Marvel: Impregnation System

Chapter 82: Chapter 81: Glimpse Into The Luciano Family Name

"YOU TRAITORS, I'LL KILL YOU!" Sheriff Wyatt, donned in his black knight attire, screamed, his sanity fully consumed by the cursed blade in his grasp.

His eyes blazed with a frenzied red as the corruption spread through him, the ebony blade vibrating within his hands at the sheer delight of the scene progressing into this downward spiral of a conflict.

"Sheriff Wyatt, you've violated the rules set by the High Table," The man in charge spoke calmly, though his gaze held steady on the sheriff's bloodlust.

"Killing on Continental grounds is unforgivable-"

"SHE HAD TO DIE! THEY ALL NEED TO DIE!" Wyatt screeched, his voice cracking under the weight of madness.

He gripped the blade tighter, trembling with murderous intent as the figures surrounding him exchanged wary glances.

The man who spoke earlier now raised his arms, the ten bands wrapped around them glowing with mystic energy, preparing for the inevitable clash.

"I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"

*GASP*

"GOD F*CKING DAMMIT!" Ricky roared as another vision hit him like a sledgehammer, shaking his head violently as the haze cleared.

Ricky looked down, realizing the cursed sword was still in his hands and with a scoff of disgust, he flung it to the side, the clang of metal echoing through the forest.

"Ricky, calm down, you're safe." Chores hurried to Ricky's side, his leg now fully restored thanks to the healing sanctuary's potent healing magic.

"Well that's just great, Chores! I'm glad that I'm safe after getting my ass kicked by a f*cking vampire, only to be skull f*cked by a goddamn sword!" Ricky spat out the words, his hysteria mounting as he vented his fury at Chores, his closest outlet for frustration.

Chores opened his mouth to reply but paused, thinking better of it as after everything Ricky had just been through, it seemed wiser to let him cool down.

Sitting up, Ricky rubbed his face, the dull throb in his head matching the soreness in his body.

His limbs felt heavy from the strain he'd pushed himself through, and he stared blankly ahead, still trying to piece together the whirlwind of events.

"Don't worry young Ricky, the big bad vampire won't hurt you any longer." Alexander's voice came from the side, dripping with sarcasm as his tone was clearly meant to taunt, and it worked.

"It's not-"

*SIGH*

"First of all, Alexander, go f*ck yourself. Second, I'm only pissed off because this goddamn sword keeps getting into my head, and it's driving me insane, literally." Ricky glanced around, still a little disoriented, and flicked Alexander off his shoulder as Chores quickly caught the gerbil before he could fall to the ground.

"A forest?" Ricky muttered, his eyes scanning the dense trees surrounding him, the absence of city life immediately confusing him.

"I thought it wise to hop off the train instead of arriving at the station with the train in shambles," Chores revealed, knowing that they would be held responsible or questioned if they arrived at their intended destination still in the wrecked train.

*Sigh*

Ricky dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, his legs giving way as the weight of exhaustion hit him.

His helmet slid off, parting effortlessly as he ran his fingers through his disheveled black hair, tugging in frustration.

"I just wanted to get drunk and f*ck a busty Italian~" Ricky groaned, his voice tinged with frustration and exhaustion.

"But now I have to deal with a mind-f*cking sword, ugly vampires, and what's worse is that I'm sober on my vacation!" Ricky shouted, the weight of his frustration pouring out with each word.

His previous buzz had evaporated, leaving him irritable and raw as Chores sighed, clearly trying to find a way to ease the tension, and then reached into his back pocket.

"Here, I swiped this from the debris when I woke up." Chores said, pulling out a bottle of Irish cream and handing it to Ricky.

"Irish cream, really-"

"I mean, if you don't want it-"

"NO!" Ricky yelled out in excitement, snatching the bottle from Chores' hands and cradling it like a prized possession, his fingers gently stroking the label as if it were made of gold.

In his mind, he had been managing his impulses better lately, making strides in self-control, and he was determined to treat this vacation as the well-deserved break he craved.

As Ricky downed the bottle, Alexander observed him with a mixture of concern and pride.

Despite the immense anguish in his heart, a smile crept onto his lips, knowing that his decision to let Ricky embrace this moment of indulgence was the right one.

He had witnessed the untamed power displayed in their earlier confrontation, and he understood the toll it had taken on the young man.

For the first time in a while, Alexander felt like Ricky was firmly moving in the right direction, earning not just respect, but a sense of belonging in this chaotic world.

Finally gaining Alexander's approval.

Alexander The Gerbil Favorability: 42→83

"Ah~" Ricky let out, leaning back and gazing at the Irish cream with surprised eyes before realizing the notification.

"Whoa, you really like me, don't you?" Ricky quipped, breaking the moment with a teasing smirk aimed at Alexander, whose smile quickly faltered into a frown.

Alexander The Gerbil Favorability: 83→76

"Oh come on, it was a joke-"

"Silence your attempts, for I am a sturdy wall in front of the face of lies." Alexander declared, crossing his small arms defiantly.

"Hey Slick, about saving me earlier-"

"Don't mention it; that guy was a monster," Ricky waved his hand dismissively, knowing that Chores likely couldn't have taken on Baron Blood and grateful that he hadn't tried to intervene as it would have only made things harder for him.

However that fact made Chores, who was standing nearby, visibly frustrated, clenching and unclenching his fists as he wrestled with his emotions.

With a slow sigh, he finally relaxed, trying to dissipate the tension that had coiled tightly within him, a lingering sense of worthlessness washing over him in that moment.

"And sorry for venting; you didn't deserve that." Ricky added, taking a sip of the Irish cream as he stood up, brushing off his pants.

"We should depart; the city is only about an hour away." Chores informed Ricky, who nodded, wiping his mouth and glancing back at the vibrating sword.

Holding out his hand, the sword shot into his grasp, and he swiftly sheathed it, casting a sidelong glance at the shocked duo.

"Oh, did I forget to mention I could do that? Pretty cool, right?" Ricky chuckled, striding past them while Chores and Alexander exchanged wide-eyed looks.

"Pretty cool." They both echoed, nodding at each other before hurrying to catch up with Ricky.

Meanwhile in Sicily,

The streets bustled with activity, a stark contrast to the serene countryside as people hurried along ancient cobblestone paths, mingling with vendors hawking fresh produce and local delicacies.

Amidst the everyday hustle, signs of economic disparity were evident, with well-dressed businessmen navigating past impoverished laborers in threadbare clothing.

The air buzzed with conversations in Sicilian dialect, punctuated by the occasional call of street hawkers selling their wares.

Children played in narrow alleyways, their laughter echoing against weathered stone buildings adorned with drying laundry and vibrant murals depicting scenes of local history and folklore.

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Above the bustling streets, the imposing presence of Fascist propaganda posters reminded residents of Mussolini's rule, urging unity and loyalty to the regime.

Despite this, whispers of discontent and defiance lingered among those who felt the weight of economic hardship and political oppression.

In the shadows cast by medieval churches and Baroque palaces, the unseen influence of the Mafia loomed large in the open, its clandestine operations shaping local affairs and perpetuating a culture of secrecy and fear.

As the sun dipped behind Mount Etna, casting an amber glow over the island, Sicily's complex tapestry of tradition, struggle, and resilience continued to unfold against the backdrop of a changing world.

*BAM*

*BAM*

*BAM*

"Mr. Mancini, we know you're in there!" A man in a fedora shouted, pounding on the door, flanked by a couple of men who looked equally determined.

The door creaked open to reveal an elderly man, his thick mustache bristling like a lion's mane, and his fierce glare cutting through the dim light of the hallway.

"Protections due." The man declared, forcing the door wider and stepping into the suit shop with an air of arrogance, his friends snickering behind him like schoolboys.

The bell above the door chimed a warning, but it was drowned out by the raucous laughter echoing off the walls, filling the space with an unsettling tension.

"We already paid last week-"

"Well, the Barbieri family has issued orders for an advance payment for next month." The mobster sneered, his smirk growing wider as he leaned casually against a nearby display of tailored suits as the old man's jaw tightened, and he gritted his teeth.

"Please, if you give me another day-"

"How about you hold off until nightfall, you know, when the monsters come a-lurking?" The mobster's sneer widened, his tone dripping with malice.

The old man's face went pale at the veiled threat, and he instinctively grabbed his arm as if seeking comfort, but there was none to be found.

"I swear I'll pay it-"

"Listen, Mr. Mancini." The mobster loomed over the old man, who kept his eyes shut tight, trying to block out the looming threat.

"I'm not asking; I'm telling. Got it?" The mobster's voice boomed, and with a shove, he pushed the old man aside.

"Pa!" Mr. Mancini's son shouted, sprinting to his father's side as he threw himself in front of the elder Mancini, positioning his body as a shield to protect his frail father.

"Destroy the shop!" the mobster ordered, waving his fingers dismissively as if the command were nothing more than a casual suggestion as Mr. Mancini struggled to his feet, desperation etched across his face.

"Y-YOU CAN'T-" Mr. Mancini cried out, his voice trembling with fear as he glanced at the works of art that adorned his shop, the only pieces of his life he took pride in.

He struggled to rise, desperation fueling his movements, but was yanked back down by his son.

"Pa, don't!" His son urged, his grip firm on his father's arm as he could see the anguish in his father's eyes, the pain of impending destruction clawing at Mr. Mancini's heart.

*CRASH*

Without hesitation, one of the men swung his arm, shattering the display window with a loud crash.

Glass shards scattered across the floor like glittering confetti, and he lunged forward, ripping the fine Italian suit from its hanger.

The fabric tore easily, and the sound of ripping silk filled the air, punctuating the brutality of the moment.

Mr. Mancini's heart sank as he watched his hard work and passion being reduced to mere scraps, feeling utterly powerless to stop it.

"Pa, no! It ain't worth your life." His son whispered urgently, trying to pull him back as Mr. Mancini's eyes filled with tears.

He stood frozen, helpless, as the men continued to rip apart his creations, each suit a testament to years of hard work and dedication.

"You better figure out how to pay us by nightfall, or the creeps will come crawling." The leader warned, a sinister smirk playing on his lips.

He gestured to his goons, who stepped over the remnants of the ruined suits, laughing as they followed him out of the shop.

The door swung shut behind them, leaving Mr. Mancini and his son in a silence thick with despair, the remnants of their shattered dreams strewn about the floor.

"What's up with them?" Ricky asked, strolling down the street and taking the last sip of his Irish cream. As he glanced at the scene unfolding outside the shop, the destruction left in the wake of the men caught his attention.

"Mafia." They both answered as they watched as the goons snickered away but chose not to intervene; it wasn't their business.

"Let's hang back, let the air cool, and then-" Ricky began, intending to retreat from the scene when suddenly, the old man burst out of the shop, desperation written all over his face.

"PA, NO-"

"NO ENRICO, I'VE HAD ENOUGH!" Mr. Mancini exclaimed, shoving his son aside as he faced the men with unwavering resolve.

"Oh, enough of what?" The mobster shot back, a mocking grin spreading across his face as he turned to confront the furious old man.

"You've trampled on my passion and my livelihood, all because of my ties to Antonio!" Mr. Mancini declared, gesturing emphatically at the thugs who merely scoffed in response.

"Because you chose the wrong side-"

"I DID NOT!" Mr. Mancini proclaimed boldly, causing the nearby passersby to grow pale and hurriedly shuffle through doors to escape the unfolding scene.

"What did you say?" The mobster raised his gaze to meet the old man's defiance, a dangerous glint flickering in his eyes.

"I SAID THAT I DON'T REGRET CHOOSING ANTONIO LUCIANO'S SIDE!" Mr. Mancini roared, his fierce proclamation ringing through the air.

Ricky, who had been walking away, abruptly halted, his attention drawn back to the escalating confrontation.

"F*ck~" Ricky cursed out a sigh, tossing the bottle aside as he turned back to face the scene.

"Chores." Ricky called out, prompting Chores to put on his brass knuckles and nod in response.

"I understand," Chores replied, squinting his eyes and cracking his fists in preparation for the impending fight.

"YOU DARE-"

"I DO! HE MAY HAVE LOST ALONG WITH THE OTHER EXILED FAMILIES, BUT YOU AND YOUR BOSS AREN'T EVEN A SMIDGE OF THE MAN HE WAS-"

"YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" The mobster roared, winding up his punch, ready to unleash it on the old man, who simply closed his eyes in defiance.

*BAM*

Mr. Mancini braced himself for the grueling pain he anticipated, but when he opened his eyes, confusion washed over him as he found himself staring at the back of the Black Knight, Ricky.

"W-WHO THE F*CK ARE YOU-"

*BAM*

*COUGH*

Ricky didn't bother with words; he launched a powerful punch directly into the man's throat as the mobster collapsed to his knees, gasping in agony as he clutched his shattered esophagus.

"I have business with this man so back off, or I'll skin you and make some disgusting human leather jacket." Ricky declared the first threat that came to his head but frowned at how psychotic it sounded, brandishing the cross with a commanding presence.

The sheer intensity of his words sent a chill through the air, causing the men to freeze, their eyes widening in shock as they instinctively took a step back.

"Is he-"

"I heard whispers, but to think the Black Knight's here." The mobsters murmured among themselves, fear etched across their faces, rendering them unable to defy him.

"W-We apologize, oh Holy Black Knight." One of the grunts stammered, bowing as he reached for his fallen comrade.

The others quickly scrambled away, eager to distance themselves from the scene.

"T-T-T-Thank you, Holy Black Knight! You have my deepest gratitude!" Enrico exclaimed, bowing deeply to Ricky, while Mr. Mancini, his expression a mixture of reverence and relief, removed his hat in acknowledgment.

"Thank you," Mr. Mancini said, his voice steady, as he looked at Ricky with newfound respect.

"Can we go inside and talk?" Ricky asked, his tone surprisingly respectful, which took Mr. Mancini off guard.

A smile crept across the old man's face, touched by the deference the Black Knight was showing him, a marked contrast to the horrid treatment he received on a daily basis.

"Yes, it would be my honor to house the Black Knight."

Mr. Mancini led Ricky to the back of the shop and through the wreckage of the confrontation from before as Enrico hurried off to fetch some tea, leaving the two alone for a moment.

Meanwhile, Chores squeezed into a small chair, his large frame awkwardly filling the space, making it creak under the weight.

He shifted uncomfortably, casting glances around the room as he tried to adjust to the tight fit, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Ricky and Mr. Mancini.

"Mr. Mancini-"

"Holy Black Knight, there's no need for formalities with my lowly figure. Just call me Rotolo," Rotolo said with a gracious tone, bowing his head slightly and Ricky nodded, a small smile creeping onto his lips as he began to undo his helmet.

"Then let me introduce myself. I'm Ricky Luciano, but everyone calls me Slick. You can call me whatever you like." Ricky said, flashing a toothy smile and taking off his black knight helmet, slicking his hair back.

Rotolo froze, the shock of Ricky's words leaving him momentarily breathless as the realization of who stood before him sank in, and he blinked, struggling to process the significance of this encounter.

"C-Come again?" Rotolo stammered, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

The name that fell from Ricky's lips was one he never expected to hear again, sending waves of shock coursing through him.

"I'm Ricky Luciano, my pops is Lucky Luciano or Cha-"

"Charles Luciano," Rotolo finally managed to say, his voice quivering with a mix of surprise and nostalgia as Ricky chuckled, glancing around the room.

"Well, he goes by Lucky now but I guess that's beside the point." Ricky leaned back in the chair, shaking his head at the state of the store.

Rotolo opened his mouth to speak, but the wave of emotion caught in his throat, making it hard to articulate his thoughts.

He paused, blinking back tears as he took a moment to collect himself, the memories flooding back, bittersweet and heavy though a smile hung on his face.

"He really survived, atta boy." Rotolo said, wiping his eyes as the emotion washed over him, a mix of relief and nostalgia swirling in his chest.

"Do you have anything to drink around here?" Ricky scratched his chin, his casual demeanor contrasting with the gravity of the moment.

Rotolo smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting as he felt a sense of camaraderie blooming.

He walked to his desk and retrieved an old bottle of wine, dust clinging to its surface, a relic from better days.

With a flourish, he presented it to Ricky, who took it with a grin and in one smooth motion, Ricky tore off the cork, the sound echoing in the small room, a herald of good times to come.

"So, how do you know my grandpops?" Ricky asked, taking a generous swing from the bottle, his eyes widening at the rich, complex flavors that danced on his palate.

"Woah," he exclaimed, pulling the bottle closer for a better look. The label read 1802, a rare vintage that spoke of history and sophistication.

"I'm thankful to call the man who saved my life, Antonio Luciano, my friend." Rotolo said, a warm smile breaking through his otherwise serious demeanor as he settled back down across from Ricky.

"Though I doubt Lucky has touched much on the subject since it was a very dark time." Rotolo said, his fists clenching involuntarily as he recalled the past and Ricky frowned at the weight of his words.

Lucky had never spoken much about his father, leaving Ricky with only fragments of information.

All he knew was that Lucky's father had been a gangster from Sicily, someone who had groomed him to take over the family mantle.

But then, in a twist of fate, Lucky had suddenly emigrated to America and joined the notorious Five Points Gang.

Ricky had pressed for details, but Lucky always deflected, his discomfort evident whenever the topic arose.

"I've asked my pops about him countless times, but he always goes cold on me." Ricky said with a sigh until a thought sparking in his mind.

"Now that you mention it, a lot of the families emigrated around the same time." Ricky recalled how Profaci had come with Maria when she was just three years old, a few years after Lucky had arrived in New York.

"It's-It's a long story, Slick." Rotolo replied, using Ricky's nickname out of respect, aware of the tradition that bound them.

"Well, I've got this bottle of wine to warm me up, so let me hear why my pops never talks about what happened," Ricky said, gesturing to the bottle as he spread his arms wide.

His eagerness was palpable, a mix of anticipation and determination to unravel the tangled threads of his family's past.

*Sigh*

"It all started after world war 1-"

*Rotolo FIRST PERSON POINT OF VIEW*

The war hit us all hard and afterwards, Italy was grappling with economic hardships, soaring inflation, rampant unemployment, and mass public outcry.

It was during this tumultuous time that the people cried out for change, and Mussolini emerged, his powerful rhetoric captivating even me.

He presented himself as the embodiment of the nation's destiny, using fascist symbols and rituals to galvanize support.

The man was a former socialist who had become disillusioned with that ideology, ultimately crafting a new political philosophy: fascism.

He emphasized nationalism, authoritarianism, and the restoration of Italy's past glory, longing that resonated deeply with the populace.

People found themselves compelled to follow him into the streets, marching on Rome and demanding that King Victor Emmanuel III appoint Mussolini as prime minister.

They believed he could restore order and combat the rising tide of socialist movements and strikes.

Fearing a potential civil war and under pressure from conservative elites, King Victor Emmanuel III appointed Mussolini as prime minister and this marked the beginning of Mussolini's consolidation of power.

The media and his supporters would later claim that he garnered the backing of industrialists, landowners, and conservative factions who were increasingly wary of socialist and communist movements.

But the real power was the one within the hands of the mafia.

Mussolini enticed families with lucrative deals, offering them free rein over their activities in exchange for support and enforcement of his ideals.

However, those who accepted these terms soon found themselves treated like street dogs by the government.

Many other families rejected the notion of being leashed, as most mafias had formed precisely to avoid such control, seeing it as a betrayal of their fundamental principles.

These disagreements led to a bitter civil war, dividing those who supported Mussolini's consolidation of power and those who refused to be controlled.

The conflict was bloody, with the streets littered with the bodies of young Italian men, who sought glory but instead became little more than cannon fodder in a struggle that exploited their aspirations.

Your grandfather, Antonio Luciano, stood firmly against becoming a henchman for Mussolini, as no boss wants to bow to another.

The factions were evenly matched; Mussolini couldn't directly interfere in the conflicts, his authority too tenuous to risk open confrontation.

It was then that the unholy monsters of the night emerged, striking a deal that would solidify Mussolini's regime and change the course of history.

They were led by a man known only as Verdelet, a seemingly ordinary man on the outside, but a feral beast within.

This man-no, this monster, commanded a horde of foul creatures that slaughtered the opposition, reveling in the thrill of their victims' screams.

I remember it as if it were yesterday, those creatures crawling into the streets, ripping the skin from their prey, dismembering arms and legs, all while their victims were still alive, grinning with delight.

Antonio witnessed the horror unfolding around him and unlike some other families, he recognized that there was no hope left in Sicily.

In a desperate bid to escape with his family, he sought a way out, but from my knowledge, none of them survived.

Once the last of the opposition fell to that monster, the Bruno, Greco, and Inzerillo families absorbed the remnants of the fallen families' businesses, becoming the behemoths that fatefully served as the hounds of the new fascist regime.

Over the next decade, Mussolini centralized power, exerting control over the media and instituting corporatist economic policies.

He embarked on imperialist ventures to bolster his regime's popularity and prestige, projecting an image of strength while suppressing dissent.

*Rotolo FIRST PERSON POINT OF VIEW END*

"Life has only been content for those who supported Mussolini, but the others have had to pay the price with endless torture." Rotolo then glanced at Ricky, who drained the last drop of wine.

"Who killed Antonio?" Ricky asked, his tone flat and focused, showing no interest in anything but the answer as Rotolo shook his head, the weight of the past evident in his expression.

"Slick-"

"Was it that Verdelet guy?" Ricky asked, his voice laced with urgency but Rotolo shook his head, a grim look crossing his face.

"No, the three families led a surprise attack and slaughtered the last of the Antiono's guys-"

"Good, makes my life easier." Ricky let out a sigh of relief, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders at the thought of not having to confront that godforsaken vampire.

Ricky then pulled out his storage key, walking into the back room for a moment and when he emerged, he had a couple of thousand dollars in hand.

"Here." Ricky tossed the money onto the table, watching as Rotolo's eyes widened in disbelief.

The shock was palpable on Rotolo's face as he struggled to comprehend the unexpected generosity.

"Take this; it's my signature, which you'll need to set up shop in Luciano territory. Use the money to smuggle into New York." Ricky then stood up, glancing at Chores, who nodded in understanding before walking outside.

"This is-"

"Listen, Rotolo, I know this shop is your life and all, but you're set up in enemy territory that doesn't value your abilities," Ricky lectured, his voice firm but respectful. Rotolo remained silent, absorbing Ricky's words.

"Chores is going to pack up all your stuff, so you can't say no." Ricky continued, shaking his head with a knowing sigh.

"And before you say anything I get it; old men like you can be stubborn, but this isn't just about pride. It's about survival." Ricky waved his hand, knowing Rotolo would say something about being an inconvenience for him however he didn't care.

"But why?" Rotolo asked, confusion etching his features as he knew he didn't owe anything to Ricky, yet the young man's conviction was undeniable.

Ricky smirked, a playful glint in his eyes as he recalled something Lucky had always told him.

"A Luciano never forgets their own." Ricky laughed, feeling like his pops as he watched Rotolo's eyes widen in surprise.

A distant memory flickered in Rotolo's mind, taking him back to his childhood.

He remembered a time when he was just a boy, gazing up at a young boy who seemed to radiate confidence and charm as the boy's laughter echoed through the air, filled with the carefree spirit of youth.

"A-Antonio, why did you do that? You'll get in trouble!" A child version of Rotolo exclaimed, glancing nervously at the beaten kids scattered on the ground.

Antonio laughed heartily, his spirit undeterred by the scuffles he had just been through as his lip was busted, his left eye swollen shut, and his clothes were torn, yet he stood tall, his chest puffed out in pride.

"Other than the reason that you're my pal? It's cause a Luciano never forgets their own."

*Sniff*

The aged man sniffed, his emotions welling up as he walked over to Ricky and pulled him into a tight embrace. Ricky was taken aback, momentarily frozen in surprise.

"You're a good kid, Lucky raised you well." Rotolo said, pride shining in his eyes as he patted Ricky's back.

Although he felt a rush of discomfort, Ricky bit the bullet and reciprocated, patting Rotolo's back awkwardly.

"One day, when you're done serving our lord, come find me, and I'll make you the finest Italian suit that'll make all the mobsters jealous," Rotolo said with a warm smile and Ricky couldn't help but grin at the thought, knowing he'd hold him to that promise.

"You better," Ricky laughed, his spirits lifted by the exchange as Rotolo chuckled heartily in response, the weight of the past momentarily lightened.

"Hey Rotolo, could you also keep it secret that I'm the Black Knight, you can tell my pop's but anyone else-"

"Slick, I'll take it to the grave." Rotolo declared, his voice firm despite his frail appearance.

He nodded at Ricky, who could see the resolve in the old man's eyes which was a testament to his strength and loyalty towards his grandfather.

The day slowly descended into night as Chores, Ricky, and Alexander waited in the broken shop, the fading light casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

"You got any threes?" Ricky asked, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Alexander's eyes widened in panic, and before he could muster a defense, he collapsed to his little gerbil knees, hands clutching the edge of the table for support.

Ricky chuckled as he plucked the card from Alexander's trembling fingers as the ring was snugly wrapped around the gerbil's waist.

Chores watched with a frown, his brow furrowed as he struggled with the feeling of guilt that tugged at him.

He didn't enjoy bullying Alexander like this, but he also knew that the gerbil would be furious if he let him win and relented.

"Do you have any two-no, sevens?" Alexander asked, only for Chores to close his eyes with a disheartened expression and shake his head.

"Go Fish."

It was disheartening, but on the next turn, Chores claimed his two, causing Alexander to collapse onto his little paws.

"H-How?" Alexander exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief as Ricky snatched his seven in the following round.

"Why have the sisters of fate woven this cruel reality before me?" Alexander lamented, unable to contain his despair.

*Crack*

*Crack*

*Crack*

The sound of Italian leather crunching on shards of glass echoed through the room, drawing the attention of the three as Ricky deftly removed the ring from Alexander's body.

"It seems the words of those gangsters were right." A calm voice observed from the shadows, causing Ricky to squint and focus.

At first glance, the man didn't strike an imposing figure as he wore a blue plaid suit, complemented by a crisp white undershirt and a neatly tied blue tie, his demeanor almost casual amidst the tension in the air.

His bald head and absence of eyebrows stood out, and while his fangs were unremarkable and hardly protruded, they hinted at something darker.

What unmistakably marked him as a vampire were his piercing red eyes, which glinted with a predatory intensity, betraying his demeanor with a supernatural nature beneath an otherwise mundane facade.

In that gaze, there wasn't a sliver of arrogance or disgust; instead, it held a deep curiosity, an intense desire to deduce and understand who these three beings truly were.

"Greetings, I am Verdelet."

Author's Note: The fic just hit 10k collections which is crazy and a little hard to register since I really didn't think a lot of people would resonate with my writing when I first started out but I'm glad you all enjoy it.