9

Smoke still curled lazily from the shattered remains of the conference room as Malakhov adjusted his coat like the chaos behind him was no more than an inconvenient breeze.

Citrine floated backward in a slow twirl, arms wide like he was center stage in a tragic opera. "Was it something I said? Or maybe the lollipop really was too on-the-nose?"

Malakhov holstered his pistol. "You talk too much."

"And you brood too loud," Citrine snapped back. "Honestly, Tsar, if we were a cocktail, we'd be ninety percent tension and ten percent gunpowder."

"Get in the car."

Citrine flounced into the sleek black vehicle like it was a runway, wings shedding sparkles onto the leather interior. "Shotgun, obviously."

Malakhov slid in beside him, silent as always, but Citrine could feel the chill roll off his frame like frost from a crypt. Citrine peeked out the window, humming an off-key ballad about bullets and bubblegum.

As they drove through the twisting streets of the city's underbelly, the skyline turned jagged, neon signs flickering like eyelids struggling to stay awake.

"Where to, big bad mafia daddy?"

Malakhov's glare was molten steel. "Meeting. Rivals. Don't speak."

"I'll whisper then," Citrine grinned. "But I sparkle loudly."

---

The car slid to a stop in front of a decrepit warehouse that smelled of rust, betrayal, and expired cologne. Inside, a collection of mafia heads and mercenaries were already waiting—cigars smoldering, knives barely concealed, eyes like cornered wolves.

Citrine stepped in behind Malakhov, wings slightly folded, but still pulsing faintly. The room noticed him.

A man in a pinstriped suit leaned over to another and hissed, "Is that a fairy?"

"No idea. Maybe a really flamboyant assassin?"

"Did he just wink at me?"

Citrine did, in fact, wink at them both.

The meeting didn't begin so much as unravel—raised voices, accusations, veiled threats about turf wars and missing shipments.

Citrine floated lazily above the table, inspecting a fruit bowl in the center and dramatically picking up a bruised apple.

"Symbolism," he muttered. "Rot at the core."

A tattooed thug snarled, "Why is that thing here?"

"That thing," Citrine said sweetly, "has better fashion sense than your entire bloodline...like seriously black? Ever seen navy blue? And change your cologne it smells cheap and disgusting."

"You want me to shoot him?" the thug barked at Malakhov.

Malakhov's voice dropped like a guillotine. "Try."

Tension shattered. Guns were drawn. The room exploded into shouting.

Citrine, completely unbothered, snapped his fingers. One of the thug's guns sneezed confetti. Another man's tie turned into a live snake and slithered down his shirt.

Pandemonium.

Malakhov didn't move. He lit a cigarette.

In the chaos, Citrine twirled midair and declared, "This meeting is adjourned, and your dignity has left the building. Good day, gentlemen!"

But before they could exit, the warehouse doors creaked open.

A man stood silhouetted by the streetlight. Old scars. Missing fingers. Eyes like a forgotten god.

Malakhov froze.

Citrine tilted his head. "Friend of yours?"

The man stepped forward, gaze locked on the mafia king. "You brought a fairy into the underworld, Malakhov. Bold. Stupid. Or maybe you've gone soft."

Citrine lowered, eyes narrowed. "Soft? Honey, he bathes in blood."

The man pulled something from his coat.

Malakhov's hand twitched toward his gun.

Citrine's wings pulsed once. The tension surged.

Then—

Blackout.