Chapter 559: Fetch my Lamborghini, please?
The Las Vegas night pulsed with golden, neon lights, reflecting off the casino facades as if the city itself were a stage for humanity’s greatest sins. The air smelled of cigarettes, expensive alcohol, and broken promises. And in the center of this scene, exiting through the casino’s main door, was him.
Vergil.
In his arms were the two jewels who had accompanied him that night: Kaguya, the lunar empress with silver hair that shone like silk under the artificial light, and Alexa, the werewolf princess, with her wild gaze and curves molded for temptation.
On either side, one of them clung to him, and the two exchanged silent barbs.
“You’re the one who said ‘we,’ remember?” Alexa grumbled, her full lips curling into an irritated smile. “As if it were natural to share him with me.”
Kaguya tilted her head, her voice soft and sharp as crystal. “Don’t be childish.” Vergil doesn’t belong to anyone, but if he does, it’s to me. I already told you.
“You only exist because he let you,” Alexa snapped, pressing Vergil’s arm against her breasts. “He doesn’t need an arrogant queen.”
Kaguya’s red gaze flashed, and for a moment it felt like the entire moon had descended on Las Vegas just to crush Alexa.
“And you think a jealous little bitch can replace him?” the empress whispered, her tone venomous.
Vergil just smiled. That lazy, dangerous smile that made the air grow thicker. He could feel their bodies pressed into each other’s arms, the tension between them vibrating like strings about to snap.
It was delicious.
“Girls, girls…” she said softly, her deep voice reverberating like music. “I thought I wanted a quiet night. But you two are giving me a better show than any show in the casino.”
The two of them stared at him simultaneously, as if only in that instant they’d remembered they were in his presence. Alexa’s face flushed slightly, but she didn’t loosen her grip. Kaguya, on the other hand, merely lifted her chin with the cold pride of an empress.
Vergil felt like he was on a throne. A rein in each hand, guiding two forces that could devour any man. But he wasn’t just any man.
They walked across the red carpet at the casino entrance, past the curious gazes of gamblers, security guards, and drunken tourists. The trio was impossible to ignore: Vergil’s imposing figure, flanked by two antagonistic beauties, one with a savage aura, the other with ethereal majesty.
But as they approached the street, Vergil sensed something.
A weight in the air.
He didn’t need to see to know. His perception, sharpened beyond human limits, captured dozens of presences.
Agents.
Moving quickly, with calculated steps. Men and women in dark suits, weapons hidden, staring intently. Not just Interpol. FBI too.
“Hm,” Vergil murmured, his blue gaze flashing. “Looks like the party’s getting bigger than I planned.”
Kaguya raised an eyebrow, noticing as well. Alexa growled softly, instinctively protective.
“Don’t worry,” Vergil said, with the calm of someone who’d already foreseen the outcome. “They don’t have the guts to shoot.”
It was at that moment, distracted between the two women, that it happened.
Vergil took a step forward, and without realizing it, he bumped into the figure before him.
A woman.
He only noticed when her shoulder lightly bumped into his. The touch was cold. Too cold for the Nevada desert.
Vergil looked up.
And met her gaze.
Green eyes. Emeralds, sharp as blades, stared at him with the promise of death. There was no surprise, no fear, not even anger. Just that look that said, without words: I’m going to kill you.
Time seemed to stand still.
Alexa’s heart raced. Kaguya narrowed her eyes, her fingers tightening on Vergil’s arm.
And then the scream echoed.
“GET AWAY FROM HER!”
The voice cut through the night like a siren.
Vergil turned his head just enough to see, across the crowd, Natasha.
The Interpol director, pale, her body still trembling from the pressure she’d endured minutes before, was now running toward him. Her blazer was disheveled, her hair loose from its perfect bun, but her eyes burned with desperation and authority.
“IT’S HELA!” she screamed again. “GET AWAY FROM HER!”
Natasha’s scream was still echoing when the world seemed to darken for a second, not from lack of light, but from shock: Hela was there, standing among the passersby, a figure in black silk with a piercing gaze that must have remained only in legends and whispers. Vergil instinctively felt the weight of that presence—it seemed to suck the heat from the surrounding air, and even the neon lights flickered, as if offended.
But then he looked around with his usual amused disdain. Officers in suits were doing their work with cold efficiency—human cordons keeping onlookers at bay, security guards guiding tourists to side exits, a few police cars blocking streets, while men and women with badges and headsets coordinated the evacuation. Within a radius Vergil could assess in a blink, Interpol had already evacuated civilians: five blocks, taxi ranks emptied, nothing but professionals and shadows.
“Good job,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. It was almost complacency: a clear stage for the real characters.
Kaguya held her breath between her teeth, her red eyes flashing like embers. Alexa growled softly as a warning. They had both sensed the calculation behind the movement of the forces around them—and knew that Vergil always liked to exploit even the fear of others.
Hela, for her part, didn’t seem comfortable—it was a new reading. Even with her smirk, there was an almost imperceptible tremor in the hand holding the cup. Something in her gaze changed as she saw Interpol transform the Strip into an exclusive quadrangle. Vergil noticed; he smiled.
Slow steps. He made an almost theatrical gesture of apology, looking at the goddess as if he had accidentally bumped into her in some hallway.
“Sorry, young lady,” he said, his voice calm, without bowing, with the same polite manner as someone crossing a room. “I didn’t mean to.”
Hela arched an eyebrow, her smile now so cold it could have cut glass. But before she could respond with what was initially a scathing retort, Vergil was already walking away, his hands in his suit pockets, the two women still literally clinging to his arms.
He walked a few steps. He stopped. He sighed—not from exhaustion, but from pure amusement—and then turned with the calculated slowness of someone preparing to issue a command that disarms and humiliates at the same time. He walked back to Natasha, the Interpol director, who was still breathing heavily, her face purple from the effort of maintaining discipline.
The surrounding agents reflexively raised their weapons, eyes wide, ready for any signal.
Vergil moved close enough for the scent of her collar to enter his field of vision. His blue eyes burned with a patience that was no longer patience, but a game. He spoke softly, almost as if telling a secret.
“Since they’ve evacuated all the civilians,” he said, his smile singing in his voice, “could you do this humble sinner a favor? Send one of your government henchmen to fetch my Lamborghini. The chauffeur took it off—I have no idea where he left it.”