Chapter 12 : Enemy of My Enemy
Alberto's response came faster than I'd expected.
Two days after I sent him the intelligence about Maroni's Narrows expansion, his messenger appeared at the warehouse. Same well-dressed functionary as before, same barely-concealed disdain for his surroundings.
"Mr. Falcone requests another meeting. Tonight. Same location."
I was waiting at Marinello's by seven-thirty.
Alberto arrived at eight, but his energy was different this time. Less controlled theater, more genuine animation. He ordered wine without consulting the menu and launched into conversation before the waiter had even left.
"Your intelligence was good. Very good." He leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the private room. "Maroni is definitely expanding. I had my people confirm it. Three separate operations moving into what used to be neutral territory."
"Including the Narrows."
"Including the Narrows. Marco Santini is their point man—expendable muscle to test the waters." Alberto's lip curled. "Maroni always did prefer letting others take the risks."
"Good. He's engaged. He sees the opportunity."
"What do you want to do about it?" I asked.
"What I've wanted to do for three years. Hit back." Alberto's fingers drummed on the table. "My father would never have tolerated this. Maroni rats scurrying into our territory like they own the city."
"They don't own anything yet. That's why they're using Marco—deniability. If he fails, Maroni loses nothing. If he succeeds, they gain a foothold."
"So we make sure he fails."
I nodded slowly. "I had the same thought. But I'm limited in what I can do directly. My operation is small. Marco has Maroni backing. A direct war..."
"Would destroy you. Yes." Alberto sipped his wine. "But what if you weren't alone?"
"Here it comes. The proposal."
"I'm listening."
Alberto pulled out a map—hand-drawn, detailed. Maroni supply routes through the midtown corridor.
"Maroni moves product through here every Thursday night. Pharmaceutical supplies, mostly. Street value maybe fifty thousand per shipment." His finger traced the route. "My men hit this warehouse, here. Destroy the shipment, send a message. While they're scrambling to respond..."
"I move on Marco."
"Exactly. His Maroni backup will be distracted, pulled to defend the warehouse. You catch him exposed."
It was a good plan. Better than what I'd come up with on my own. The coordinated strike meant neither of us faced the full weight of Maroni's resources.
But nothing was free.
"What's the catch?"
Alberto's smile widened. "Straight to business. I appreciate that." He set down his wine. "Two conditions. First, you provide ongoing intelligence on Maroni operations in the Narrows. Anything you find, I hear about first."
"Agreed."
"Second." He paused. "You owe me a favor. Undefined. To be called in when I need it."
"There it is. The hook. Once you owe a Falcone, you're never really free."
I thought about refusing. About negotiating the terms, limiting the scope. But I also thought about Mrs. Chen's shattered windows and Marco's spray-painted threat.
"One favor," I said. "Within reason. I won't break my code for you—no women, no kids, no matter what you ask."
Alberto studied me for a moment. Then he nodded. "Your code is your business. Agreed."
We shook on it.
[ALLIANCE DEEPENED: ALBERTO FALCONE]
[New terms: Intelligence sharing, undefined favor owed]
[RELATIONSHIP: +10 (Total: +30)]
[WARNING: Favor debt may be called at inconvenient time]
The wine arrived—another expensive bottle that I was learning to appreciate. Alberto poured for both of us.
"To the death of our enemies," he said, raising his glass.
"To opportunities."
We drank. The wine was exceptional, complex and smooth. I was developing expensive tastes—dangerous, in my line of work. But for the moment, I let myself enjoy it.
"One more thing," I said. "I need weapons. Real weapons, not pipes and chains. If I'm going to war, I need to be properly equipped."
Alberto nodded. "I'll give you my supplier's contact. Mention my name—he'll give you fair prices." He pulled a business card from his pocket, wrote a number on the back. "His name is Viktor. Russian, but reliable."
I pocketed the card. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place.
"When do we move?"
"Two days. Thursday night, like I said. My people hit the warehouse at midnight. You have a three-hour window while Maroni responds."
"I'll be ready."
We spent another hour refining details. Entry points, communication protocols, contingency plans. Alberto was sharper than I'd initially given him credit for—the desperation hadn't dulled his mind, just his resources.
By the time we finished, the second bottle of wine was empty and my head was pleasantly fuzzy. Not drunk—I'd been careful—but relaxed in a way I hadn't been since arriving in this world.
"Can I ask you something?" Alberto said as we prepared to leave.
"Ask."
"Why the code? No women, no kids. Most men in your position wouldn't bother."
I thought about the question. The real answer—that I'd had sisters in my old life, that I remembered the feeling of wanting to protect them even if I couldn't remember their faces—was too revealing. Too close to the truth.
"Because I'm building something that's meant to last," I said instead. "Empires built on cruelty burn bright and fast. I want mine to burn long."
Alberto was quiet for a moment. Then he raised his empty glass in a mock toast.
"To burning long."
"To burning long."
Outside, the cold air sobered me quickly. Terry and Big Pat were waiting by the car, alert despite the hour.
"How'd it go?" Terry asked.
"We have a deal. Coordinated strike in two days. Alberto hits Maroni's supply line, we move on Marco during the chaos."
Terry whistled low. "That's ambitious."
"It's necessary." I handed him the card with Viktor's number. "Call this tomorrow. We need weapons. Real ones."
"On it."
The drive back to the Narrows was quiet. The city slid past outside the windows—towers and tenements, wealth and poverty, all jumbled together in Gotham's particular flavor of chaos.
"Two days. Two days to buy weapons, brief the crew, prepare for a fight that could make or break everything I've built."
"Boss?" Marcus's voice came from the driver's seat. We'd started letting him drive—it gave him purpose, and it freed up my more experienced people for other tasks. "You think this'll work?"
"I think it's our best chance." I watched the streetlights flash past. "Marco picked a fight he can't win. He just doesn't know it yet."
"And if I'm wrong—if Alberto doesn't follow through, or Marco's stronger than we think—then I'm dead by week's end."
But I didn't say that part out loud.
Some thoughts were better kept private.
The warehouse came into view—my kingdom, such as it was. Grimy brick and rusted metal, guards at the doors, people depending on me to keep them safe.
"Mrs. Chen is counting on me. My crew is counting on me. Everyone who pays protection money and trusts the Broker's word is counting on me."
The weight of it settled on my shoulders as I stepped out of the car.
Two days.
I had work to do.
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