At the police intelligence headquarters, the air in the reserved compartment was thick with tension. The soundproofed walls muffled even breathing. A young IT analyst, visibly nervous, looked at the police chief commander, Rita.

  "Are you sure you want to go through with this, boss? Wiretapping text messages by keyword... it's insane. If they find out—"

  Before he could finish, the other officer present slapped his palm on the table.

  "Then make sure no one finds out. Simple as that."

  "Lector," Rita said firmly. "Enough."

  Lector lowered his eyes, visibly embarrassed. After a brief silence, he muttered:

  "Sorry, boss."

  The phone rang. Rita looked at the screen, furrowed her brow slightly, and left the room without a word. She answered outside, standing straight.

  "Yes, prince"

  Raymond's voice was clear, precise, and low, the tone of someone used to giving orders.

  "I want someone I can trust at the Royal Café tonight. We can't afford any slip-ups."

  Rita remained still for a moment, as if calculating the whole night in silence.

  "I'll go personally. The taps are already running, as ordered."

  There was a pause.

  "Cancel the taps. The other kings are already moving. We’ll focus on a surveillance task force."

  "Yes, sir," Rita replied without hesitation.

  Raymond ended the call quickly. Rita returned to the room.

  "Cancel everything. Now."

  Lector frowned. The analyst looked confused.

  "But—"

  "Orders from above," she said simply, gesturing for Lector to move. "Come on, we’ve got work to do."

  Leaving intelligence headquarters, Rita lit a cigarette as she walked to the car. Lector, beside her, asked:

  "Can I know the reason for the change?"

  Rita took a slow drag before replying:

  "No need for a wildcard to know about it."

  —

  It was around 12:30 p.m. when a black Rolls-Royce, polished like a mirror, cruised down one of the few tree-lined avenues in Crownia. In the back seat, a stylishly dressed woman observed the city through tinted windows. She exuded a cold, absolute charm. Her silver-brown hair was tied in a low bun and, beneath dark sunglasses, her blue eyes shone with restrained intensity. Her dress was dark, fitted, classic-cut with a discreet slit—subtly provocative.

  The driver, a handsome and silent man in a tailored suit, drove with precision. His features were refined, as if carved from marble, dark calm eyes, and a restrained air that hinted more than it revealed. As they entered the underground garage of a building, a valet rushed to open the door. He extended a hand to the woman, who stepped out gracefully. Meanwhile, the driver checked something on his phone.

  "Shall I wait for you in the car, miss?" he asked, eyes still on the screen.

  "Come with me," she said without even looking at him.

  In the elevator, she glanced briefly at the security camera, then at him. Their eyes met for an instant—silent, yet loaded with meaning. Upon reaching the top floor, a waiter awaited them at the entrance of a French restaurant.

  "Miss Maria," the waiter said with a courteous gesture. "Your table is ready."

  She nodded. They sat. Maria crossed her legs, observed the setting lightly, then addressed the waiter:

  "A tartare starter for both of us. And... wine suggestions?"

  The waiter smiled discreetly.

  "We have a very light and elegant Chilean Pinot Noir, ideal for the dish. Or, if you prefer something fuller-bodied, a French Syrah."

  Maria tilted her head slightly, pondering.

  "The Chilean. Light, as it should be," she said, handing back the menu.

  When they were alone, she removed her sunglasses, rested her elbows on the table, and placed her head in her hands, staring at the man across from her.

  "So, Marcel, have they spilled yet?"

  Marcel leaned back slightly in his chair, voice calm:

  "Earlier today, the Jack of Clubs and the King of Spades contacted each other by phone. Our little mouse found a place."

  Maria’s face lit up, almost like a child’s.

  "Great. Let the fun begin."

  —

  Gaspar checked the time: exactly 4:00 p.m. Precise as always. He strolled through the gardens of the resort he owned on Crownia's southern coast, returning greetings with a polite smile to staff who greeted him with deference.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  At the service entrance, he was met by a tall, broad-shouldered man with a serious expression. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit.

  "Boss," the man said.

  "Dante," Gaspar replied with equal courtesy.

  Dante opened the side door leading to the hotel's back area. In the distance, some maids were discreetly smoking but threw their cigarettes away upon spotting him. Gaspar raised a hand with a calm gesture and smiled with the seasoned politeness of a host.

  "No need to trouble yourselves, ladies. Enjoy your break."

  The maids exchanged glances and thanked him, somewhat embarrassed, before discreetly walking away.

  At the service elevator, Dante calmly pressed the button without saying a word. When the door opened, both entered. The ride was silent. Only the soft hum of the machine filled the space between them, standing side by side with the ease of shared routines.

  At the rooftop, the corridor was narrow and dimly lit, with a metallic floor and a smell of sea salt. Antennas, piping, and exhaust systems cluttered the rooftop, creating an industrial maze above the resort’s paradise. In a distant corner stood a small reinforced metal room with an electronic lock and mirrored windows.

  Dante entered the code and opened the door. Inside, another man awaited them. He stood, sleeves rolled up, fists stained with blood.

  "Sérvulo," Gaspar said as he entered unhurriedly.

  "Boss," the man replied with a nod and a sinister smile.

  At the center of the room, a third man was tied to a chair, unconscious.

  "How’s the search going?" Gaspar asked.

  Sérvulo didn’t answer. He simply grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the prisoner. The man groaned awake and began to squirm, shoulders trembling under the restraints.

  Gaspar approached slowly, hands behind his back, his stride firm and controlled, as if each step were part of a ritual. His gaze never left the prisoner’s face.

  "You’re quite the clumsy driver to let something so important slip away."

  The man began to cry, trembling.

  "I... I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what happened. When we passed through the tunnel, a woman appeared in the backseat out of nowhere. I heard metal, smelled blood. She told me to keep driving. I obeyed. When we exited, I looked in the mirror... they were both dead. And the gift was gone. I swear. I saw nothing. I did nothing."

  Gaspar kept his calm gaze on him.

  "Describe the woman."

  "I didn’t see her clearly. But I think she had short black hair... that's it, I swear."

  Gaspar nodded slightly, stepped closer, and leaned in as if to comfort him. He gently stroked the man’s hair, a nearly affectionate gesture, like calming a scared child.

  "Thank you for the information."

  For a brief second, silence weighed in the room. Gaspar simply smiled. With a smooth, implacable gesture, he snapped the man’s neck. Without altering his breath.

  "That thief killed my Seven... and stole my daughter’s gift."

  He turned to Sérvulo:

  "Talk to the Spades faction. I want the tunnel’s camera footage. Find our thief."

  Sérvulo nodded with the ease of someone who had seen this before. Dante remained still, as if this wasn’t his first time either.

  "And what about the new King of Clubs?"

  Gaspar walked to the window, pausing before the mirrored glass reflecting the golden light of sunset. He crossed his arms and took a deep breath, watching the waves crash along the shore, as if weighing his next moves.

  "Raymond will try to keep everyone away. And Maria... will chase it down tooth and nail. But for now, finding our thief is more important. Everything else can wait."

  Finally, he turned to Dante, eyes no longer contemplative but filled with purpose:

  "Buy another necklace for my daughter."

  Dante was already reaching for his phone as he nodded in silence.

  —

  It was past 9:00 p.m. when Sebastian emerged from the subway station, wearing a light dress shirt and dark linen pants. The night air was humid, and the city lights shimmered in neon tones reflected in windows, cars, and puddles along the sidewalks. He walked with steady, measured steps, alert to his surroundings but unhurried. Amid the rushing crowd, a familiar silhouette in a hood passed him going the opposite direction. It was Mirio. The hood concealed part of his face, but Sebastian recognized the unmistakable walk. They exchanged no words, passing like shadows in opposite directions.

  In front of the café, a blonde woman with lightly tanned skin waited with a firm posture. It was Rita. Sebastian approached and greeted her with a brief smile and a polite touch on the shoulder.

  "Sorry I’m late," Sebastian said, adjusting his sleeves discreetly before extending his hand.

  Rita accepted the handshake with a light, firm smile.

  "I just arrived," she said, adjusting her jacket collar with a calm gesture. Her eyes scanned him top to bottom, assessing more than just punctuality.

  They entered together. The cozy atmosphere of the Royal Café was filled with soft music, the scent of ground beans, and muffled conversation. A server quickly guided them to a table.

  Soon, a young waitress approached:

  "Good evening. My name is Camila. What would you like?"

  "A crepe, please," said Rita.

  "An espresso," said Sebastian.

  Rita raised an eyebrow.

  "Coffee at this hour?" she asked, with a slight smile.

  "Habit," Sebastian replied, leaning back in his chair, voice low and unhurried. "Too old to change now."

  The tone between them was direct.

  "The prince’s goal is clear: keep the new king’s identity away from the other factions at all costs," Rita said, lowering her voice and leaning slightly forward. "And he’d like your help with that."

  "Why wait for the faction to fall apart?" Sebastian asked, leaning in slightly. He already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from her.

  Rita noticed the provocation and answered calmly:

  "He wants the city stable. Wildcards already cause enough trouble. We don’t need a war between decks."

  Sebastian pondered for a moment.

  "Maybe someone already knows. What kind of guarantee is Raymond willing to offer?"

  "We know money won’t buy you."

  He nodded, eyes still on the empty cup before him.

  Camila returned with the orders on an elegant tray, smiling kindly. She placed the dishes carefully and apologized for the delay with a polite nod. They thanked her, pausing their conversation. Rita ate slowly. Sebastian sipped his espresso in small sips, as if absorbing more than just caffeine.

  When they finished:

  "The prince will guarantee the new King of Clubs’ safety," Rita said. "And also ensure the safety of those who wish to step out from the game."

  "Thank you," Sebastian replied, signaling for the check.

  "Leave it to me," said Rita, pulling out her wallet. "It’s the least I can do."

  On the way out, a young blonde with round glasses passed them at the entrance.

  Already on the sidewalk:

  "How do you plan to share the identity?" Rita asked.

  Sebastian pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket.

  "Do you mind"

  "Go ahead."

  He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted with a light gesture. They lit them together and stayed silent for a few seconds.

  Camila, the waitress who’d served them, exited the café now in casual clothes, with the blonde girl by her side. The two chatted softly and laughed naturally. They passed the two smokers, laughing gently, heading toward the gastronomic alley.

  Sebastian's eyes followed the blonde girl without turning his head. His fingers drummed lightly on the cigarette pack. When the two girls turned the corner, he looked forward again.

  Rita took a long drag.

  "Thanks for the info," she said, putting out her still-lit cigarette and slipping it into a small bag she took from her purse. "Good night, Sebastian."

  "Good night."

  She walked away. Sebastian remained there a little longer, smoking.

  Inside the café, a young couple giggled, exchanging glances and playful nudges under the table. The boy offered a sip of milkshake to the girl, who pretended to refuse before accepting with a wide smile. She dabbed whipped cream from his glass onto her nose, drawing a stifled laugh from them both. Then, with a shoulder touch and a quick cheek kiss, she stood and went to the bathroom.

  There, she touched up her makeup with automatic movements, already used to the illuminated mirror. She applied gloss, fixed her hair to one side as if testing angles. She pouted at the mirror, then smiled with half-closed eyes and took a selfie with her phone. After reviewing the photo carefully, she typed a message with agile fingers and a determined expression. The dry sound of sending echoed in the bathroom's silence like a silenced gunshot.

  To: my queen

  Message: "Found it :D"

  Sérvulo.