The roulette gun clicked shut in Veronica's hands with a deep, final thrum—the kind of sound that didn't just end a process, but sealed a promise. Smoke still curled from the chamber as she set it on the velvet-lined case and snapped it closed. Her masterpiece. Personalized. Dangerous. Alive.
She peeled off her forge gloves, wiped her brow, and tapped a sigil on the wall. A whisper of heat and magic surged through the floor, cooling the room instantly. Then she snapped her fingers—one clean, sharp flick—and a small shimmer of cleansing magic rolled over her body like a silk curtain, dust and soot vanishing in its wake. Her hair lifted, smoothed, and her coat transformed into a plush infernal fur—charcoal-black with molten-gold lining, heavy with swagger and status. The kind of coat only a mafia heiress of the Greed Ring could wear without irony. Ready for the world outside.
"Goodbye, Foxxy," Veronica added with a smirk, knowing full well Cox hated the nickname—and secretly loved it.
Veronica stepped into the elevator and descended, her coat catching little bursts of glowing soot still clinging to the hem. Outside, a sleek black hover-car waited—glass glinting with enchanted tint and its driver already scanning the perimeter.
She slipped inside the back seat, the leather hissing under her weight. From the folds of her coat, she pulled a crystal bottle, chilled to the touch—lava-infused, glowing faintly at the bottom. With a flick of her wrist, she poured its molten core into a waiting champagne glass, the liquid swirling in shades of gold and ember-red. It fizzed, hissed, and gave off the faint scent of cinnamon smoke and volcanic citrus. Veronica took a slow sip, savoring the heat that curled down her throat like a velvet burn.
Then she tapped the dash.
"Connect," she said, smiling. "Papa."
A hum. Then a shimmer.
The dashboard flared blue, then deep red, resolving into the gaunt but glowing face of her father—a man who looked like a rich homeless prophet draped in enchanted patchwork robes stitched from luxury brands and hell-market trash. His beard was trimmed but wild, eyes sharp under cracked designer sunglasses, and he lounged on a throne of crumbling velvet armchairs.
Behind him, the office was its usual mess of grandeur and madness: obsidian shelves bowing under the weight of rare coinage, half-melted infernal cigars still smoking in levitating ashtrays, and—new addition—Carl's severed head resting unceremoniously on the desk, mouth agape in what looked like frozen regret. A nail pinned one of his hands beside it, fingers splayed like a bad exhibit in a demon museum. Except Carl wasn't dead. One eye blinked. Then the other. His lips twitched faintly, trying not to draw attention. Classic Headless Horseman clan nonsense—always dramatic, never fully decapitated.
"Aluminum," he greeted smoothly, voice like oiled silk. "My brightest spark. How was your day, darling? Have you eaten? We're having dinner tonight—just you, me, and a few very expensive regrets."
In the Greed Ring, demons didn't name metals for strength. They valued usefulness, adaptability—the shine of coin that moved, traded, and transformed. Veronica, dubbed "Aluminum," wasn't the strongest. But she was versatile. Flexible. Sharp in all the ways that counted.
She cocked a brow, sighing as she reached for her drink again. "Papa, if this is another matchmaking attempt, they better be respectful as hell." She plucked a glowing ruby the size of a thumbprint from a carved crystal case beside her seat—an ice ruby, infused with brimstone fire. With a flick of her fingers, she dropped it into the molten drink, watching it sizzle violently and swirl the gold-amber liquid into a hotter shade.
She took a deep, slow sip—steam curling from her lips—and exhaled like she'd just swallowed a dragon's breath. "Last time, you tried to pair me with an angel, and he nearly gave away my entire fortune to a bunch of fake homeless. Do you remember? They almost crashed the stock market!"
Her father burst into laughter, wiping a tear from his eye as he reached offscreen. "Well, at least he had ambition. Carl, explain what's going to happen tonight."
From the corner of the screen, Carl's severed head blinked slowly, nailed hand twitching upright with a weak little wave. "Uh... hi. So, yeah. The gala's still happening. But it's also a trap. For a rival syndicate. Sort of."
Veronica's fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the case. She tilted her head slightly and put on a fake sad smile.
"I don't like surprises."
"Then make sure you're the one delivering them," her father said, still grinning.
But just as the feed flickered like it was about to end, her father added offhandedly, "Oh—and one more thing. I even heard your little crush will be attending."
The grin on Veronica's face froze.
She blinked rapidly, straightening up with surprise. "Wait—what?"
And then—click—she sharply turned off the feed herself, jaw tight, heart giving one unexpected skip. How the hell did he know about that? She hadn't told a soul—not even Cox.
The screen dimmed.
Veronica sat back, staring at her reflection in the mirrored window. A slow smile tugged at her lips, tinged with mischief and disbelief. Truth was—she did like surprises. The good kind. The strategic kind. And a gala full of top-shelf demons, highborn fey, gilded vampires, and other apex species from across the realms—backroom deals and veiled threats included? That counted.
Still, she couldn't help but mutter, "Papa, we've got enough power, land, and gold to bathe in platinum. Why are you trying to marry me off again?"
From the console speaker, Carl's voice crackled faintly—she must've left the mic on and not fully ended the call. "You don't have to get married. It's just a cover. A nice excuse to make deals under a spotlight. Old trick, really."
Veronica rolled her eyes as she took another fiery sip from her drink.