The black sedan doors opened in sequence. Polished leather shoes stepped into puddles, splashing muddy water. Men holding black umbrellas quickly formed a protective perimeter around their respective leaders.
Raindrops fell like pearls, blooming into watery flowers across the fabric of the umbrellas.
Inside Nino's, a restaurant nestled in the Old Town, the lights glowed a dim amber. Rain meandered down the stained-glass windows, fracturing the mosaic of the Virgin Mary into blurred shards.
"I love this place. I haven't been here in a long time, but I'll never forget running here every day as a young man to eat pasta."
An old phonograph played a low, soulful Sicilian folk song. The air was thick with the warmth of tomato sauce, basil, and garlic. Carmine Falcone sat at the innermost table, unhurriedly twirling a plate of seafood linguine with a silver fork.
He wore a bespoke charcoal-grey three-piece suit, his tie secured by an exquisite eagle-head clip. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back flawlessly.
Despite being over sixty, his back remained as straight as a pine, though his pale blue eyes held a lingering coldness and fatigue deep within their wrinkles.
"This place reminds me of Old Tony's." Falcone set down his wine glass. His voice was low and steady, every word carrying an unquestionable weight. "Regrettably, people today no longer know how to appreciate tradition."
"Tradition is a fine thing, Lord Carmine. We should all respect it."
Salvatore Maroni shook the water off his shoes and sat across from Falcone.
Built like a fighting bull, he wore a tight black shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a thick mat of chest hair. A gold watch chain glittered obnoxiously under the lights. A jagged scar ran across his right brow, adding a layer of ferocity to his expression.
He reached out, grabbed an oyster, shucked the meat, and slid it into his mouth. "The heat was a bit high on this one, wasn't it?"
"If the heat is too high, the dish burns."
The portly Rupert Thorne took his seat beside them. A pair of shrewd, small eyes darted around his face, which was permanently fixed in a fake smile. His flashy red suit was a jarring contrast to the restaurant's classical decor.
"A burnt dish ruins the appetite of everyone at the table."
"Exactly, gentlemen." Falcone stopped his fork and picked up a bottle to pour three glasses of red wine, pushing two toward Maroni and Thorne. "A flame that doesn't know how to restrain itself must be extinguished in time."
"Ha? The Roman pouring me a drink personally? If word got out, the stray dogs in the street would think you're at the end of your rope." Maroni looked at the glass before him, his voice laced with mockery. "Carmine, you know I don't mean anything by it. Just a joke."
"I know. That's why there are no outsiders here—only family." Falcone's voice remained level. "We are all family."
"Family?" Maroni burst into laughter. "We all know that Penguin kid of yours is a nobody, but I heard he was nearly beaten to death over a mere suspicion. I don't like the guy, but is that how you treat 'family'?"
"Loyalty is fragile porcelain; Mr. Thorne should understand that best." Falcone turned his gaze toward Thorne, who was preoccupied with the menu. "Excessive investment risk requires a decisive stop-loss. Besides, a small-timer like that was never destined for greatness."
Rupert Thorne simply focused on ordering his food, refusing to take the bait.
"Cut the crap, Carmine. Let's speak plainly." Maroni waved a hand dismissively. "You called us here to deal with that masked lunatic. I respect tradition, but tradition also says everything comes with a price."
"The price is the peace and stability of Gotham." Falcone wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "In a few days, I've lost four warehouses, three shipments worth eight million, and over a hundred loyal employees."
His voice was calm, but his eyes were frosted with ice.
"Two of Mr. Maroni's casinos were burned. Three of Mr. Thorne's distribution points were raided. And this is only the beginning. Black Mask's goal isn't territory—it's the destruction of the very order we rely on to survive."
"True enough, Carmine. But what's the saying?" Maroni grinned. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown. You're the Caesar of this city. I think… I can still afford my losses. Hey! Rupe, stop looking at that chicken for a second…"
"I need to know what I'm eating first." Thorne put down his cutlery with dissatisfaction, eyeing the herb-roasted chicken that had just been served. "I'm just a businessman. Peace is important, but shouldn't we put something more substantial on the table?"
"Right you are, Rupe." Maroni nodded, looking back at Falcone. "So, Carmine, besides the 'peace' of Gotham, what do we get?"
Falcone glanced toward the bar. Victor Zsasz sat there, a silver blade flipping effortlessly through his fingers. After a moment of silence, Falcone spoke: "All of Black Mask's territory will be yours to divide."
"All of it? The territory he started with, or what he has now?" Maroni shook his head, closing his eyes to listen to the phonograph. "Don't you have anything more upbeat? Huh?"
He pulled his chair closer to Falcone, his eyes burning as he stared at the former king.
"Carmine, we both know that the area Black Mask started in wasn't held by any of us. Why? Because it's dirt poor. The West Side's abandoned docks only produce a steady stream of desperados. We didn't need them before, and we won't need them after we kill him."
"If you want to give us the territory he's currently occupying, maybe we should wait a few more days and let him take a bit more land first."
He saw Falcone's expression sour and offered a slight shrug. "Just a joke. We're family, after all. Carmine, tell us the plan."
Falcone pulled a map of Gotham from his inner pocket and smoothed it out on the table. Various colors marked the spheres of influence for the major families, while the West Side was covered in bright red X's.
"Intelligence sharing," Falcone said, tapping the map. "Resource integration. Unified action. We define our own defensive zones, form joint patrols, and establish a common emergency fund. If any party is attacked, the others must provide support."
Thorne suddenly laughed—a sharp, grating sound.
"Oh, how wonderful. It's like a mob version of the United Nations. Just one thing, Lord Falcone. Who supervises this beautiful alliance? You?"
"Black Mask's gang has at least several hundred lunatics who don't care if they live or die. And… he seems to have some 'extraordinary' allies or subordinates." He paused meaningfully. "And who exactly are we supposed to send to the front lines?"
"No supervision is needed, Thorne. Only memory. I remember every favor, and I remember every debt." Falcone looked up, his cold gaze pinning the other two.
"My proposal is not a request. This is the only ship that can carry us through this storm. You can choose not to board, Salvatore.
But when the sea swallows you, you will see my sails passing safely over your head. And then… your casinos, your docks… they will be taken over by someone who knows how to appreciate tradition."
"Carmine, Carmine. We're just hyenas. You're the Lion King. Enemies have arrived on the savannah—isn't this your chance to show your 'royal' strength?"
Maroni gave a mocking laugh. "If I were the Lion King, I'd use my own strength to deal with him, not drag everyone else into the mud with me."
"Well said, Salvatore. But don't forget: when the Lion King is killed, the next one to be torn to pieces is usually the one who barked the loudest."
The negotiation ended on the verge of a total breakdown. As he sat in the back of his sedan, the aggression and defiance faded from Maroni's face.
Falcone was indeed old, but his talons were still sharp. Black Mask was a complete madman… Maroni needed a real ace. One that surpassed traditional force—a trump card for the new era.
"To Arkham."
…
In the third basement level of Arkham Asylum, a space had been converted into a high-tech lab.
Cold white LED lights illuminated stainless steel workstations and computer screens flickering with data. Various biological samples soaking in formalin gave off a pungent odor.
Dr. Hugo Strange, dressed in a spotless white coat, stood before a massive transparent cylinder. It was filled with pale green nutrient fluid.
Inside, a muscular, gargantuan, distorted humanoid creature floated with its eyes closed, tubes connected to its nose and mouth. Its skin was an unhealthy reddish-brown, and its muscle fibers looked forced—grown with an unnatural sense of power.
"Lord Maroni," Strange said without turning around. "Welcome to the frontier of evolution. As you can see, Subject One is stable.
His base strength is nine to twelve times that of a normal human. His pain receptors have been significantly suppressed. Most importantly, his obedience is absolute."
Maroni, flanked by two bodyguards, walked up to the container. He looked up at the giant creation, a mix of disgust and greed in his eyes. "Can he handle that lightning freak working for Black Mask? Or that flying bat? He looks like a braindead idiot."
"Excessive autonomy is the root of risk, my Lord." Strange pushed up his glasses, the lenses reflecting the cold light. "What you need is a weapon that follows orders implicitly, not an 'ally' with his own ideas."
Maroni took a deep drag of his cigar, the thick smoke swirling in the cold air. He looked at Subject One, then at the ambitious, intelligent eyes hidden behind Strange's spectacles.
Falcone relied on tradition and fear. Black Mask relied on madness and violence. But he, Sal Maroni, would rely on science and superhuman power to be the one who laughed last.
"Very well, Doctor. Funding isn't an issue. But keep your 'work' on a short leash. I don't want any 'uncontrolled' situations."
"Rest assured, Lord Maroni." Strange gave a slight nod. "Everything is under control. The walls of Arkham are thick enough to contain any accidents. By the way… did your meeting tonight go well?"
Maroni gave a cold snort and didn't answer, turning away from the observation window. In the moment he turned, the previously lifeless body in the tank seemed to twitch its eye ever so slightly, watching Maroni leave.
Deep within those hollow eyes, something primal struggled to flicker for a second before being swallowed once again by the endless chaos.
——————
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