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Chapter 26 - Going Solo

Thursday, August 23rd, 2012, 8:15 PM

Little Italy

Maroni's Restaurant

Malik adjusted his tie for the third time, checking his reflection in the restaurant's bathroom mirror. The waiter's uniform fit perfectly, borrowed from Marcus Bellini's collection of occupational disguises. Black slacks, white shirt, dark vest. Generic enough to blend in, professional enough to move freely through spaces where money and violence intersected.

His accent was flawless. Three weeks of practice with voice recordings had given him the precise inflection of someone who'd grown up in Gotham's Italian neighborhoods but had worked hard to lose the rougher edges. Not quite refined enough to suggest education, but clean enough to work in an upscale establishment.

The forged employment records Diana Volkov had created showed him as Antonio Benedetto, hired two days ago to cover for a waiter who'd called in sick. Background check would show a kid from the Narrows who needed work, nothing suspicious enough to warrant closer inspection.

Malik had studied every person expected at tonight's meeting. Sal Maroni himself, obviously. Vincent "The Shark" Falcone, representing his family's interests. Tommy Marcelli, handling enforcement. Maria Santos, who ran numbers for the south side operations. Eight other mid-level players, each with their own specialties and weaknesses.

He'd memorized the restaurant's layout down to emergency exits and security camera positions. Kitchen staff rotations, delivery schedules, even which tables had the best acoustics for eavesdropping. Two months of preparation for one night's intelligence gathering.

The meeting was supposed to be routine. Monthly coordination between families, discussing territory and resolving disputes before they became wars. But Holly's contact in the Maroni organization had suggested something bigger was happening. Talk of eliminating competition, preparing for a major operation, reshaping the balance of power in Gotham's underworld.

Exactly the kind of intelligence that could be worth millions to the right people.

Malik checked his watch and headed for the dining room. Showtime.

"Antonio!" The head waiter, Giuseppe, waved him over. "You take the private room tonight. Important guests, so no mistakes."

"Si, capisce," Malik replied, letting just enough nervousness show. New guy eager to please, grateful for the opportunity. "What do they need?"

"Water, wine, maybe some food later. Mostly they talk business. You keep quiet, you keep glasses full, you don't hear nothing. Understand?"

"Perfetto."

The private dining room was in the back of the restaurant, separated from the main floor by heavy doors that muffled sound. Nine men and one woman sat around a mahogany table that had probably seen more criminal conspiracies than most courtrooms.

Sal Maroni presided at the head of the table, a compact man with silver hair and eyes that missed nothing. He looked up as Malik entered with water glasses, studying the new face with the attention of someone who'd survived forty years in organized crime by trusting no one.

"You're new," Maroni said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes sir. Antonio Benedetto. Started Monday."

"Where you from, Antonio?"

"The Narrows, sir. Born and raised."

Maroni nodded, apparently satisfied. Malik had chosen his cover story carefully. The Narrows produced plenty of kids desperate enough to take any work available, no questions asked.

For the next hour, Malik moved through the room like furniture. Refilling water glasses, bringing wine, clearing plates. The criminals talked around him as if he didn't exist, which was exactly what he'd hoped for.

What he heard made his blood run cold.

"The shipment comes in Tuesday," Maroni was saying. "Fifty million in product, enough to supply the entire eastern seaboard for six months."

"Security?" asked Vincent Falcone.

"My people handle the docks, your family provides muscle for distribution. But first we clean house."

"Clean house how?"

"Eliminate the competition. Penguin's been muscling in on territory that doesn't belong to him. Time to remind him there are consequences."

Malik's hand tightened on the wine bottle he was holding. They were planning to hit Cobblepot's operation. But not just a territorial dispute. They were talking about assassination.

They were going to take...his kill.

"When?" Maria Santos asked.

"Saturday night. Penguin's hosting a party at the Iceberg Lounge. All his lieutenants in one place, minimal security because it's supposed to be social." Maroni's smile was cold as winter. "We go in hard, eliminate the entire command structure, absorb what's left of his organization."

"What about Batman?" Tommy Marcelli's voice carried concern.

"Batman's in Metropolis helping Superman with some alien invasion bullshit. Won't be back for a week." Maroni leaned back in his chair. "Perfect timing."

Malik continued moving around the room, but his mind was racing. These motherfuckers were planning a complete restructuring of Gotham's criminal hierarchy. If the Maroni family eliminated Penguin's organization and absorbed his territory, they'd control sixty percent of the city's illegal activities.

Worse, they'd be strong enough to challenge other families for complete dominance. The careful balance that had kept Gotham's underworld from open war for the past decade would collapse overnight.

"We go in Saturday at midnight," Maroni continued. "Three teams. Santos handles the club's security systems, Marcelli takes point on the assault team, Falcone coordinates extraction. By Sunday morning, the Penguin is dead and his empire belongs to us."

"What about witnesses?" Vincent asked.

"No witnesses. Anyone in that club Saturday night who isn't with us is against us." Maroni's tone was matter-of-fact, like he was discussing dinner reservations instead of mass murder.

Malik felt sick. Not just criminals would die in that attack. The Iceberg Lounge employed dozens of civilians. Waitresses, bartenders, security guards who were just trying to make a living. All of them would be collateral damage in Maroni's grab for power.

He needed to get this information to someone who could stop it. Batman was out of town, but maybe Commissioner Gordon, or the FBI, or—

"Hey, you."

Malik looked up to find Tommy Marcelli staring at him with suspicious eyes.

"You been awfully quiet, kid. Most new guys, they're nervous around important people. You seem real comfortable."

"Just trying to do my job, sir."

"Your job, huh?" Tommy stood up, moving closer. "Tell me, Antonio, what neighborhood in the Narrows you from exactly?"

Shit. Malik's cover story was solid, but if Tommy started asking specific questions about streets and landmarks, the deception would fall apart quickly.

"Tenth and Morrison," Malik said, naming an intersection he'd memorized from maps.

"Tenth and Morrison." Tommy's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Funny thing, my cousin lives on Tenth Street. Says there's been a family named Benedetto there for twenty years. Old man, his wife, two daughters. No son."

Double shit.

"Maybe you got confused," Malik said, letting nervousness creep into his voice. "I meant Ninth Street."

"Did you?" Tommy was close enough now that Malik could smell his cologne and see the gun bulge under his jacket. "Or maybe you're not who you say you are."

The room had gone silent. Eight pairs of criminal eyes focused on the teenager in the waiter's uniform who might be something more than he appeared.

Malik's mind raced through options. Fight his way out? Possible,

but he'd have to disable nine experienced killers, and even Ted's training had limits. Talk his way out? Tommy was too suspicious now, and Maroni was too careful to let potential threats walk away.

Which left option three: controlled chaos.

"You're right," Malik said, straightening up and letting his fake accent disappear. "I'm not Antonio Benedetto."

.....

...

"I'm your father...your mother just didn't tell you..."

The statement sent every criminal in the room reaching for weapons. Malik used their moment of confusion to grab the wine bottle from the table and hurl it at the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

In the blackness that followed, Malik moved with the fluid grace Selina had spent years drilling into him. He knew exactly where each person was sitting, which way they'd move, how to navigate the furniture without making sound.

Tommy Marcelli fired twice into the darkness, missing Malik by inches. Vincent Falcone overturned the table, trying to create cover. Maria Santos was shouting for someone to find the goddamn light switch.

Malik was already at the window.

The private dining room was on the second floor, overlooking an alley that separated Maroni's restaurant from a boutique hotel. Fifteen-foot drop to a dumpster, then fire escape access to either building. He'd scouted the escape route weeks ago.

Glass shattered as Malik dove through the window, tucking into a roll that absorbed most of the impact when he hit the dumpster's metal lid. Behind him, the dining room erupted in gunfire as criminals shot at shadows and each other.

Malik bounced off the dumpster, landed cat-like on the alley pavement, and sprinted for the fire escape. Behind him, lights were coming on in the restaurant as people tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.

He made it to the hotel's roof as the first Maroni soldiers reached the alley. From there, it was a simple matter of disappearing into Gotham's maze of rooftops and fire escapes. Within ten minutes, he was six blocks away, breathing hard but alive.

His phone buzzed with a text from Selina: "Status?"

"Wraith successful," he typed back, using the callsign they'd agreed on for situations exactly like this. "Intelligence acquired. Cover blown but clean escape."

"Good work. Come home."

Malik made his way back to the apartment using a route that would confuse any surveillance.

The question was what to do with the intelligence he'd gathered. Warn Penguin? Alert the authorities? Let the criminals eliminate each other and pick up the pieces afterward?

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