Chapter 10 : The Falcone Meeting
Alberto Falcone poured wine without asking if I wanted any.
The bottle was older than I was—older than Danny Malone had been, anyway. Dark red liquid filled crystal glasses that probably cost more than my warehouse. Alberto's movements were practiced, theatrical. The performance of wealth and power.
"Chianti," he said. "From my father's private collection. One of the few things the Bat didn't manage to destroy."
I took the glass. The wine was rich, complex, better than anything I'd tasted in either of my lives. For a moment, I let myself appreciate it—the small pleasure of something genuinely good in a world that had been offering me nothing but stale sandwiches and violence.
Terry stood against the wall behind me, mirroring Alberto's muscle. Big Pat was a silent mountain beside him. The room was small, private, decorated with paintings of Italian countryside that nobody in Gotham had ever seen.
"You've made quite a name for yourself," Alberto said. "The Broker. The man who knows things." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Impressive, for a street rat from the Narrows."
"Here it comes. The dominance play. Show me my place."
"The Narrows is where empires start, Mr. Falcone." I kept my voice level. "Your father knew that. He came from nothing too."
Something flickered across Alberto's face. Anger, maybe. Or surprise that a Narrows nobody would invoke the great Carmine Falcone.
"My father built something that lasted generations."
"Until it didn't." I met his eyes. "No disrespect intended. But names only matter if they're backed by action. You know that better than anyone."
The silence stretched. Alberto's bodyguards shifted slightly—not reaching for weapons, but ready. Behind me, I heard Terry's weight shift.
Then Alberto laughed.
It wasn't a warm sound. More like the acknowledgment of a point scored.
"You've got spine, Broker. I'll give you that." He sipped his wine. "Most men who sit where you're sitting spend the whole meeting agreeing with everything I say and trying not to soil themselves."
"I'm not most men."
"Clearly." He set down his glass. "So. Business. You wanted this meeting. What do you want from me?"
"Direct. Good. I can work with direct."
"You need street-level intelligence," I said. "Your information network collapsed with your father's operation. You're flying blind in half the city, making decisions based on rumors and guesswork."
Alberto's expression hardened, but he didn't interrupt.
"I can fix that. The Narrows first, then expanding. I know who's moving what, who's making deals, who's vulnerable. Real-time intelligence from people who actually work the streets."
"And in exchange?"
"Legitimacy. Access to mid-level markets. Your fences, your suppliers, your connections." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm good at what I do, Mr. Falcone. But I'm limited by my reach. You can extend that reach."
Alberto studied me for a long moment. His fingers tapped against the tablecloth—nervous habit, I noted. The sign of a man under pressure, trying to look calm.
"You're proposing an alliance."
"A business arrangement. Mutually beneficial."
"With terms?"
"Simple ones. I provide intelligence on Narrows activity. You provide introductions to your network. Neither of us steps on the other's operations. Neither of us moves against the other without cause."
"And if one of us breaks the terms?"
I let the question hang for a moment. Then: "Then we're enemies. And I'd rather not be your enemy, Mr. Falcone. I'd rather build something together."
Alberto picked up his wine glass, swirled the contents, watched the legs form on the crystal. The gesture was calculated—buying time to think.
"You know what I find interesting about you, Broker?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You talk like someone who's been doing this for years. But you appeared in the Narrows a month ago, out of nowhere. No history. No connections. Just—" He snapped his fingers. "There."
"Careful. He's probing."
"Everyone comes from somewhere," I said. "I came from a place that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is where I'm going."
"And where is that?"
I thought about the alley. The frozen slush, the blood, the system flickering to life in a body that wasn't mine. A month ago, I'd been dying. Now I was negotiating with organized crime royalty.
"Up," I said simply. "I'll build my empire from nothing, Mr. Falcone. When I'm done, men will say the same about me as they said about your father."
Alberto's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—offense, anger, calculation. And then, surprisingly, something like respect.
"That's either the most arrogant thing I've ever heard," he said slowly, "or the most honest."
"Why not both?"
A genuine laugh this time. Short, surprised, but real.
"I like you, Broker." Alberto extended his hand across the table. "Call me Alberto. I think we can do business."
I shook. Firm grip, steady eye contact. The deal was made.
[ALLIANCE ESTABLISHED: ALBERTO FALCONE]
[RELATIONSHIP: Business ally (+20)]
[NETWORK: +5]
[CUNNING: +4]
[PHASE ADVANCEMENT: Street Rat → Rising Player]
We spent the next hour working out details. Alberto's fence—a man named Vincenzo who operated out of the Diamond District—would take my goods at fair rates. His supplier could provide weapons, equipment, anything I needed at wholesale prices. In exchange, I'd feed him weekly intelligence reports on Narrows activity.
The wine bottle emptied. Alberto ordered another. By the time we finished, I'd drunk more than I should have and learned more than I'd expected.
Alberto Falcone was desperate.
Not obviously—he hid it well behind the expensive suits and family name. But the tells were there. The way he jumped at the alliance. The way he pressed for details about Maroni movements. The way his jaw tightened whenever his father was mentioned.
"He's drowning. Trying to rebuild an empire with table scraps and reputation. I'm not the only one playing a long game here."
We shook hands again at the door. Alberto's grip was stronger this time—the grip of a man who'd found something valuable.
"I'll be in touch," he said. "Welcome to the game, Broker."
"Glad to be playing."
The night air hit me like cold water as we stepped outside. Terry fell into step beside me, Big Pat trailing behind.
"You just made a deal with a Falcone," Terry said quietly.
"A desperate Falcone. The best kind to deal with."
"And when he's not desperate anymore?"
"Then I'll be valuable enough that he can't afford to cut me loose." I pulled my collar up against the wind. "That's the game, Terry. Make yourself indispensable."
The car was parked two blocks away—a precaution, in case things had gone badly. We walked in silence, each of us processing what had just happened.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Boss." Marcus's voice, tight with fear. "You need to get back here. Now. Something happened."
The good feeling from the wine evaporated instantly.
"What kind of something?"
"Mrs. Chen's store. Someone hit it. Smashed the windows, left a message." Marcus's breath was ragged. "It said 'Marco sends his regards.'"
I stopped walking. Terry and Pat stopped with me.
"When?"
"Thirty minutes ago. Julio's there now. Mrs. Chen's okay, just—just scared."
"We're on our way."
I hung up. The wine soured in my stomach.
Marco Santini. The man I'd beaten, humiliated, exiled. The ghost I'd thought was gone for good.
"What is it?" Terry asked.
"Marco's back." The words tasted like ash. "And he brought friends."
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