Chapter 3– The Maroni Job
Jack Napier sat on the edge of his bed, a cheap mattress sagging under his weight. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and mildew. A single lightbulb swung from the ceiling, making shadows crawl along the walls. His fingers drummed against his knees as his mind ran faster than his body could sit still.
He needed money. Real money. Not three crumpled bills, not coins scavenged from a diner table. Enough to start something bigger.
The Maroni Family had it.
The newspapers wrote about Falcone as the king of Gotham's underworld, but Jack knew better. Falcone was the polished face, the "respectable" mobster who shook hands with judges and politicians. Maroni? He was the other side of the coin—brutal, sloppy, but loaded with cash. The family ran rackets all over Gotham: drugs, gambling dens, protection money squeezed out of mom-and-pop stores. And most importantly, they moved money every Thursday night.
Jack had noticed it weeks ago, watching patterns. Maroni's collectors always brought in the week's earnings to a private counting house in Chinatown. A narrow building with peeling red paint and a neon dragon sign that buzzed all night. On Thursdays, the collectors walked in carrying duffel bags. They left empty-handed.
The money stayed.
And if the money stayed, so could he.
Jack pulled out his notepad and sketched the building. A square box with one front door, a side alley, and a fire escape. Two guards at the front, maybe one inside. Not much security—not the kind banks used. The Maronis trusted fear more than locks. Who would be stupid enough to rob them?
He grinned at the thought.
"Who would be stupid enough? Me."
Step One: Information
Jack didn't just storm in. He spent four days scouting. He hung around the noodle shop across the street, slurping broth and pretending to read old magazines. He timed the guards' cigarette breaks, the arrival of the collectors, the cars that stopped by. He noticed that every Thursday, around 8:30 PM, a truck came by with the week's haul. The collectors carried the cash inside, dumped it on the table, and left within ten minutes.
That left a thirty-minute window before Maroni's men drove the money out.
Thirty minutes to slip in, grab as much as he could, and vanish.
But walking through the front door was suicide. Jack needed brains, not bullets.
Step Two: The Weak Point
One night, while pretending to drunk-stumble in the alley, Jack saw it—the window. A second-floor bathroom window with rusted hinges and a crack in the glass. No bars. Just old paint flaking away.
Perfect.
He climbed the fire escape slowly, boots silent on the metal rungs. At the top, he pressed his palm against the window. Loose. Very loose. He could pry it open with a screwdriver.
Now he had a way in.
Step Three: The Distraction
The Maronis weren't smart, but they weren't idiots either. Even with a quiet entry, someone might walk in. Jack needed them looking the other way.
That's when he spotted the diner down the block. Every Thursday, a group of dockworkers drank there after shifts. By 9:00, half of them were loud and ready to fight. All Jack had to do was push them in the right direction.
The plan formed piece by piece, like puzzle tiles snapping together.
Slip something into their drinks. Something harmless, just enough to make them restless. When the fight spilled into the street, the Maroni guards would rush to watch—or even join in. While they were distracted, Jack would slip inside, grab the cash, and vanish.
A clean job. High risk, yes, but high reward.
Step Four: Tools
Jack didn't own weapons, not really. A cheap knife from a pawn shop, a crowbar, and his screwdriver. That would have to do. He wasn't looking for a gunfight.
What he did buy, though, was a gas mask. Not military-grade, just something from an army surplus store. Why? Because he'd add one final layer to his plan: smoke. A simple distraction grenade, homemade from instructions he found in an old chemistry forum.
If something went wrong, he'd throw it, mask up, and vanish in the chaos.
Jack wasn't a fighter. Not yet. But he could be smarter.
The Night of the Job
Thursday. 8:15 PM.
Jack stood in the diner, hood pulled low over his face. He ordered a beer, dumped a small packet of powder into two glasses left unattended, and slid them toward the rowdy dockworkers.
It took ten minutes. One shove, one insult, and fists started flying. Chairs broke. The owner screamed. The fight spilled into the street just as Jack had hoped.
From the alley, Jack saw the guards turn their heads. One even crossed the street, laughing, ready to watch the chaos.
"Showtime," Jack muttered.
He climbed the fire escape, pried open the window, and slid inside.
The bathroom stank of mold. He moved quickly, crouching low. Voices echoed faintly from below—the sound of bills being counted, maybe three men talking. He crept along the hallway until he found the door to the counting room.
It was cracked open.
Through it, Jack saw stacks of cash on the table. Bundles of green, tied neatly with rubber bands. His heart pounded in his ears. That much money… he could live for months. No—he could build something with it.
He crouched, slid the crowbar gently into the crack, and eased the door open. One step. Two.
A man at the table turned his head.
"Hey—who the hell—"
Jack didn't think. He lunged, swinging the crowbar. It cracked against the man's jaw with a sickening thud. The other two shot up, reaching for pistols.
"Shit."
Jack yanked the smoke canister from his bag, pulled the pin, and hurled it to the floor. Thick white clouds exploded, filling the room. The men coughed, swearing, stumbling into each other.
Jack slapped the gas mask over his face and bolted for the table. His hands grabbed stacks of cash, shoving them into the duffel bag as the smoke blinded everyone. His fingers shook, his chest heaved, but he didn't stop.
One of the men fired blindly. The bullet tore into the wall just inches from Jack's head.
He didn't wait to test his luck. Bag half-full, he sprinted back toward the hallway, slamming into the wall, nearly tripping. Behind him, voices shouted, footsteps pounded.
The fire escape was his only chance. He crashed through the bathroom window, glass slicing his arm, and scrambled down the ladder as bullets cracked against the metal.
By the time he hit the alley, the fight in the street had gotten worse. Sirens wailed in the distance. Perfect cover. Jack pulled his hood low, vanished into the crowd, and didn't stop running until he was five blocks away.
In an abandoned warehouse, Jack dumped the cash onto the floor. Bundles spilled out like a green waterfall. He sat back, breathing hard, blood dripping from his arm, mask still dangling around his neck.
He laughed. A raw, shaking laugh that echoed in the empty room.
He'd done it. He'd robbed the Maroni Family and lived.
It wasn't perfect. He hadn't taken everything. But it was enough. Enough to buy time, tools, maybe even people. Enough to plant the seed of something greater.
Jack lay back on the concrete, staring at the ceiling. His mind buzzed with plans, new angles, new schemes.
But beneath all that strategy, beneath the calculations and details, a thought nagged at him.
The Maronis wouldn't let this slide. They'd hunt for the thief. They'd want blood.
Jack smiled to himself, lips curling.
"Then let them come."
Across Gotham, in a dimly lit office, Sal Maroni slammed his fist against the table as his men stammered through excuses.
"Somebody hit us? In our own house?" he roared. His eyes narrowed to slits. "Find him. I don't care how long it takes. Whoever he is… he's dead."
And miles away, Jack Napier lit a cigarette, duffel bag of cash at his feet, already sketching his next plan.
The hunt had begun.