The scent of wilting chrysanthemums and stale cigar smoke clung heavy to the air of the canal-city's Grand Mausoleum, a somber perfume befitting the solemn procession. Black-clad figures, their faces grim etchings of grief and calculated disdain, shuffled past the polished sarcophagus of Octavius Vanzetti. His legacy, built on whispers and ruthlessness, now lay still. But amidst the funereal gloom, an incongruous splash of vibrant yellow drifted. Miro Vanzetti, his face a picture of serene, almost beatific joy, floated through the mourners. In his hands, a bundle of bright, lemon-colored inflated spheres bobbed. He offered one to a stone-faced matriarch, then another to a distant cousin whose knuckles were white on a pearl-handled cane. “A celebration of Grandfather’s vibrant life!” Miro chirped, his voice a clear, ringing bell against the hushed murmurs. “He always said every ending was just a dramatic prelude! Don’t you think these capture his flamboyant spirit perfectly?” The matriarch’s lips thinned to a near-invisible line. The cousin, a man whose family owed the Vanzettis several districts worth of ether-conduits, merely grunted, accepting the rubber novelty as if it were a bomb. Then came Gallo. Miro’s twin, a perfect mirror of his features but without the impossible, unwavering light in his eyes, stalked forward, flanked by two hulking bodyguards. Gallo’s suit, tailored from the finest ebony serge, seemed to absorb all light, his silver Vanzetti crest gleaming like a predatory eye. He stopped directly before Miro, casting a shadow that swallowed the sunshine yellow of the inflatable spheres. “Enough, Miro,” Gallo said, his voice low, a viper’s hiss designed to cut through the last vestiges of Miro’s cheerful delusion. “The show is over.” He snatched a yellow sphere from Miro’s hand, the bright skin deflating with a pathetic sigh as Gallo's nail tore through the latex. “You embarrass us, as always. The ‘curse’ of your presence has clung to this family for too long. It is no longer our burden to bear.” Miro tilted his head, his smile unwavering. “Oh! Is this part of the ‘Grand Velletra Hospitality Award’ initiation? A test of resilience and emotional fortitude? Very avant-garde, Gallo! Always pushing the boundaries of performance art, just like Grandfather!” He clutched his remaining strings tighter. “Don’t worry, I’ve been practicing! I’m excellent at enduring dramatic exits! Is there a special stage cue for my banishment, or should I just improvise a grand, tearful farewell?” Gallo’s face twisted, a flicker of genuine rage marring his polished composure. “This isn’t a game, imbecile. You are out. Go. Don’t ever darken our doors again.” He gestured with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The bodyguards stepped forward, their massive frames forming an intimidating wall. Miro, still beaming, simply nodded. “Right! A solo performance! My specialty! Ta-ta, everyone! Hope to see you at the after-party!” He waved cheerfully at the stunned mourners, then skipped out, the remaining yellow floats trailing behind him like a string of sunny, defiant memories. Back at the Vanzetti manor, in the secluded annex Miro had always occupied, he hummed a jaunty tune as he packed his tools. The room, usually a chaotic symphony of gears, diagrams, and sparking ether-coils, was now being neatly dismantled. He carefully tucked a set of bespoke chronometers into a velvet-lined case, then a delicate Arcadian torque-wrench. “They really want me to excel at this grand showcase,” he mused aloud, polishing a lens with his sleeve. “Making me move out and find my own footing! A true test of independence!” He paused, retrieving a small, battered automaton from a shelf. Its brass-ringed optical lens glowed faintly. “Don’t worry, Archimedes, we’ll ace this next challenge too!” A sudden shift in the air, a scent of ozone and something metallic, made Miro glance up. A figure, cloaked in shadow, detached itself from the deeper gloom of the alcove by the unused hearth. A glint of polished steel preceded the figure’s lunge. A stiletto blade, thin as a whisper, aimed for Miro’s chest. Miro gasped, but not in fear. “Oh! A surprise guest! And a prop knife! Is this a slapstick routine? Excellent!” He sidestepped with an exaggerated flourish, causing the killer to stumble past him. The blade sliced through the air where Miro’s heart had been moments before. “My turn!” Miro declared, grabbing a coil of ether-resistant wiring from his workbench. He swung it playfully, not at the assailant, but at the ancient, ornate candelabra hanging precariously from the ceiling. The wiring wrapped around a decorative finial. The killer, recovering, lunged again, this time aiming for Miro’s neck. Miro dodged with a joyful bounce, like a child playing tag. His movement, however, tugged the wire. The candelabra, disturbed, swung wildly, its heavy bronze base colliding with a hidden lever embedded in the wall behind it. There was a faint *click*. From the ceiling, a massive, velvet-draped net dropped with terrifying speed. The ambusher, mid-lunge, was ensnared, crashing to the floor with a muffled thump. The net, weighted with lead, pinned them completely, leaving only one struggling hand visible, futilely trying to reach for the dropped stiletto. Miro clapped his hands. “Bravo! A perfect execution! Though I must say, the candelabra was a risky improvisation. Very effective!” The double doors to the annex burst open. Donato Ferox, a man whose name was etched in the nightmares of Velletra’s underworld, stood framed in the doorway. His sharp, predatory eyes, the color of aged onyx, swept over the scene: the neatly packed tools, the struggling figure in the net, Miro Vanzetti, still beaming, holding his automaton. Donato’s gaze lingered on the unconscious killer, then on Miro’s unblemished, cheerfully oblivious face. “Brutal,” Donato rumbled, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards. “Effortless. You anticipated the attack, disarmed the threat, and incapacitated them without shedding a drop of blood. Magnificent.” He took a step forward, his expensive boots echoing in the sudden silence. “Miro Vanzetti. I am Donato Ferox. Your family has made a grave error in casting you aside. I have been seeking raw, untamed talent. You, boy, possess it in spades.” He extended a hand, a gesture of absolute, terrifying power. “I invite you to compete for the Grand Velletra Hospitality Award. Not a quaint prize, I assure you, but a true proving ground for our city’s future.” Miro beamed, his smile stretching even further. “The Grand Velletra Welcome Cup! You’re organizing it? I knew it wasn’t just a simple banishment! A secret society of eccentric philanthropists! I accept, Donato! What’s the first game?” He shook Donato’s hand with unrestrained enthusiasm, completely missing the calculating gleam in the older man’s eyes. Before Donato could reply, the annex doors were flung open again, this time with a frantic urgency. Cosima Tardi, her usually pristine scholar’s robes askew, her dark hair escaping its severe knot, stormed in. Her eyes, usually cool and analytical, blazed with a fierce, almost desperate fire. She clutched a rolled ether-blueprint, its edges crinkled, to her chest. She ignored Donato Ferox, ignored the netted intruder, ignored everything but Miro. “Miro Vanzetti!” she demanded, her voice tight with barely contained fury. “Why is your ridiculous smiley-face doodle hidden in the margin of Gallo’s latest multi-million-lira ether-blueprint?!”

The Funerary Clown