Alamak

The grand ballroom of the Neutral Zone estate was a masterpiece of architectural intimidation. Gilded moldings, velvet drapes the color of dried blood, and a chandelier that looked as though it were made of frozen diamonds created a stage for the world’s most dangerous players. Here, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, aged scotch, and the unspoken threat of sudden violence.

Vincenzo, the undisputed head of the Ndrangheta, adjusted the cuff of his bespoke charcoal suit. Beside him stood Viggo, his second-in-command and the man who shared his bed in a silence that was becoming increasingly loud. They had not officially declared their status to the underworld, but the way Viggo’s hand hovered near the small of Vincenzo’s back spoke volumes to those who knew how to read the language of power.

"The Irish look restless tonight," Viggo murmured, his eyes scanning the room without moving his head. "McCallum has been nursing that same glass of whiskey for twenty minutes. He’s looking for a reason to break the peace."

Vincenzo took a slow sip of his Negroni. "Let him look. He won't find it here. Tonight is about visibility, Viggo. We are the mountain. We do not move for the wind."

They were approached by a pair of women who moved with a synchronized grace that suggested years of shared danger. Adreana, the head of the Neapolitan Camorra, wore a dress of shimmering emerald silk that contrasted sharply with the cold steel in her eyes. Her second, Nerina, was her shadow, dressed in a sharp black suit that left no doubt about her lethality.

"Vincenzo," Adreana greeted, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "I see the Ndrangheta is as stoic as ever. And Viggo—still the loyal guardian."

"Adreana. Nerina," Vincenzo inclined his head. "It is a rare pleasure to see the Camorra in such fine spirits. I assume business is well?"

"Business is business," Nerina said, her voice a low rasp. "But the company tonight is... mixed. The Scottish mob is already arguing with the French enclave over shipping lanes in the North Sea. It’s like watching dogs fight over a bone that hasn’t even been thrown yet."

The four of them stood in a loose circle, a pocket of relative calm in a room vibrating with tension. They watched as the head of the Mexican cartel, a man who smelled of ozone and expensive leather, exchanged a tense nod with the Cosa Nostra representative from New York. The Portuguese enclaves stayed to the fringes, paying respects but keeping their hands close to their holsters.

"Look at them," Adreana whispered, nodding toward the Colombians across the room. "They think because they have the volume, they have the respect. They don’t realize that respect is earned in the shadows, not the ledger."

The mingling continued, a delicate dance of ego and threat, until the sharp, rhythmic chime of a crystal glass cut through the chatter. All heads turned toward the far end of the ballroom.

Standing on a small dais were the head of the Yakuza and his wife. He was a man of silver hair and iron resolve, his presence commanding an immediate, heavy silence.

"I thank you for your presence," the Yakuza head began, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "But tonight, the spirit of our gathering has been fouled. Recently, my operations in Japan—and those of my brothers in the East—were struck by a coordinated government raid. Facilities were lost. Good men are in cages."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Raids were part of the life, but the Yakuza’s tone suggested something deeper.

"We have investigated," he continued, his eyes turning into slits. "The authorities did not stumble upon us. They were invited. Someone in this room, or someone represented here, broke the sacred code. You do not involve the law in the affairs of the family. If you have a grievance, you settle it with steel and blood, not a phone call to the police."

The tension in the room spiked. Men reached instinctively for their jackets, and the air grew cold.

"Whoever did this," the Yakuza head said, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, "knows that I will not rest until their lineage is erased. There will be no mercy for a rat."

He stepped down, beginning a slow walk through the crowd. When he reached the Italian contingent, he stopped. Vincenzo and Adreana met his gaze squarely.

"Do you know of this treachery?" the Yakuza asked.

"The Ndrangheta does not deal with the state," Vincenzo said firmly. "It is beneath us."

"The Camorra agrees," Adreana added. "A rat is a parasite. We have heard nothing through our channels, but should a whisper reach us, you will be the first to know. Our alliance stands."

The Yakuza head nodded, his expression unreadable, and moved on. The atmosphere had shifted from competitive to paranoid. Every glance was now a suspicion; every whisper was a potential betrayal.

Then, another chime rang out. But it didn't come from the stage. It was a strange, metallic sound, followed by a soft thud.

Every eye turned back to the stage. A young girl stood there. She looked no older than seventeen, with short, messy brown curls highlighted with streaks of vibrant cerulean blue. Her eyes were dark, almost entirely black, framed by heavy kohl that made her look like a forest spirit caught in a storm.

She wasn't wearing a gown or a suit. She wore a dark blue tank top that revealed arms covered in a tapestry of history. Raised, jagged scars crisscrossed her skin, and woven between them were intricate tattoos: thorns, roses, dragons, fire bleeding into hemlock, daggers, and moons. She wore black cargo pants and a heavy belt laden with tools that made the seasoned assassins in the room blink. Shuriken, vials of colored liquid, pouches of herbs, and two daggers with strange purple veining.

She surveyed the room, her gaze cool and unimpressed.

"Hello," she said, her voice projection startlingly powerful. "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. The sound of dozens of slides racking and holsters unsnapping filled the room like a hailstorm. Nearly every bodyguard and boss in the room leveled a firearm at her.

The girl didn't flinch. She slowly swept her gaze across the room, noting the barrels pointed at her heart. Her eyes lingered on Vincenzo, Viggo, Adreana, and Nerina—the only four who hadn't drawn their weapons. She gave them a fleeting, enigmatic smile before looking back at the armed mob.

She scoffed, a sound of pure derision. "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? It’s really adorable, actually."

Vincenzo and Viggo shared a perplexed look.

"Does she know where she is?" Viggo whispered. "She's talking to the most violent men on earth like they’re mall security."

"She knows," Vincenzo murmured, his eyes fixed on the scars on her arms. "Look at her eyes, Viggo. She isn't brave. She's experienced."

The girl suddenly looked up at the massive, multi-tiered chandelier hanging above the center of the room.

"Luna! You have five seconds to get down!" she yelled.

She raised her hand, folding her fingers one by one. "Five... four... three... two..."

The chandelier began to rattle violently. To the horror of the venue staff, it started to unscrew itself, revealing a dark cavity in the ceiling. A small head poked out—a girl around eight years old with messy blonde hair.

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

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

The child jumped. It was a drop that should have broken her legs, but she landed with the lithe grace of a cat, rolling and popping up right next to Melusine. She looked up at the older girl, her expression sheepish.

"Sorry, Mom," Luna said, scratching her head.

Melusine gave her a withering, icy stare. "You better be sorry! What the hell were you doing?"

"Fireworks," Luna said simply.

"I saw the fireworks, Luna! I have eyes that work perfectly fine, thank you very much," Melusine snapped. "What I want to know is how you ended up here. We were a city away!"

"Pipelines," Luna muttered.

Melusine rubbed her temples. "Pipelines. How many times have we gone over the pipelines?"

"Twenty-five," Luna sighed.

"And what did I say about them?"

"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?"

Luna pouted. "Because it’s too easy."

The room was silent, the mafia heads staring in absolute bafflement at the domestic dispute occurring on the stage.

"Yes! It is too easy!" Melusine threw her hands up. "Ayio! Alamak! Really?"

The Japanese contingent perked up at the Malay slang, their brows furrowing. Melusine ignored them, pulling a phone from her cargo pocket and dialing a number. She put it on speaker.

A man’s voice, thick with sleep, answered. "Yes? Who is it?"

"Pronto," Melusine said.

The voice on the other end sharpened instantly. "Melusine? Why are you calling?"

"I’m gonna need a ride for Luna," she said.

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

Melusine looked around the room. "I have strictly no idea."

A long sigh came through the speaker. "Melusine?"

"Yes?"

"Where are you?"

"Um," she looked at the sea of black suits and leveled guns. "It’s like a gala with people with guns. And they’re pointing the guns at me. And 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 suppose that’s not what you wanted to know."

Vincenzo glanced at Nerina, who was wearing a suit, and saw the woman’s mouth twitch with the ghost of a smile.

"Fine, that’ll do," the man on the phone said. The sound of rapid typing echoed. "I’m pinging your location... wait. Melusine? You are in the middle of the annual mob meeting."

"Oh, okay. Great," Melusine said, completely unfazed.

"That mob meeting," the man groaned.

"Oh," Melusine’s eyes lit up with realization. "You mean the one with the assholes who can't correctly plan a drug transfer or a weapons dealership?"

"Please do not insult them while I am speaking to hear you," the man pleaded.

Melusine looked at the various heads of the world's most powerful syndicates. "Ah. Ups."

Her accent shifted slightly, a hint of Italian sliding into the word.

"Is that all you’re going to say? Oops?"

"Sí, ups," Melusine replied, her Italian accent becoming more pronounced. "Sorry not sorry."

"I’m sending a van," the man said, sounding exhausted. "Try to stay alive until then, yes?"

"Yep, promise."

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

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

Luna pulled on Melusine’s arm, her face scrunched in a frown. "Ma, why? Why do I need to be picked up?"

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

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

Melusine turned to her, her voice taking on a slight French lilt. "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 her boots. "Don't get caught."

"And what did you just do?"

"I got caught by you, Mom."

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

The silence in the room finally broke, but not with gunfire. It broke with a cacophony of outrage.

"Who the hell are you?" McCallum of the Irish mob roared.

"What do you mean, bombs in the Ministry?" the head of the French mob demanded, stepping forward.

"Is this a joke? Is this a hit?"

The room descended into a shouting match, various bosses demanding answers, several of them convinced this was a distraction for an assassination attempt.

Melusine and Luna looked at the chaos, then at each other. Without a word, they both sat down on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, watching the world's most dangerous people lose their minds like they were watching a particularly loud soap opera.

Vincenzo didn't join the shouting. He stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on Melusine.

"Viggo," he whispered.

"I see it," Viggo replied.

"She called her 'Mom,'" Adreana said, stepping closer to them, her voice low so the others wouldn't hear. "The girl is seventeen. The child is eight. The math is... uncomfortable."

"Look at the way they sit," Nerina noted. "They aren't afraid. They aren't even tense. They’re bored. They are in a room with three hundred of the most proficient killers on the planet, and they are bored."

"And the scars," Vincenzo added, his gaze lingering on the jagged lines on Melusine’s stomach revealed by the short tank top. "Those aren't from accidents. Those are from surviving things that should have killed her ten times over."

"She mentioned heists," Viggo said. "And fireworks in the Ministry. If she’s who I think she is... if they are who I think they are... then the Yakuza’s rat is the least of our problems."

Melusine looked over at them, catching Vincenzo’s eye. She winked, a playful, dangerous spark in those ink-black eyes, before turning back to Luna and sharing a piece of gum.

In a room full of monsters, the two girls on the stage were the only ones who looked truly at home.