Redmand McMullen ☼ Casino owner

The train doors hissed open with a tired sigh, and the air hit them like perfume gone sour — fog, iron, and distant jazz pouring from a bar someone forgot to close. The platform was lit by golden bulbs strung like pearls overhead, flickering softly, like the town was still undecided whether to welcome them or not.

Redmand McMullen stepped onto the cracked pavement first. His coat was cashmere, his shoes imported, and his smile sharp like the edge of a playing card. Paris was behind him, but the elegance still clung to his shoulders like a promise. Behind him, in heels far too pretty for travel, came Rose — his sister, his shadow, his star.

"Is this the place?" she asked, nose wrinkling. «Ça sent la rouille et les rêves morts,»

Redmand chuckled, lighting a cigarette with a flick of gold. "Exactly. It's perfect."

They had money. Inheritance wrapped in silk and bloodline. They had talent. Rose could lift a grand piano with her voice; Redmand could stop a man’s heart with a whisper — or a deal. What they wanted now was a kingdom.

And Swing River was ripe.

By the end of that month, they’d found it — an old, crumbling theater called Le Rêverie. Dust still clung to the red velvet curtains like a stubborn lover. The paint peeled in elegant strokes, as if even decay had style here.

"It's gorgeous," Redmand murmured, walking the cracked marble of the foyer. "It's just needs a bit of polish. Like us."

They bought it on the spot. No negotiation. No hesitation. Within six months, it glittered again: a casino cloaked in crimson and gold, with a stage built for dreams and disasters.

And beneath it — the true jewel.

The basement, once a storage pit for broken props, became the city's worst-kept secret. Velvet booths. Jazz soaked in gin. Whiskey in teapots. The dry law may have ruled the streets, but down here? Down here, Swing River breathed like Paris after midnight.

But there was one problem: supply.

Redmand didn't want poison. He wanted poetry. And fate — always a dramatic thing — handed him a solution in the shape of Lilac Fladermaus. A blind writer with ink-stained fingers and a voice like old lace, who ran liquor under the cover of dry cleaning and furniture.

They met in a back room thick with smoke and secrets.

"You're the man who already has the voice here," Lilac said.

"And you're the man who has even more then I needed," Redmand replied.

They shook hands. A pact sealed — not with blood, but with bourbon.

That Sunday felt like any other day — bustling crowds, lively music, ladies in charming gowns, weaving through the casino halls.

Yes, perhaps two days ago an old gentleman, attempting to woo his silly Rose, had suddenly dropped dead in the casino — not the most pleasant event for the establishment. But Redmand wasn’t overly concerned; the man had a heart attack, such things happen. The gossip quickly died down, though it clearly rattled the minds of the detectives who came for his soul when, that blissful Sunday, a number of people were struck down by poisoning.

Truth be told, it all began to unravel when it was discovered that one of his waiters had slipped poison into the drinks, causing a great number of people to fall ill. And then those absurd detectives — especially that Attwood — sniffing around his casino, questioning the staff, interrogating patrons. Redmand might’ve stared just a little too intently, perhaps with a hint of disdain, which led the detectives to believe he might have been involved.

Of course, it was nothing but a string of unfortunate coincidences: the heart attack of the elderly suitor, a waiter adding poison for some insane whim. The only thing Redmand MacMullen was truly guilty of was running an underground bar where illegal alcohol flowed freely.

Then, he too found himself in the hospital. The casino was locked up, along with the patrons, from Sunday to Monday for the investigation. Naturally, he was interrogated. And he lay there, poisoned, in that dreary white, unpleasant room, listening to the detectives argue over how much of a bastard he was, and the lovesick sighs of Rose, fluttering her lashes at that Attwood.

But there was one solace. And he wouldn’t lie if he said she was far more beautiful... than Rose. May the gods forgive him, and his sister too, but the nurse... oh, this nurse was le charme.

It was like one of those dime-store romance reels — the kind they showed between newsreels and war propaganda. The hero lies there, pale and half-dead, and then... her. That face, those eyes, the way she moved like she was made of silk and purpose. The way she looked at him — looked through him — and dear God, he was shaken.

Redmand MacMullen was not a man who got shaken. Not by dames, not by doctors, not by poison. So it had to be the toxin — that was all. A fever dream stitched together by too many spirits and a brush with death.

But when he woke from a haze and saw her standing there, adjusting his blanket with that perfect little frown on her brow, administering his shot with all the cool professionalism of a battlefield nurse... the world tilted.

That crease between her brows — mon Dieu — it was the most seductive thing he’d ever seen.

And it was... awkward. Embarrassing, even. Like a schoolboy crush. He barely spoke, just stared while she moved around his bed. Even his silly sister, bless her rouge-smudged nose, had noticed the change.

He hadn’t even flirted. He — who could make duchesses stammer — had sat there silent as a sinner in Sunday pews, watching her tuck the corner of his sheet. Le désastre.

But once he was discharged — back in his suit, his casino, his element — he laughed it off. Told himself she was not his type. Too quiet. Too grounded. Too real. He liked glamor, gold, a bit of scandal. She was... something else. And he convinced himself he’d left that nonsense in the hospital.

Until he saw her again.

In his casino. Standing by the blackjack tables in a dress that didn’t whisper but sang, every curve in its place, every glance magnetic. And on her arm — a man. Not much to look at. Broad. Boring. Laugh like a donkey. But her arm was looped through his all the same.

Redmand felt that old thump-thump in his chest. It was annoying. Offensive, even.

So he adjusted his cuffs, slicked back a strand of fire-red hair, and crossed the floor like he owned every tile — because he did.

“Pardon,” he said with a smile like velvet and razors. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Redmand MacMullen, at your service.”

He offered his hand, first to her, then with a slower, colder glance, to the man beside her.

“I see you’ve found the finest table,” he added, voice smooth as Cognac. “May I offer you both a drink? Something... rare. House specialty. On me, of course.”

His eyes, however, never left hers. Not for a second.

There was a flicker — something unreadable behind her expression. Maybe confusion. Maybe memory. Maybe that damn little crease between her brows again.

He could hear Rose’s laughter from across the room — she’d noticed, of course. Merde. He was already in too deep.