Chapter 9 : Expanding Horizons
The messenger arrived on a Tuesday morning, dressed in a suit that cost more than my entire wardrobe.
He stood in the warehouse entrance like he'd stepped into a sewer, distaste barely concealed beneath professional neutrality. Behind me, Terry went very still.
"Mr. Falcone requests the pleasure of your company," the messenger said. His voice was cultured, controlled. "Tomorrow evening. Eight o'clock. He wishes to discuss matters of mutual interest."
Mr. Falcone. Alberto Falcone—last relevant heir to the empire Carmine had built and Batman had destroyed. I'd read enough comics, consumed enough Gotham media, to know the shape of his story. The desperate son trying to rebuild in his father's shadow, making alliances with anyone who might offer a ladder out of irrelevance.
"Which Falcone?" I asked, playing dumb.
The messenger's mask slipped slightly—surprise that a Narrows street boss wouldn't immediately recognize the name. "Alberto Falcone. Head of the Falcone family."
"What's left of it," Terry muttered behind me.
The messenger pretended not to hear.
"Tell Mr. Falcone I'm interested." I kept my voice level. "But I have conditions."
"Conditions?" The word dripped with contempt.
"Neutral ground. Neither of our territories. Both parties bring no more than two men. No weapons drawn unless someone gets stupid." I met his eyes. "Those are my terms. If he accepts, I'm there."
The messenger stared at me for a long moment. Whatever he was thinking didn't reach his face.
"I'll convey your... conditions... to Mr. Falcone."
He left. The warehouse felt larger after he was gone, the shadows deeper.
"Boss." Terry's voice was careful, the way it got when he thought I was making a mistake. "Alberto Falcone. You know who that is?"
"I know."
"He's got resources. Connections. Guys who've been doing this since before you were born." Terry moved closer, dropping his voice. "If he decides you're a threat, or an insult, or just a convenient example—"
"Then I die badly. I know." I turned to face him. "But if I refuse the meeting, I'm insulting him anyway. And if I show up scared and groveling, he smells weakness and I'm dead by spring. The only play is to walk in there like I belong at the table."
Terry was quiet for a moment. Then: "You've thought this through."
"I've had time."
"Time, and knowledge from another life. I know how Alberto thinks. I know what he wants. I just have to use it without revealing how I know."
The messenger returned two hours later. Alberto had accepted the conditions. The meeting would be at Marinello's—an Italian restaurant in the neutral zone between territories. Eight o'clock tomorrow.
I spent the rest of the day preparing.
Not planning what to say—that would come in the moment, reading the room. Instead, I focused on presentation. On the image I needed to project.
The suit was the first problem.
"You can't meet a Falcone looking like a street thug," Terry said bluntly. "He'll think you're not worth his time."
I didn't argue. We went shopping—if you could call it that. A secondhand store in the better part of the Narrows, where the clothes were used but not destroyed. I found a charcoal suit that almost fit, had it altered by a seamstress who didn't ask questions. Forty dollars for the suit, twenty for the alterations.
The shoes were harder. Eventually I settled for a pair of black oxfords that were slightly too big, padded with extra socks.
"Crime lord on a budget. Very glamorous."
When I put it all together that evening—suit, shoes, the knife hidden at my ankle because I wasn't walking in there completely unarmed—Terry whistled.
"Looking like a real boss now."
I studied myself in the cracked mirror above the warehouse sink. The suit helped. It changed my posture, my presence. Danny Malone's face stared back at me, but the eyes were different. Older. More calculating.
"Not Danny anymore. Haven't been for weeks. The Broker. That's who's walking into this meeting."
"Who are you bringing?" Terry asked.
"You. And Pat."
He nodded. Professional, trusted, intimidating—the right message.
"What about Julio?"
"Julio stays here. Runs things if something goes wrong." I adjusted my collar, trying to get it to lie flat. The fabric fought back. "If I don't come back, he takes over the operation. You and Pat get out of Gotham."
Terry's expression flickered. "You think it's going to go that way?"
"No. But I plan for what might happen, not just what I hope will happen."
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay on the cot in my office, staring at the ceiling, running scenarios through my head. What if Alberto wanted me dead? What if he wanted an alliance? What if this was all a setup, a trap, a test?
"Stop. You can't predict everything. You can only prepare."
The memory surfaced unbidden: waking up in that alley, face-down in frozen slush, blood in my mouth and a body that didn't belong to me. Three weeks ago. It felt like years.
"Three weeks from dying in a gutter to meeting organized crime royalty. Not bad for a transmigrated nobody with a system and a lot of improvisation."
I practiced my handshake until my palm hurt. Firm, not crushing. Confident, not challenging. The kind of grip that said I respected the person I was meeting without being afraid of them.
Morning came gray and cold. I dressed early, checked my appearance three times, made Terry check it twice more. The suit pulled slightly across the shoulders. The shoes were still too big. My hair wouldn't quite cooperate.
It didn't matter. I looked better than I had any right to, given where I'd started.
At seven-thirty, we left for the restaurant.
Marinello's occupied a corner building in the neutral zone—red brick, neon sign, the kind of place that served the same Italian dishes they'd been making for fifty years. The food was probably terrible and probably expensive. Nobody came here for the food.
Terry and Big Pat flanked me as we approached the entrance. My heart was beating too fast, adrenaline coursing through my system. I breathed through it. Counted to four. Let it out.
"You belong here. Act like it."
The hostess led us to a private room in the back.
Alberto Falcone was already waiting.
He was younger than I'd expected—early thirties, maybe, with dark hair slicked back and a face that had probably been handsome before bitterness carved lines around his eyes. He wore a suit that cost more than my entire operation's weekly income, and he looked at me like I was something he'd found on the bottom of his shoe.
Two men stood behind him. Muscle, clearly—thick-necked and expressionless.
I crossed the room and extended my hand.
"Mr. Falcone. Thank you for the invitation."
Alberto looked at my hand for a long moment. Then he took it.
The handshake was exactly what I'd practiced. Firm. Confident. Respectful.
"The Broker," Alberto said. His voice was smoother than I'd expected, cultured in a way that reminded me of old mob movies. "You've made quite a name for yourself in the Narrows."
"I've made a start."
"So modest." A thin smile crossed his face. "Sit. Let's talk about your future."
I sat.
The conversation that followed would determine whether I had one.
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