minutes. If the tequila doesn't start flowing soon, someone is going to lose a tooth."

Vincenzo chuckled, a low sound that barely vibrated in his chest. "Let them bleed. I’m more interested in our neighbors."

He inclined his head toward Adreana, the formidable head of the Neapolitan Camorra. She was dressed in a gown of midnight silk that shimmered like an oil slick. Beside her, Nerina, her second-in-command and lover, stood like a coiled spring, her eyes scanning the room with lethal efficiency.

The four of them drifted together, forming a small island of relative calm amidst the sea of simmering hostilities.

"Vincenzo," Adreana greeted, her voice a smooth velvet rasp. "I see the British mob brought their usual lack of taste. That waistcoat is an affront to my heritage."

"They try their best, Adreana," Nerina said, though her smirk suggested otherwise. She looked at Viggo. "Anything interesting from the New Yorkers? The Cosa Nostra seems... unusually quiet tonight."

"They’re waiting for the Russians to make a move," Viggo replied. "Volkov has been eyeing the Portuguese enclaves all night. He wants the shipping routes, and everyone knows it."

The conversation was interrupted by the sharp, rhythmic chime of a crystal glass. The room fell silent, the kind of silence that precedes a gunshot. At the far end of the ballroom, the head of the Yakuza stood beside his wife. His face was a mask of cold fury, his posture rigid.

"I will not waste your time with pleasantries," the Yakuza head began, his voice carrying clearly across the vast space. "There has been a betrayal. A massive raid by the Japanese authorities has crippled several of our facilities. After an internal investigation, we have confirmed that a tip-off came from within this sector. Someone in this room chose to involve the police."

A collective intake of breath hissed through the ballroom. In the world of the syndicates, there was no greater sin. You could steal, you could kill, you could burn down empires, but you never, ever talked to the law.

"Whoever did this," the Yakuza head continued, his eyes burning, "knows that there will be no mercy. We will find the rat, and we will make an example of them that will be remembered for generations."

The tension in the room spiked. Conversations resumed, but the tone had shifted from posturing to paranoia. The Yakuza head began to make his rounds, eventually reaching the Italian contingency.

"Vincenzo. Adreana," he said, his eyes searching theirs. "Do your channels have a name for me?"

"Nothing," Vincenzo said firmly. "We share your outrage. If we hear even a whisper of a snitch, you will be the first to know. The ’Ndrangheta does not tolerate rats."

"Nor does the Camorra," Adreana added, her hand resting on the hilt of a concealed blade. "Our alliance stands."

The Yakuza head nodded and moved on, but the air remained thick with suspicion. It was 9:30 p.m. when the second chime rang out. This time, it wasn't a glass. It was a sharp, metallic ring that seemed to come from the stage at the front of the room.

Everyone turned, hands instinctively drifting toward holsters and hidden pockets. But instead of a rival boss, a girl stood there.

She looked to be about seventeen, her short brown curls tipped with vibrant cerulean blue. Her eyes were so dark they looked like ink spills against her pale skin, emphasized by heavy black kohl. She wore a simple dark blue tank top and black cargo pants, a stark contrast to the evening gowns and tuxedos surrounding her.

But it was her skin that held the eye. Her arms, stomach, and neck were a roadmap of raised white scars—jagged, old, and numerous. Intertwined with the scars were intricate tattoos: thorns, roses, dragons, and fire bleeding into hemlock. Vines of nightshade and belladonna twisted around silver daggers and crescent moons, creating a beautiful, macabre tapestry of survival.

Dangling from her heavy tactical belt were shuriken, vials of colored liquids, a pouch of dried herbs, and two purple-veined daggers.

"Hello," she said, her voice surprisingly powerful for her slight frame. "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 guns were drawn and leveled at her. The safety catches clicking off sounded like a swarm of cicadas.

The girl didn't flinch. She swept her gaze across the room, her eyes lingering on Vincenzo, Viggo, Adreana, and Nerina—the only ones who hadn't drawn their weapons. She gave them a small, fleeting smile, then looked back at the sea of barrels pointed at her heart.

She scoffed, a sound of genuine amusement. "Please. 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 and Viggo shared a perplexed look. The girl spoke with a confidence that bordered on insanity. Did she not realize she was standing in a room full of the world's most prolific murderers?

"She has no idea where she is," Viggo whispered.

"Or she knows exactly where she is," Vincenzo replied, his interest piqued. "Look at the tattoos. Those aren't just art. Those are marks of someone who has walked through fire."

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 voice sharp. "Five. Four. Three. Two—"

Above them, the chandelier began to rattle violently. To the shock of the assembled mobsters, the ceiling fixture began to unscrew itself, revealing a dark maintenance hatch. A small head poked out—a girl no older than eight, with messy blonde hair and a wide, mischievous grin.

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

The older girl, Melusine, sighed heavily, the sound of a mother at the end of her rope. "Luna, get down now!"

The child jumped. It was a twenty-foot drop, but she landed with the grace of a cat, rolling and springing to her feet beside Melusine on the stage. She looked up at Melusine, her expression sheepish.

Melusine gave her a withering, icy stare. "You better be sorry! The hell did you do?"

"Fireworks," Luna said, looking at her shoes.

"You know shit, I thought I could understand fireworks," Melusine snapped. "I saw fireworks! Yes, I have eyes that work perfectly fine, thank you very much. What I want to know is how, what the... how did you end up here? We are a whole city away!"

"Pipelines," Luna muttered, scratching the back of her head.

Melusine’s eyes widened. "Pipelines. How many times have we gone over the pipelines?"

"Twenty-five," Luna whispered.

"And what did I say about the pipelines?"

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

"And why are we not allowed to escape using the pipelines?" Melusine pushed.

Luna sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Because it’s too easy."

A ripple of confusion went through the crowd. The Japanese contingent looked particularly baffled as Melusine muttered, "Ayio! Alamak! Really?" The Malay slang was jarring coming from a girl who looked like she belonged in a Parisian punk club.

Melusine pulled a phone from her cargo pants and dialed a number. The room was so silent that the voice on the other end was audible.

"Yes? Who is it?" a young man’s voice yawned.

"Pronto," Melusine said, her voice dropping into a slight Italian lilt.

The man on the phone instantly sounded more alert. "Melusine? Why are you calling?"

"I’m gonna need a ride for Luna."

"Yeah, sure. Where do I send it to?"

Melusine looked around the room, taking in the ornate gold leaf, the terrified waiters, and the rows of men in suits holding Glocks. "I have strictly no idea."

"Melusine?" the man sighed.

"Yes?"

"Where are you?"

"Um, it’s like a gala with people with guns," she said, her tone conversational. "And they’re pointing the guns at me. And the men are wearing like suits, and the women are wearing dresses. And 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 caught Adreana’s eye. The Camorra boss looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or order the girl’s execution.

"Fine, that’ll do," the man on the phone said. The sound of rapid typing filled the air. "I got you. Wait... Melusine? You are in the middle of the annual mob meeting."

Melusine blinked. "Oh. Okay, great."

"That mob meeting," the man stressed.

"Oh," Melusine said, her voice dripping with sudden disdain. "You mean the one with the assholes who can't correctly plan a drug transfer and a weapons dealership?"

A collective gasp echoed through the room. Several bosses stepped forward, their faces turning purple with rage.

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

Melusine looked at the crowd, her gaze landing on the Yakuza head, then back to the Italians. "Ah, ups," she said, the Italian accent slipping out again.

"Is that all you’re gonna say? Oops?"

"Sí, ups. Ehh... sorry not sorry," she replied, a smirk playing on her lips.

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

"Yep, promise."

"You’re gonna be the death of me, princesa." He hung up.

Melusine tucked the phone away and looked at the crowd. "So, um, hello?"

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

"Because life’s not fair," Melusine said, looking down at the child.

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

The room erupted. "Bombs?" "The Ministry?" "Who the hell are these people?"

Melusine gave Luna a deadpan stare, her accent shifting slightly toward French. "D'un, 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, I, when I do pranks or when I try to heist people, actually don't get caught. And what is the first rule of chaos?"

Luna sulked, looking at the floor. "Don't get caught."

"And what did you just get?" Melusine asked.

"I got caught by you, Mom."

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

The silence finally broke as a dozen different languages began shouting at once. The head of the Mexican cartel stepped forward, his face a mask of fury. "You little brat! Do you have any idea who we are? You walk in here, you insult our business, you talk about bombs—"

"I said fireworks!" Melusine shouted back over the din.

"Who sent you?" the Scottish boss bellowed. "Is this a distraction? Where is your crew?"

Melusine and Luna looked at each other. Without a word, they both sat down on the edge of the stage, their legs dangling over the side as if they were watching a particularly loud and boring movie.

"We don't have a crew," Melusine said, her voice cutting through the noise. "We just have a van coming in twenty minutes. You guys can keep yelling, it’s actually kind of funny. You look like a bunch of angry penguins in those suits."

Vincenzo, Viggo, Adreana, and Nerina stood back, watching the spectacle. While the other bosses were losing their minds, the four of them were busy cataloging details.

"She called her 'Mom,'" Nerina whispered, her eyes narrowed. "The girl is seventeen at most. The child is eight. The math doesn't work unless..."

"Unless she isn't her biological mother," Adreana finished. "But look at how they interact. The girl, Melusine... she isn't afraid. Not a single muscle in her body is tense. She’s covered in scars that would make a soldier weep, and she’s sitting there calling the most dangerous men in the world 'penguins.'"

"And the tattoos," Viggo added. "Thorns and nightshade. Those are the marks of an alchemist or a poisoner. Look at the vials on her belt. One of those could probably kill everyone in this room before we could get a shot off."

Vincenzo nodded slowly. "She mentioned a heist. And fireworks at the Ministry. She isn't a mobster. She’s something else entirely. Something... chaotic."

As the various heads of the world's most powerful syndicates continued to scream and threaten, the young woman with the blue curls simply leaned her head on the child’s shoulder, waiting for her ride, seemingly the only person in the room who knew that the guns pointed at her were the least dangerous thing in the world.