The sun filtered through Lunaris's clouds, turning the parasols on the terrace into golden halos above the tables. Lunch was no more than a memory of crumbs, and the air smelled of strong coffee, sweet pastries and the faint metallic scent of impending rain. Mr Bad leaned back in his chair with studied languor, a cigar between his fingers, eyes half-closed—not just from the smoke, but from the habit of someone who is never truly relaxed.

  Red, elbows on the table, entertained herself with the last forkfuls of cake. Chocolate had left an almost invisible stain on her lips, but she did not seem to mind—each bite a small act of rebellion against the weight of the case. Finally, she laid down her fork and folded her arms, watching the passing crowd.

  'You know, ever since we left home I can't stop thinking about the will,' she murmured without looking at the Wolf. 'Doesn't it seem odd to you? Right now, so close to her death, to change everything... Sometimes it feels like a soap opera.'

  The Wolf drew on his cigar, letting smoke escape in spirals. 'It's practical. When the heart can't decide, you let the money choose. And let's face it: I've never met anyone who writes a will in favour of someone they can't stand.'

  'It's not hatred, Wolf,' Red retorted, shaking her head slightly. 'Drizella didn't strike me as greedy. On the contrary... she seemed more tired than anything else.'

  The Wolf gave a half-smile, halfway between irony and nostalgia. 'You know, I've seen plenty of tired people hiding crimes... but some things can't be disguised. The clues are all there: the will, the piece of soggy paper, the mirror in the corridor... And it's no coincidence she died shortly after stepping out of the portal of that house. In Lunaris, coincidences are rare.'

  Red shrugged, her brown eyes restless. 'I don't want to believe she was capable of it. I still reckon it's more likely that Alex messed up somehow, or that the mafia collected a debt in... exemplary fashion. It's not as if Lunaris is a land of happy endings.'

  The Wolf stubbed out the tip of his cigar in the silver ashtray, lingering over the gesture. 'Alex is stupid, not a killer. At least, not the organised kind. As for the mafia...' He glanced at the street, his voice lower. 'They're like guard dogs: they only bite in public if they want to send a message. This was done in silence, with precision.'

  Red fell silent, her gaze wandering among the crowd. 'That apartment weighs heavily, Wolf. I don't know how Drizella bears that environment for so long,' she said softly.

  The Wolf nodded, his gaze drifting for a moment. 'Some houses are like that. Places where sadness sinks into the walls and never leaves.'

  Red spun her glass of juice between her fingers, as if searching for answers at the bottom. The silence between them was made of compassion, and for a moment the case felt distant, just another story among many.

  Red rotated the glass again. 'I feel like we keep returning to the same names, Wolf. And none of them convinces me completely.'

  The Wolf gave a small, feline smile. 'The answer to that question is always in the most obvious place—or in the one we least want to see.'

  Red remained silent, chewing over the words. Their silence was comfortable, built of complicity and contradiction. Only when an enchanted carriage, sliding on crystal rails, gleamed around the corner—drawn by two automata with gilded fox heads—did the Wolf straighten up, brushing the ashes from his coat.

  'Tell me, Red... are you feeling lucky today?'

  She raised an eyebrow, amused. 'Luck is rare in this city. But I could always try.'

  The Wolf smiled, already preparing to leave. 'Then come on. Maybe today luck changes sides.'

  The sunset dyed Lunaris in gold and purple, making the mirrored towers and streets of electric lights shimmer. The black car glided up to the main entrance of the Mirage, and Red was the first to step out, adjusting her dark dress—a classic, cinched line, lustrous fabric and matching gloves, her shoes stepping on the pavement with the determination of someone who never hesitates. The red hood, now of heavy velvet, rested on her shoulders, betraying her identity even amid such elegance. A small holster was discreetly strapped to her thigh beneath the skirt, and only someone who knew her well would guess that Red never entered unarmed.

  Mr Bad emerged from the driver's side, straightening his bow tie and running his fingers along the immaculate collar of his dark coat. The air was ceremonial, but also challenging—as if all this pomp were a well-rehearsed mask to deceive gods and mafiosi. He tossed the keys into the hand of a sharply dressed boy in a cap, who smiled without asking questions. The car was swallowed by a line of other luxurious vehicles, each more extravagant than the last.

  Red watched the figures ascending and descending the enchanted marble steps. Women in long dresses covered in living sequins, men in sharply cut suits, some with dragon-bone canes, others accompanied by small, shimmering creatures—familiars, spells, living masks. The Mirage's sign gleamed in golden letters, with lights that never stayed the same colour for two seconds running. Above, the hotel towers rose, private lounges and balconies overlooking suspended gardens where winged creatures performed acrobatics among carnivorous plants and floating lanterns.

  Beside the smoked-glass doors, a doorman with the air of a statue—skin of polished stone, sapphire eyes, immobile smile—watched the entrance. A red-carpet corridor, lit by magical lanterns, led guests from the pavement into the interior, where the city's rumours gave way to the muted buzz of fortune and misfortune.

  On the opposite avenue, shadows gathered, and some glances discreetly followed the newcomers. The Mirage was more than a casino: it was the stage where kings were made and unmade, where alliances were traded at the price of blood and diamonds. And on that late afternoon, it was there that Red and Mr Bad's luck would be put to the test.

  Red inclined herself slightly towards the Wolf as they climbed the steps, adjusting her skirt with a theatrical sigh and a defiant smile. 'Only you'd get me into this in a dress. One day you'll pay my physio.'

  The Wolf shrugged and gave a wry grin. 'It's part of the disguise, Red. And admit it, you look far better than I ever would.'

  The Mirage's interior was a spectacle of its own, a cathedral of fortune where time folded and magic wore a tuxedo. The ceiling, covered in enchanted stained glass, cast coloured reflections onto the golden-and-silver mosaic floor. At the entrance, sounds blended: sharp laughter, enchanted jazz from an elf quartet, the clink of chips and coins—and an almost electric murmur of spells cast in secret.

  The gaming tables were arranged in concentric circles, each occupied by high-society figures: ladies in glittering dresses playing magical poker, cards levitating gently between their fingers; a group of mages betting on translucent dice, the numbers shifting to the thrower's will. In another corner, an automaton croupier dealt crystal chips on an enchanted roulette, and the table's lights changed colour whenever someone scored big. Men and women exchanged dangerous smiles and coded phrases; now and then a player rose and slipped behind velvet curtains to private rooms where secrets, loves and even days of life were wagered.

  The Mirage's bar stretched along a curved wall, with high stools of dark blue leather and a lunar-stone counter. Bottles and flasks sparkled behind the barman—a faun with golden horns, deftly mixing cocktails that changed flavour to suit the customer's desire. Above the bar, a tiny dragon coiled around a neon frame, puffing pink smoke whenever someone ordered the famous 'Luck of Lunaris' liqueur.

  Further in, the show hall opened beneath a black velvet curtain. The stage hosted singers, illusionists and dancers who moved among beams of magical light. At that moment, a woman with a crystalline voice, draped in golden feathers, sang a jazz standard, accompanied by blue-skinned musicians with shining eyes. The audience, drinks in hand, followed the performance as if they were used to wonders and tried never to be too dazzled.

  To the right of the hall, the restaurant displayed impeccably set tables, napkins folded into mythical creatures, enchanted glassware that never emptied. The scent of exotic spices and caramelised meat mingled with rare flower aromas, served as starters on fine porcelain. The staff moved with supernatural efficiency, immaculate in their attire, smiles carefully controlled.

  At the centre, a curved staircase led to private balconies where the city's most powerful observed the hall from above—watchful eyes, whispered voices, deals struck in every shadow.

  In the Mirage, Red thought, even bad luck wore fine clothes.

  Red leaned towards the Wolf as they climbed, adjusting her skirt with a teasing smile. 'So, now what? What do we do, master of disguises?'

  The Wolf gave a sidelong grin, as though he'd decided everything before even entering. 'If Mohammed won't go to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mohammed.'

  Without another word, Mr Bad chose a poker table near the centre of the room—a table surrounded by bigwigs, loud laughter, expensive perfumes and a subtle trace of nerves. Red stood behind him, arms crossed and watchful, ready to be both shadow and shield.

  The Wolf exchanged only a few coins for the minimum stack of chips—just enough not to look like a curiosity, but far from what one expected in a place like this. The other players couldn't hide their mocking smiles: 'Don't know what you're here for, lad? We play for keeps here!' jeered a man with a waxed moustache, his glass already empty. Only the lady of the cards—a woman with silver hair and shrewd eyes—gave him a long look, half-amused, half-intrigued.

  But as the hands went by, the atmosphere shifted. The Wolf, ever calm, began sweeping up chips with the precision of a predator disguised as a lamb. One by one, the players lost their bets, some even their ties, watches and, in the case of an imprudent young mage, his ridiculous blue-feathered coat that Red found especially ludicrous. When Mr Bad's stacks of chips threatened to topple, half the table was groaning—and only the lady of the cards seemed to relish the spectacle.

  Red then leaned in, murmuring in the Wolf's ear: 'Come on... what's your secret? Don't tell me you're a wizard too.'

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  The Wolf simply smiled enigmatically, letting the answer hang in the air—as one who knows something he never reveals completely.

  In truth, the table's secrets weren't learned from books or spells. The scent of fear, the smallest gestures, the almost imperceptible quickening of hearts—everything was evident to someone with the right senses. And the Wolf, more than anyone, knew how to listen to what wasn't said.

  The lady of the cards realised, as only someone who's lost a lot in life can, that this stranger before her needed no spells to win. She returned his smile, conspiratorial, asking no questions.

  Mr Bad's success didn't go unnoticed. A security guard in a dark suit approached, eyes sharp and posture stiff. 'Sir, please come with me. And your companion too.'

  The Wolf rose without protest, smiling as though he'd just won the real prize. Before leaving, he placed a valuable chip before the lady of the cards. 'For your luck,' he said in a low, courteous tone.

  Red and Mr Bad followed the guard, crossing the hall under looks mixing respect, envy and suspicion.

  Their path didn't lead to the gilded floors or hidden bars: the guard took them down a side corridor where the floor was scratched wood and the smell of cheap detergent mixed with tobacco and bad luck. They passed a succession of heavy doors, each with its characteristic sound: in one, the clink of fallen chips; in another, a muffled scream followed by cruel laughter. There were rooms labelled 'Accounting', 'Private Meeting', 'Lost & Found'—but none promised a good encounter.

  At last, the guard opened a metal door labelled 'Waiting Room'—the letters worn as if always expecting the worst. Inside, the atmosphere was uncomfortably banal: a round table, mismatched chairs, a flickering fluorescent lamp. But what surprised Mr Bad wasn't the décor—it was that no one of note was there. Only a henchman in an ill-pressed shirt, biting a nail, looked at them without enthusiasm and motioned them in.

  The Wolf raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. 'I thought we'd be received in style, Red. I even expected a red carpet or a magic contract to sign.'

  The henchman snorted, folding his arms over his broad chest. 'The boss doesn't waste time on cheaters. He says people like you are dealt with down here.'

  The Wolf, half amused, half incredulous, pointed to himself and Red, eyebrows raised: 'You really don't know who we are?'

  The henchman shrugged indifferently. 'Don't know and don't care. To me, you're just a couple of smart-arses causing trouble in the wrong house. And don't fuck up my night.'

  Red exchanged a look with the Wolf, stifling a laugh. 'So... now what?' she asked, leaning against the wall, her voice part challenge, part curiosity.

  The Wolf looked at Red, still genuinely surprised, and shrugged with a disdainful smile: 'Plan B.'

  With a movement so swift the henchman didn't even blink, the Wolf punched him cleanly, knocking him out on the spot, his heavy body collapsing onto the round table with a dull thud.

  Red looked at the fallen body, shrugged indifferently, and cast the Wolf that brief, conspiratorial look that said everything without a word.

  A moment of silence followed. Then a shout came from down the corridor: 'What the hell's going on in there?!'

  The door burst open. A henchman with snake tattoos and gold teeth stormed in, staring at his fallen colleague. 'You've got to be kidding me! Who hit Jonas?'

  Red smiled, stepped back, and in one fluid move ripped her skirt up to her thigh, revealing the holster and freeing her legs for what was to come. 'He needed a nap. Why don't you join him?'

  Before he could react, Red lunged, dodged his swing, and delivered a sharp blow to his neck just below the ear. He collapsed instantly, out cold before he even realised what hit him.

  For a moment, everything hung suspended. Then chaos erupted: doors along the corridor flew open—sounds of punching, altered voices and screams spilling out. Henchmen spilled from those rooms, dropping whatever they held. Some wiped their hands on dirty cloths, others straightened crooked ties, all wearing predator expressions.

  Within seconds the corridor was invaded: two wielding silver-crystal-studded clubs ready to break bones and dispel spells; another brandishing a pair of enchanted daggers flashing blue reflections; a fourth, scowling, held an antique revolver with rune-etched barrel and a small bone pendant, loaded with lead and glass-encased magical rounds ready to tear flesh and pierce spells.

  Red was the first to move. As the first club swung, she dived under it, rolled on the floor and fired twice—one bullet tore into the attacker's shoulder, spraying thick blood on the wall; the other struck the second henchman's thigh, making him scream and drop his weapon. The third tried to catch her from behind, but Red spun and smashed him in the jaw with the butt of the revolver, breaking two teeth, spitting blood and curses onto the floor.

  The fourth fired his gun—the deafening blast in the tight space—but Red was already on him, kicking the weapon from his hands with a brutal strike. She grabbed the fallen gun and, with a fluid gesture, shot him in the knee; he dropped immediately, a howl echoing down the corridor.

  Meanwhile, the Wolf let pure strength take over. One henchman attacked with a raised club, but Mr Bad grabbed him by the collar and hurled him against the wall, leaving a trail of blood on the chipped tiles. Another swung a dagger, but the Wolf simply seized the man's arm and twisted until bones cracked—the blade fell, and the man groaned, clutching his elbow.

  When a third henchman shrank back by the door, the Wolf advanced and, with a low growl, blew him with supernatural force. The man flew backward, crashing into a table, left gasping and unable to rise.

  Red retrieved two pistols from the floor and, vaulting over a broken chair, fired at the floor, grazing another attacker's boot; he stumbled, face-first on the marble, and lay still with a broken nose bleeding.

  The floor was sticky with blood, strewn with wood and glass shards; the walls bore dark stains where red mixed with plaster dust, and the air was so saturated with iron it tasted of coin. Amid overturned chairs and twisted bodies came groans, spits and curses—no one lay still long: some crawled, others sought fallen weapons, all trying to distance themselves from the two intruders. Mr Bad and Red exchanged quick, measured glances; he sniffed out fear, she counted ammunition. Without a word, they knew their limits—never a step too far, but never a step back.

  Despite it all, there were no deaths, only chaos, fallen bodies and cries. The Mirage had seen blood before, but seldom like this.

  In the end, the corridor fell silent, broken only by the defeated groans and the scent of gunpowder and magic.

  Then a larger door, lined with red hide, banged open. A retinue of armed men entered, and at their centre stood Rumpelstiltskin—short, thin, perfectly ironed blond hair, pinstripe grey suit, dark-blue silk tie and gleaming Italian shoes. His face was thin, almost sharp, ice-cold eyes lined with decades of sleeplessness, and a smile never quite sincere. He spoke with a discreet German accent, but more than that, he radiated the presence of an underworld boss who needed no introduction.

  Rumpelstiltskin surveyed the devastated corridor and, upon recognising Red and Mr Bad, clenched his fists and swore loudly in a cutting voice: 'Schei?e... what the fuck is this scene? I step away for five minutes and you turn my corridor into a butcher's shop. Do you think this is playground mischief? Look at this shit: blood on the floor, furniture wrecked, and I've got clients in there spending millions! You two are the curse of my accounting department. Every time you set foot here money disappears, the cops turn up, and I spend the night patching holes. You've got two seconds to tell me what the hell you're doing before I stuff you in a barrel and send you downriver. Understood?'

  The mafioso's men had their guns drawn, but no one moved. Rumpelstiltskin fixed his steely gaze on the pair, preparing another tirade... and Red simply raised her hands with a cheeky smile: 'Hello, Rumpel. Nice to see you too.'

  Mr Bad stepped forward, hands visible, his voice low but firm: 'We came to talk about Anastasia.'

  Rumpelstiltskin raised an eyebrow as if he'd heard a bad joke. 'Anastasia?' he snorted without humour. 'All this carnage... for that?' He shook his head, huffing. 'Christ. Follow me, before I start shooting someone.'

  He turned to his armed men, pointing at the bloodied floor. 'Clean this shit up. Now and without whining.'

  Red and the Wolf exchanged a quick nod and followed him. They rode an iron-grilled lift that creaked all the way to the top floor—a whole level reserved for the boss. The doors opened onto a silent foyer where a Persian rug muffled footsteps and absorbed secrets. Dim lights cast golden reflections on dark wood walls inlaid with Art Deco details.

  The office spanned the entire top of the Mirage: panoramic windows displayed the glittering city while bottle-green velvet curtains, heavy as broken promises, remained half-drawn. The floor was black marble veined with gold; at its centre lay a crimson rug patterned with dragon arabesques.

  On the left wall, a mirrored-topped bar stocked with crystal bottles of impossible hues. To the right, display cases held magical artefacts—griffin-bone daggers, hourglasses dripping luminous sand, ledgers bound in silver locks.

  At the back, against the windows, stood Rumpelstiltskin's desk: polished dark wood with brass corners and a mother-of-pearl-inlaid top. On it, a salamander-shaped brass lamp spat green flame, lighting piles of stamped dossiers, rolled maps, an antique revolver and an overflowing ashtray of half-smoked cigars.

  In front of the desk, two vast green leather armchairs waited like thrones. Rumpelstiltskin settled behind the desk, opened his silver case of hand-rolled cigarettes and lit one with a snap of a match.

  'Sit,' the command sounded like a sentence. 'And now, tell me why you've been tearing my men to bits over that dead girl.'

  Mr Bad pulled out one of the armchairs but stayed standing. Red did likewise, arms crossed.

  Mr Bad broke the silence, his voice firm: 'We know Anastasia and Alex were in your debt, Rumpel.'

  The mafioso drew on his cigarette, exhaling grey smoke, and gave a crooked smile. 'They were, yes. Like half this damned city. Debt is the blood that keeps Lunaris standing.'

  He met their eyes, ice-cold. 'Wait... is that what you think? That I threw her off the bridge? Idiots. If I'd killed the girl who the hell would pay the bill?'

  Red tilted her head slightly, her tone calm: 'Maybe you used her as an example. One death to remind Alex of the invoice.'

  Rumpelstiltskin laughed, dry, almost amused. 'If I wanted to make an example, I'd have buried Alex. Anastasia had ways to get money—he's the walking black hole.'

  He leaned back in his chair, sending smoke spiralling to the ceiling. 'Besides, she was decent. I liked her, you know? A shame this happened. And with that father-in-law she's got... even I'd consider jumping off a bridge.'

  Mr Bad narrowed his eyes. 'What's wrong with her father-in-law?'

  Rumpelstiltskin tapped ash into a silver dish, huffing. 'That old man is completely mad. Spent his life comparing Anastasia to other princesses decked in steel and diamonds, always saying Alex ought to have snagged someone more "useful" to the crown.' He made air-quotes, disgusted. 'Months ago he tried hiring me, believe it? Wanted me to ruin her life: rumours, blackmail, the whole package. I refused. I've principles, for Christ's sake—even I have lines I won't cross.'

  Red raised an eyebrow, sceptical. 'And in the end you still billed them?'

  Rumpel shrugged. 'Alex, yes. The brat buried himself in gambling debts and addiction. I had to crack down on him, but I always told my boys to leave the girl alone. A few shouts in the foyer, threats by post... nothing more. Didn't seem worth touching the only person who might actually pay off that shitty debt.'

  The mafioso exhaled and finally relaxed some of his tension. 'Look: I can hate you both from the bottom of my heart, but I'm pragmatic. If anyone's going to find out who fucked Anastasia over, it's you lot. So whatever you need, I'll open doors.'

  Mr Bad raised an eyebrow, suspicious. 'You're offering free help? You're no charity, Rumpel.'

  'I'm not. But I want this story buried before the police start digging into my accounts. And there's another detail: the old king didn't stop at asking favours from me. He hired another artist to make Anastasia's life hell—a henchman named Bluebeard. They say the bloke collects widows and never lets a target breathe.'

  Red frowned. 'Bluebeard? The noble wife-killer?'

  Rumpel nodded, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray. 'The one. If you want answers, look for him at Grimwater Dock: his ship, the Blue Filth, is always moored there when he's ashore. Give him this'—he produced an enamelled medallion bearing the silhouette of a sabre—'it's his password to know you come from me.'

  The Wolf examined the card, studying the runes. 'You don't usually hand out business cards, Rumpel.'

  'I don't usually see clients bleeding my carpet either. Now disappear before I change my mind. And, please, close the door: I still have to tip the idiots down there cleaning up blood.'

  Red and Mr Bad exchanged a brief nod and turned to leave. At the door, Red cast one last glance at the luxurious office. 'Thanks, Rumpel. For the courtesy.'

  The mafioso muttered something unintelligible, already bent over new papers.

  As the lift began its descent, Red exhaled the breath she'd been holding. 'Bluebeard... this is going to get ugly.'

  The Wolf pocketed the card inside his coat. 'Ugly is already here. Now let's give it shape.'

  The lift doors opened onto the empty corridor. Below, the casino kept spinning, indifferent to the blood. And somewhere in the city, a truth waited for teeth and bullets.

  End of chapter.