Queen's Pawn Game

I. The Queen

Everyone in Spiarte knew the Micholini family was not to be trusted.

Velia Micholini knew this most of all.

She clutched a knife in her teeth as she scrambled soundlessly over the rooftops in the late-night drizzle. The black wood was slick under her hands and by now she probably had enough splinters to craft a whole new tree. Skidding to a stop, Velia looked down, the sight of the wet cobblestones glittering from casino lights making her head spin. Almost there.

Not close enough.

Everyone knew Velia Micholini was the best at what she did, but no one wanted to believe it. Because there was no way a seventeen-year-old girl was the best spy-for-hire in the history of Spiarte and the Micholinis. There was no way she was better than her much-beloved older brother. But it didn’t matter, being underestimated just made her a better spy. And being a better spy meant people who wanted information would pay you much more for it.

Everyone knew that Spiarte was built on money: the more you had, the easier you paid off the gangs, and the easier it was to not be murdered horribly. Spiarte was a game of risk and reward and you had to pay to play. But tonight she wasn’t so sure she was willing to take the risk.

But time was up; it was time to collect. Or as Grandfather would say, Check. Mate.

She never could beat him at chess.

But now, oh, he was the king in check, and she was the queen to save him. Whether she would be sacrificed or not, she didn’t know.

Her grandfather was all she cared about and she was going to get him back and the Babolos would fear her.

They would all fear her.

You couldn’t trust Velia Micholini.

Loyal to no one, just as she’d been taught. Black market dealer of secrets, spy to the highest bidder. And this time? That bidder was her heart. g

No one knew who Raphael Babolo was, but that was about to change. Soon they would know, and this was just the start of his scheme. Unfortunately, Raphael had one glaring problem in his master plan. The Micholini family was not an ordinary family. No one would care if he had kidnapped the infamous Vincent Micholini, the grandfather to the notorious twins, Victor and Velia. The Micholinis were heartless, loyal to no one, not even their families. Traitors for the highest bidders.

He sighed and looked over at the old man tied to an ornate leather chair. Quite a generous prison. Raphael thought himself a generous person.

But right now he thought himself a very stupid person. He should have gone for Victor, the only member of the Micholinis who seemed to have the favor of his relatives. But the damage was done and he needed to move, fast. The family was full of mercenary spies, for God’s sake. Stupid, so, so, stupid. Curse his pride. Curse his brother. Curse revenge.

Another long sigh. He dragged his hand down his face. What in all of Taliansko had he gotten himself into? Work smarter, not harder, he told himself. Rise, and then claim glory. Not the other way around. Revenge has no place in business. They don’t even remember your brother.

He grabbed a pair of rusty manacles from his office shelf and spared a glance around the room he might never see again. The Micholinis were notorious for leaving destruction in their wake, erasing all the clues they had gathered so competition couldn’t find it. He was the only one left to care about the family house anyways. He would be the only one to miss it.

“They won’t come for me, you know. I’m only a Bishop,” Vincent spoke suddenly. Raphael stiffened, his back still turned.

“For some reason, I doubt that.” He turned around. “Show me your arm. Last I checked you were at least a Rook.”

He roughly yanked up the other man’s sleeve. He was right, the tattoo painted a crisp silhouette of a Rook.

The dark parts of the city of Spiarte were built on chess. Well, the refined dark parts, that is. Casinos played trivial card games and things with flashing lights. No accounting for taste.

But the criminals, conmen, and spies with finesse saw chess as their ultimatum. A duel of wits and strategy and, when taken on the life-sized level, a duel of arms.

They were the Players, and they all had Ranks that would move up and down depending on the success of their latest schemes. Raphael was only a Knight, but that would change. Velia was already a Queen, and he never wanted to know the horrible things she did to get such a rank at the ripe age of seventeen.

Cool air snapped Raphael out of his thoughts as they exited onto the street. Transit was delicate, but Vincent needed to be somewhere safer and not so out in the open. The Knight desperately required luck on his side this foggy night.

The clacking of their heels echoed ominously through the cobblestone alley when they were suddenly joined by a third shadow. Well, luck had certainly betrayed him.

Vincent spat out his gag and cried out for dear life.

Just when he thought the night wouldn’t get any worse, he was about to be beaten by a Pawn. Good God.

III. The Pawn

Victor Micholini wanted two things out of his life: gold and glory, and, due to his occupation, he was quite liable to get them. The future looked bright. Now, if only he were any good at this spy-for-hire thing. No matter, he could fake it.

Or so he thought. But here he was, standing in front of his grandfather and Raphael Babolo, fairly certain this was not going to end in his favor. He really questioned his life choices sometimes. Like why on earth he cared if his grandfather was going to die. When had he learned to have emotions? It

certainly wasn’t part of the infamous Micholini training regime.

Regardless of his motivations, here he was. He drew his gun from the holster at his side and clicked off the safety.

He was a spy, not an assassin, but sometimes the line blurred.

“If you don’t let him go, I’ll shoot him. No glory for you then.” He hissed, only loud enough for the two to hear. His grandfather had once said the exact same thing to Raphael about the Knight’s brother. Raphael hadn’t believed him then, but he’d paid for that mistake. Now it was time to pay for this mistake of poorly done revenge.

Pawns could be upgraded.

The rumors said Velia had no heart, but Velia wasn’t sure how that could be true, because

hers was pounding at the moment.

She stood balanced at the edge of the roof in shock. The Micholinis were loyal to no one, that

much was true, but they had honor. She was fairly certain, however, that she was watching

her twin brother pull a gun on her grandfather in a dark, dirty alley.

Time to move. The pitch-black night was barely punctured by the gas-lit street lamps, making

finding handholds frustratingly slow. The stone and wood grated against her already

scraped palms, making her flinch and almost lose her grip. This was bad. She was rushing

things - she never rushed things - and this is why you left loyalty at the door in this line of

work.

Loyalty, love, and fidelity all made for sloppy work, and sloppy work led to sloppy jobs.

Sloppy jobs led to death.

Chess was precise, and usually so was Velia. Not tonight though, never tonight.

But there was nothing sloppy about the headlock she put her brother in.

Her brother stilled beneath her. “Hello, sister.”

She pulled tighter.

“What is going on?” She hissed in his ear. “Why are you pointing a gun at Grandfather?”

But, oh, she got it wrong. Victor went slack, blood painted the cobblestones like watered-

down crimson paint. Her arms slipped from his neck. Velia stood shock-still as her twin fell to

the ground.

“What did they say about Micholinis and loyalty?” He grunted, the bullet in his chest making

his words slurred. She dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her hands.

“Victor, oh, Victor, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Tears almost escaped from her eyes until she

remembered that Micholinis didn’t cry.

“Save the King, Queen.”

V. King

Vincent was wrong about loyalty, and he was wrong about his grandson. He only wished he’d realized that before he had to watch him bleed out.

He only wished he didn’t have to see his granddaughter pick up her brother’s gun and point it at Victor’s murderer.

VI. White Knight

Raphael Babolo made the headlines the next day, shot down in a revenge job gone right and wrong. He was famous, at least in death. Beat them at their own game. Whose brother was dead now, huh? Checkmate.

VII. Black Queen

Everyone in Spiarte knew the Micholini family was not to be trusted. Velia Micholini knew this most of all. She just wished she’d realized that her brother wasn’t a Micholini at heart before she accidentally sacrificed him.

Loss by resignation.