"So how does luck work, anyway?"

"Hm?" Rayne moved her head, looking at the formally dressed man in his 40s sitting next to her in the car's backseat as his chauffer drove them down the night streets, with another one of his employees in the front passenger seat. "What, do you need a dictionary? It means the odds are in your favor."

"No, I get that, we discussed this." The businessman cleared his throat. He definitely seemed nervous, even if he tried his best to hide it. Rayne found it slightly odd. This wasn't even anything illegal, from his side at least. And there was no way this would have been the first time a CEO does business with some less upstanding members of society. What are they going to do, kill him for daring to buy a trinket from them and willing to pay a fair price for it? Scam him? Well, that's why she was brought on board, wasn't she.

"I mean, how does it... actually happen? Why does it work?"

"Mmph," Rayne sighed and tilted her head back, looking sideways into the window. "Above my pay grade, I'm afraid. But you know how prayers work? Sometimes? It's not about who you pray to, it's about how hard you pray. Focused thoughts affect things. They always do, but it's usually very, very subtle. It's in the aether. Some objects can amplify this."

"So, telekinetic wish fulfillment, then?"

"There's this old joke," the redhead scoffed. "There's a flood in the village. Everyone leaves, but this old guy stays in his house. People are telling him to come with them, but he says, "God will save me." Water is rising. Someone comes to his house in a boat and says, "Come with me." The old guy says, "God will save me." Then, water gets so high that he has to climb to the roof. A helicopter arrives to rescue him, but he says, "God will save me." Well, the old guy drowns, gets to heaven and asks God, "I counted on you to save me, why didn't you?" God says, "You idiot! Who do you think sent the boat and the helicopter to you?"

Rayne grinned and turned to look at her companion. "You can't luck something into existence. You want something to happen, make an attempt at least. These kinds of objects help with the odds. You want straight up wish fulfillment, get a magic lamp with a genie."

There was an awkward pause.

"What, do those exist?"

"Hell if I know." Rayne glanced at the man as another awkward pause happened. "No, really. You wish someone dead, grab a gun and shoot them. Chances are, with a lucky charm, you won't miss."

"Uh huh," the man nodded, moved in his seat and looked at Rayne. "Is it hard?"

"What is hard?"

"To shoot someone. I heard you have experience."

"Oh, Mr. Allen," Rayne grinned wide, exposing her fangs for a moment, and touched the fake glasses on the bridge of her nose. "I'm your 'assistant' and I've never touched a gun in my life."

The man chuckled, looking at the redhead. She didn't quite nail the image of a nerdy secretary, but it was close enough. Waistcoat over a modest buttoned white shirt, slim-fit formal pants - perfectly within the dress code of his own company.

"We have arrived, sir," the driver announced as he started to slow down.

Rayne looked out of the window. The car moved past a line of people at the main entrance of the downtown night club, turned a corner and slowly pulled over in the tight back alley, not far from one of the mundane backdoor exits of the building. A young man in a leather jacket who was leaning against the railing next to the door stared at the car, pulled on his cigarette one more time, dropped it to the ground and banged his fist on the metal door.

"Alright. It's your show and I'm your "secretary", but if something is wrong, you do what I say, without second thoughts," Rayne sighed, grabbed a metal briefcase from the businessman and opened her passenger door to get out of the car. "Do all of you understand it?" She stared at the three men before finally getting out when she saw them nod.

The small group of young men that met them behind the metal door – probably Irishmen if Rayne would have to guess – led the four of them through the backstage corridors that were likely used for storage and technical purposes, briefly through the outer parts of the main dancefloor area with loud banging music past the bar, and into a different set of back rooms, one that was clearly better maintained than the previous one, had decent sound proof and was apparently used for people actually spending time here. As they reached a locked door, one of the men knocked on it three times and waited.

"Let them in," a husky voice was heard from the other side.

Whatever his exact legal relationship with the club was, the middle-aged man sitting in a comfortable chair behind a massive desk was undeniably giving off the vibe of "owning" the place. In a somewhat loose, partially unbuttoned silk shirt, with curly, long hair for a man and some rings on his fingers, he wouldn't be out of place in a Hollywood mobster movie playing exactly the role that he apparently was in. His eyes moved from Allen to his chauffeur standing next to him, then the other man, then focused on the redhead. The few other people in the room – the man's errand boys, apparently – clearly took an interest in her as well.

"Who's the chick?" The man finally asked with an interested grin on his face.

"Lorraine, my bookkeeper," Allen spoke calmly. Holding the briefcase with both hands in front of her hips, Rayne quietly tapped her red painted fingernails against the metal casing.

"Well alright," the club owner chuckled, licked his lips as he glanced at Rayne one more time, and gestured at the chairs across the table from himself, inviting the visitors to sit down. "Let's get down to business, shall we."