Beretta had never met a funnier person in her whole life.

She sat on a big, beige couch in the parlor watching Roulette practice for her routine with a gleeful smile on her face. And every joke–every word, practically–threatened to split that smile apart to emit a gale of tinkling laughter. She didn’t understand every joke. Then again, she didn’t need to; Roulette’s goofy expressions and exaggerated poses were more than enough to entertain her. If this is just practice, Beretta thought to herself, The real show must be very, very good. Maybe it will even get Diallo laughing!

That seemed unlikely to her; laughable, even, in and of itself. Beretta couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him smile warmly, much less partake in something as normal and human as laughter. To her, Diallo was more like a force of nature… Something constant that always acted the same. Like rain. Or the ground.

Or ice.

“This one was a big hit when I did it for your uncle Lazar,” Roulette proudly declared, reaching down to pull off her boot. Beretta was so intrigued by the act that she failed to notice her father coming in; by the time she realized he’d already swept her up into a frantic twirl. She tittered and yelped as they spun, until the big man finally slowed and deposited her on his broad shoulder. Beretta settled there comfortably, wrapping one arm around the back of her father’s thick neck while his own massive hand supported her at the waist.

Roulette had paused mid-bit, still in the process of pulling the boot from her stockinged foot. “Ah! You must be Mar–erm, Mister Moukahla! Pleased to meet you, sir!”

He laughed affably at that. “Be easy. Marka is fine,” he assured her. “Diallo told me you would be putting on a show for us tonight. Is that right?”

“It is!” Beretta bounced in place on his shoulder, beyond eager to have a part in sharing the news. “She is SO funny, father! You will love it! Can she stay with us? She can have the room next to mine!”

“Yes, I know–I know! I heard you laughing from all the way upstairs,” he chuckled, gazing up at her fondly. “I do not know how long she can stay, Berry, or if she will at all. Diallo and I will have to discuss it.” Suddenly pensive, he reached up to scratch at his shaved head. “This has never happened before. Diallo never hires entertainers, and he has no love for comedy. I can only wonder what he is thinking, bringing her here like this.”

“Well, I want her to stay,” Beretta declared, fighting the urge to pout. “Her name is Roulette–she is from Wesson, you know!”

“Yes, Berry, I know.” He looked to Roulette, smiling apologetically. “She is very taken with you, I see. I hope she has not been causing any problems?”

“Oh, not at all! She’s an absolute angel! She’s been helpin' me practice, in fact.” Roulette beamed and winked at her, clasping her hands–and her boot–behind her back.

“That is good to hear. In that case, would you mind if I sat in for a preview?”

“Yay! Yay!” Beretta cheered, hugging her father’s head as he lowered himself to the sofa. But just then–as he almost always did–Diallo sidled into the room to spoil her fun.

“I am very sorry to interrupt, but the guests are on their way,” he said. “I must go over some ground rules with Miss Roulette before the show. Perhaps you two could go get ready in the meantime?”

“No! No!” she whined. But what did Father say?

“Of course.” She had no idea why he always went along with whatever Diallo said when he was the real boss, but she knew from experience that raising a fuss would only get her in trouble. Beretta allowed herself to be carried out of the room, but little further; once they were out of earshot, she patted at her father’s upper back and demanded to be let down.

“I will go up in a minute, father. I want a snack!”

“Okay,” he agreed, and obligingly lowered her to the floor. “Do not be too long, though. You would not want to miss the amazing Roulette and her many funny jokes, would you?” With that, he flashed her a smile from beneath his bristly mustache and carried on toward the stairs. Once he’d moved out of view–leaving Beretta alone in the main hall–she scuttled back toward the parlor and pressed herself to the wall beside the door frame, intent on hearing whatever it was Diallo was so determined to discuss with her new friend.

“–think I had brought you here for your infantile humor alone?” he was saying. Beretta’s eyes lit up; that didn’t sound like “ground rules” to her.

“I’m not nearly blinkered enough to believe that,” Roulette replied. “You smooth-talkin’ mafia types are always all about angles. So let’s have it, already–why am I here?”

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“To answer my questions, of course.”

Beretta frowned. What could Diallo possibly want with a kind, easygoing girl like Roulette? It didn’t make any sense.

“And just why would I do that? Your boss has met me, now–he knows how well his daughter and I get along. He’d surely protect me if you tried anythin’.”

“You know nothing,” Diallo snarled. “The man is a puppet. He does as I say. If I told Marka that you were a threat, he would kill you himself.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Silence. A long one. That usually meant her uncle was struggling to control his temper.

Sure enough, Beretta heard him exhale loudly through his nose before continuing. “Fortunately, your belief is not necessary. I still have your weapon; it is locked away safely upstairs. If you answer me to my satisfaction, I may be persuaded to return it to you.”

“I want a guarantee. You’ll give Lady Luck back right after the show. If not, maybe I’ll go ahead and test just how much control you really have over your… Brother?

“Cousin.”

“Whatever. We got a deal?”

Diallo sighed audibly. “Yes. Fine.”

Beretta nearly toppled over. Roulette really was amazing! Never before had she heard Diallo back down in a disagreement; he always got his way. She was just like the heroine of her favorite radio drama, Catastrophe Joan!

“Good,” Roulette said. “Then ask away.”

“Very well. What is your business in Port Pistola?”

“Thought I could use a little sun. Next question.”

“You are lying,” Diallo huffed. “If you are going to lie, I will not honor this deal of yours.”

The girl chuckled as if she were enjoying herself. “Truth is I was running from some trouble. Life ain’t easy for a girl like me anywhere in Wesson, especially Trigger City. Had to get out quick. I chartered the first outbound ship I could find and ended up here.”

“I see. And you just happened to bump into Mr. Sarada and win his trust, hmm?”

Roulette clucked her tongue. “Damn. You’re not as clueless as I thought.”

“And you are not as clever as you imagine. The truth this time, please.”

“It IS the truth,” she insisted. “I wandered into the first bar I came across, like I usually did back home. He was there. We bonded over a drink or two. I got the idea he had some trouble in his past, like I do. We decided to work together. The rest is history.”

“And the man who pursued you? The man you killed in a dockworker’s backyard yesterday afternoon?”

“Total surprise to me. He came after Morgan for some reason. I did what I needed to–to protect our new business relationship, you understand.”

“...That is a lot of effort to go to on a stranger’s behalf,” he mused, his tone of voice skeptical.

“Like I said, we bonded. I warm up to people quick… People I like, that is.”

“Alright,” Diallo began, “I do not know that I believe your story. But, in the end, it does not matter. This last question is the only one of consequence.” He paused–either to steady his nerves or for dramatic effect–before continuing:

“Where is Mr. Sarada now?”

“Dunno,” she answered.

“I have warned you already about lying to me…”

“I’m not lying,” she hissed. “Your boys at the casino knocked him out and carted him off somewhere. Why don’t you ask them?”

“Impossible. Lazar was given a description of both you and your partner.”

That claim earned him a snicker of derision. “Lazar must be worse at all this than you are, then. Morgan was in disguise. Not a good one, either–he must’ve assumed he was just some dupe I’d suckered into going along with my plans.”

The room went deathly silent again. Eventually, though, Beretta heard her uncle speak up in a clipped voice.

“I will need to go and confirm what you have just told me. And if I find that you are lying, you will not be the only one who suffers for it. Best of luck with your show. What is it you Wessoners always say…? Oh yes–break a leg.”

Beretta had sensed that the conversation was coming to a close about halfway through his parting words. She scurried away, ducking behind the grand staircase just as he emerged from the parlor, then meandered off toward the dining room to think. After all that excitement she felt as though she just might need a snack after all.

The room was dark when she arrived, but–as usual–a bowl of fresh fruit awaited her on the side table beneath the far window. As she crossed the room she noticed a couple of father’s deliverymen dropping off another shipment of antiquities in the corner that was always cluttered with crates. They nodded to her respectfully and waved before heading down the back hall and out of sight. She took up a mango from the bowl and chewed on it thoughtfully, regarding the new boxes they’d left. Inside, there would be treasures from the sunken continent… Perhaps it would be worth taking a peek?

Beretta’s heart nearly pounded right out of her chest when the lid of the box nearest her–the one she’d been looking at directly–lifted ever so slightly.