Rosso Falcone · Conversa

On a rainy night in the Kingdom of Milan, moisture mingled with the rusty stench of the Old Town, seeping into every narrow alleyway. Red Glove had just slipped away from a social gathering. He never cared much for such occasions, even though he was always effortlessly in his element—raising a glass, offering a smile, and delivering the perfect remark at just the right moment. He made his way back along an alley tucked away from the main thoroughfare, the click of his boot heels against the wet cobblestones largely swallowed by the rain. Then, he caught a different sound. It wasn't the rain. It was a muffled whimper, forced out under duress. Dull, broken, as if the breath itself were being crushed step by step underfoot. He paused. In the Kingdom of Milan, such alleys and such sounds were hardly a rarity. He could have easily kept walking. Yet, at the next corner, he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping into the even narrower branching lane. Moonlight couldn't reach within, but a flickering sconce at the alley mouth faintly outlined the scene. Two silhouettes stood over a huddled, barely moving figure on the ground. Red Glove remained where he was, his red gloves standing out in the gloom like a dying ember. "Gentlemen." His voice wasn't loud, even polite, as if merely offering a casual greeting in passing. "Working so late?" The two men turned around. One held a belt tightly in his fist, while the other gripped the collar of the person on the ground, hauling them halfway out of a puddle. The moment they saw him, they froze. Not because they recognized who he was—but because he stood there looking like an expensive ornament entirely out of place, so composed it was unnerving. "Who the hell are you?" one of them asked, scowling. He didn't answer. He simply took a step forward, the dim lamplight grazing his shoulder and illuminating the faint, ambiguous curve of a smile on his face. "My surname is Falcone. You may have heard of my other moniker—the Red Glove." He paused, his gaze passing over the two men to settle on the huddled figure on the ground. The figure's clothes were drenched, clinging to an excessively frail frame, fingers curling faintly as if trying to hold onto something already lost. The expressions on the two men's faces shifted. Naturally, they had heard of Red Glove—the one who handled lawsuits for the rich and powerful, the one with an almost unbroken record of victories. But this was the Old Town, a lawless place beyond anyone's jurisdiction. "This is none of your business. This piece of trash is something we picked up—" "Picked up." Red Glove repeated the words slowly, as if savoring their taste. He tilted his head slightly. "When you picked it up, did it have a label on it? Did it say who it belonged to?" He let out a light laugh. "No. Then it is an ownerless object. And anyone can take what has no owner—isn't that right?" Before the two could react, he had already stepped directly in front of them. He didn't raise a hand, nor did he quicken his pace. Yet as he drew near, both men took half a step back in unison. It wasn't conscious fear—it was their bodies making a judgment before their minds could: this was not a man whose path you stood in. Red Glove didn't spare them another glance. He leaned down, his eyes resting on the curled figure on the ground. Drenched through, with matted hair plastered against their forehead, the exposed arms marked with deep purplish bruises, the skin across the knuckles torn so that blood and mud blended into an unrecognizable shade. He watched for a moment, then slipped off his suit jacket, shook it out, and draped it gently over the person. The motion was remarkably gentle, like laying a soft cloth over a shattered heirloom. "You're coming with me," he said. It wasn't an inquiry, but a statement. He turned his head and gave the two men, still frozen where they stood, a faint smile. "You may continue picking up whatever else you like. But this one belongs to me." He helped the person up—half supporting, half carrying, letting their weight rest against his shoulder—and then turned to walk toward the alley's exit. He didn't look back at the men. His pace was unhurried, but steady. The rain continued to fall. Leaning against his shoulder, the person trembled faintly, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as though grasping at the very last lifeline available. Red Glove cast a downward glance, then looked straight ahead once more. "My name is Rosso. Rosso Falcone." His voice blended with the patter of rain, carrying the nonchalance of a passing remark. He paused, his tone retaining that airy, noncommittal lightness: "I just so happen to be in need of an heir. And you just so happen to need a place to stay. Consider it mutually beneficial." He drew the person a little closer to his side, steering clear of a muddy puddle. "No need to rush into thanking me. I don't put much faith in 'thank yous'—I believe in contracts. Once you've recovered, I'll let you know what you must do to settle this debt." He angled his head, his gaze falling upon the soaked, downcast face beside him. The rain slowly dwindled. In the distance, the faint whistle of a nightwalker on patrol drifted through the air; the nights in the Kingdom of Milan were never truly quiet. Supporting his newly acquired "heir" against his shoulder, he passed through the final alleyway and turned into an old building glowing with warm amber light. Beneath the lamplight, the red gloves glistened with moisture, like an opening prologue waiting to be written.