The black cars slid up to the curb, tires hissing through puddles and spraying water everywhere. Doors opened, and polished shoes hit the pavement. Men in dark suits snapped open umbrellas and moved quickly to form protective circles around their bosses.
Rain hammered down on Gotham's old quarter, turning the cobblestone streets slick. Nino's Restaurant glowed with warm yellow light from its windows, the stained glass depicting the Virgin Mary distorted by rainwater running down in streams.
Inside, an old gramophone played low Sicilian folk music. The air was thick with the smell of tomato sauce simmering on the stove, fresh basil, roasted garlic, and bread baking somewhere in the back.
Falcone sat at the table furthest from the door, his back to the wall so he could see everyone who entered. He wore a tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit, an eagle-head tie clip gleaming at his throat. His hair was slicked back. He was past sixty, but his posture was ramrod straight. His hands were steady as he twirled seafood linguine onto a silver fork. Only his eyes gave away his age.
"I love this place. I haven't been here in years, but I still remember coming here as a young man."
Falcone took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then set down his fork.
"This place reminds me of Tony's shop." He picked up his wine glass, swirled it once, and set it back down untouched. "Shame. People these days don't appreciate tradition anymore."
"Tradition's important, Don Falcone." Maroni stomped in from the rain, shaking water off his shoes. He was built like a bull, thick neck, barrel chest, arms that strained the seams of his black shirt. He'd left the collar open, showing off chest hair and gold chains. A vicious scar cut through his right eyebrow. "We should all respect tradition."
He dropped into the chair across from Falcone without being invited, grabbed an oyster from the appetizer plate, and slurped it down raw.
"Overcooked," he said, smacking his lips. "You can taste it."
"When something cooks too long, it burns," Falcone replied evenly.
Thorne arrived last, his belly preceding him through the door. He wore a red suit that clashed with everything in the restaurant, and his face was locked in a permanent salesman's smile. His eyes were already sizing up the room.
"One burned dish ruins everyone's appetite," he said, settling into his chair with a grunt.
Falcone picked up a bottle of wine and poured three glasses. He slid two across the table toward Maroni and Thorne.
"An uncontrolled fire," he said quietly, "needs to be put out before it spreads."
Maroni stared at the wine glass. "The Roman himself pouring drinks for me? If word gets out, people might think you're desperate. No offense, Carmine. Just busting your balls."
"None taken." Falcone's expression didn't change. "There are no outsiders here. Just family."
"Family?" Maroni barked a laugh. "Everyone knows that Cobblepot is useless, but I heard you beat him half to death over some bullshit suspicion. I don't like the guy either, but is that how you treat family?"
Falcone's gaze flicked toward Thorne, who was examining the menu.
"Loyalty is a fragile thing. Rupert should understand that better than anyone." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "Sometimes you need to cut your losses before they bleed you dry. And Cobblepot was never going to amount to anything anyway."
Thorne just kept reading the menu, refusing to take the bait.
"Enough dancing," Maroni said, waving his hand dismissively. "You called us here to deal with that masked psycho. I respect tradition, but tradition also says everything has a price."
"The price is peace," Falcone said, setting down his napkin with deliberate care. "In the last week, I've lost four warehouses. Three shipments worth eight million dollars. Over a hundred loyal men, dead or in the hospital. Salvatore, you lost two casinos to arson. Rupert, three of your distribution centers got raided and torched. And this is just the beginning. Black Mask doesn't want territory. He wants to burn down everything we've built."
"Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Carmine." Maroni leaned back, lacing his fingers over his belly. "You're the Caesar of this city. Me? I'm just a businessman. I can handle my losses. Hey, Rup, stop staring at that chicken and pay attention—"
"I need to know what I'm eating," Thorne said irritably, glaring at the herb-roasted chicken that had just been placed in front of him. "I'm a businessman, like Sal said. Peace is important, sure. But what are we getting out of this besides warm feelings?"
"He's got a point." Maroni nodded. "So, Carmine. Besides peace and stability and all that feel-good horseshit, what do we get?"
Falcone glanced toward the bar. Zsasz sat there on a stool, looking bored, flipping a silver knife between his fingers. The blade caught the light every time it spun.
After a moment of silence, he said, "All of Black Mask's territory will be divided between you"
"All of it?" Maroni tilted his head. "You mean his original territory? Or what he's got now?" He closed his eyes and listened to the gramophone for a moment. "You got anything more upbeat than this funeral music?"
He scooted his chair closer to Falcone, leaning in, invading his space. "The territory he started with? None of us wanted it. You know why? Because it's a shithole. The West End docks are full of junkies and psychos. We didn't need them before, and we won't need them after."
He spread his hands. "Now, if you're talking about giving us everything he controls now, then maybe we should wait a few more days. Let him take even more before we move in."
Falcone's jaw tightened. Maroni saw it and grinned. "Kidding. We're family, right? So tell us your plan."
Falcone reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded map of Gotham City. He spread it across the table, smoothing out the creases. Different colored markers showed the territories controlled by each family. The western districts were covered in red Xs.
"Information sharing," he said, tapping the map with one finger. "Resource pooling. Coordinated strikes. We divide the city into defensive zones, set up joint patrols, and create an emergency fund. If any one of us gets hit, the others provide backup."
Thorne burst out laughing. "This is beautiful. A gangster United Nations. Just one problem, Don Falcone. Who's in charge of this wonderful alliance? You?"
He leaned forward, still smiling his salesman smile. "Black Mask has what, three hundred crazy bastards willing to die for him? Plus some kind of freak with superpowers working for him. So who exactly gets to be the vanguard? Who takes the first bullet?"
"No one's in charge," Falcone said coldly. "What's needed is memory. I remember every favor and debt." He looked at each of them in turn. "This isn't a request. It's the only way we survive. You can refuse, Salvatore. But when you're drowning, you'll watch my ship sail past. And when you're gone, your casinos and your docks will belong to someone who understands how this city works."
"Carmine, Carmine." Maroni's grin widened. "We're hyenas. You're the lion king. A new predator shows up on the savanna, isn't this your chance to prove you've still got teeth?"
He leaned even closer. "If I was the lion king, I'd handle this myself. Not drag everyone else down with me."
"Well said," Falcone said. "But remember, when the lion dies, the next one torn apart is always the loudest hyena."
---
The meeting ended badly. Not with violence, Falcone was too smart for that, but with the kind of cold silence that said more than words ever could.
Maroni climbed into the back of his car, slamming the door. His driver didn't ask questions, just started the engine and pulled into traffic.
His expression shifted as they drove, the mocking grin sliding off his face like a mask. Falcone was old. But he still had claws, and those claws were sharp enough to kill if you got careless.
Black Mask was insane, which made him unpredictable.
What he needed was a trump card.
"Take me to Arkham."
The driver didn't react. He'd learned a long time ago not to ask questions. They drove through the rain, past neighborhoods, until they reached the northern edge of the city, where Arkham Asylum crouched on its island. The main building was dark except for a few scattered lights, but Maroni wasn't interested in the main building.
They parked in the service lot. Maroni got out, flanked by two bodyguards, and walked to a maintenance entrance. They descended three flights of stairs into a subbasement.
The air changed as they went down. Harsh LED lights replaced the dim bulbs from above. The walls were clean white tile. And the smell...
The laboratory took up the entire third sublevel. Stainless steel tables. Computer monitors displaying scrolling data. Jars of biological samples floating in formaldehyde.
Strange stood in front of a massive cylindrical tank, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a white lab coat over an expensive suit, and his glasses reflected the green glow from the tank, hiding his eyes.
Inside the tank, suspended in green nutrient fluid, floated something that had once been human.
It was huge, easily over two meters tall, with muscles that looked like they'd been inflated to the point of bursting. The skin was an unhealthy reddish-brown. Its face was slack, vacant, tubes running from its mouth and nose.
"Welcome to the future," Strange said without turning around. "As you can see, Subject One is stable. His baseline strength is nine to twelve times that of an ordinary human. Pain receptors significantly dulled. And most importantly, complete obedience."
Maroni walked up to the tank, staring at the thing inside. "Can it handle that electric freak under Black Mask? Or that flying bat? Because it looks like a drooling idiot."
"Autonomy," Strange said, finally turning to face him, "is the root of all problems. What you need isn't a partner with opinions. You need a weapon that does exactly what you tell it to do. Nothing more. Nothing less."
Maroni pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. He studied Subject One, then shifted his gaze to Strange.
Falcone relied on tradition and fear. Black Mask relied on chaos and violence.
He was going to rely on science.
"Good. Money's not a problem. But keep this thing under control. I don't want any surprises."
"Of course." Strange inclined his head slightly. "Everything is under control. Arkham's walls are more than sufficient to contain any accidents. By the way, how did tonight's meeting go?"
Maroni snorted and didn't answer. He turned and walked back toward the stairs, bodyguards falling in behind him.
The moment he turned his back, something changed inside the tank.
Subject One's eyes, which had been closed, opened just a fraction. The pupils moved, tracking Maroni's departure. Deep in that vacant stare, something flickered. Then it was gone, swallowed by chemical fog.