Making a crystal ball music box required more technical skill than Jude's previous two tasks, but the requirement of "silent" made it surprisingly simple.
A music box without sound was just an ordinary crystal ball. The most labor-intensive components—sound barrel, soundboard, mechanical pins—were completely unnecessary. He just needed to make it rotate.
The parts for rotation were easy to purchase. Assembly wasn't difficult. Jude didn't need to spend asset points on basic handicraft skills. He could follow online tutorials step by step.
"Lucky that tomorrow's Christmas," he muttered while working. "Falcone family isn't hosting parties. They're all staying home to celebrate. Otherwise I'd have to ask Falcone for time off. Tsk, is this what being working class feels like?"
Don't misunderstand. Jude was just an ordinary waiter with no access to disturb the busy Gotham City mafia godfather. Even if he successfully became head chef someday, the Falcone he'd ask for leave from wasn't the Roman himself.
It was the Roman's biological son, Alberto Falcone.
Although he was the Godfather's biological son, Alberto's name was rarely mentioned by his family. Whether in newspaper reports or among Gotham underworld insiders, opinions about him were limited to four words: smart and transparent.
Through his own efforts, he'd won a scholarship to Harvard University. Later attended Oxford for further studies. His academic credentials and IQ were outstanding among Gotham City's criminal elite. Logically speaking, with such a son, the Roman's underworld empire could be said to have a worthy successor.
But that second impression—transparent—was created deliberately by the Romans themselves.
Carmine Falcone had forbidden Alberto from involvement in family business since childhood. Instead, his brother Mario Falcone and sister Sofia Falcone served as the Godfather's right-hand operators, assisting with gang affairs. Alberto had told his father countless times that he wanted to follow in his footsteps.
The answer was always the same.
"No. You don't touch the family business."
So Alberto could only manage trivial, harmless family affairs. Living the life of a rich young man like Bruce Wayne. But he wasn't accustomed to Bruce's indulgent lifestyle, so he became increasingly introverted and silent. People's impression of him grew weaker over time.
But Jude could say with certainty: Alberto was definitely Falcone's favorite son. No doubt about it.
At the same time, across the city:
"Dent! It must be Harvey Dent!"
Outside the Maroni family's Italian restaurant, faint sounds were drowned by wind and snow. Doors and windows locked tight. Passersby couldn't see what was happening inside.
Within, dimmed ambient lighting—common in high-end restaurants—illuminated a single dining table and vaguely outlined the surrounding area.
Most tables and chairs sat neatly arranged. The entire restaurant seemed empty, as if cleared for the two people at the main table.
"I want some men, my dear fellow." The speaker gestured with his wine glass. "Good hands, I mean. Placed in the District Attorney's office. Keeping round-the-clock eyes on Harvey Dent."
"Already arranged, Mr. Maroni. I found a guy named Vernon. Hahahahaha hehehe—"
The man with the mustache held red wine and couldn't stop laughing. His voice sounded exactly like a cartoon villain. Dark. Theatrical. Evil.
And his words matched perfectly.
"Dear friend?" Maroni, sitting opposite, frowned. This loss of composure was unusual. The villain's laughter sounded creepy. "What the hell is so funny about this?"
The man holding the wine glass didn't answer. Just kept laughing. Creepily.
"Hehehehehohoha—"
He threw down the wine glass with wild laughter and dove face-first into the plate of pasta in front of him. The smile on his face was so bright the corners of his mouth stretched from ear to ear. He didn't make any other sound.
Didn't move.
Maroni got splashed with spaghetti sauce when the man collapsed forward. He immediately flew into rage. But before he could lose his temper, a waiter in white appeared with a tray.
"Would you like some more wine, Mr. Maroni?"
A teasing voice sounded in his ear. Maroni's attention snapped toward the speaker.
Dark green curly hair. Skin as pale as a corpse. Pointed nose. Two sharp, mean eyebrows. The corners of his mouth stretched almost to his ears in an unrestrained smile.
Not a warm smile. A creepy smile. A cold smile.
His gaze was like a cat watching a mouse. Like a poisonous snake eyeing a traveler. There was no smile in his eyes, which formed an abrupt, shocking contrast with the massive grin splitting his face.
Just by looking at him, Maroni instinctively felt chill. Chaos and madness mixed with strong malice hit him in waves. Even this gangster who'd lived on the knife's edge for years felt genuine fear.
So he used anger to mask it.
He looked down at the man before him with angry, arrogant expression. "No clown enters my territory, and then—"
"Mine's bigger than yours, Maroni."
A revolver with a barrel the size of Maroni's forehead pressed against his skull. His hand froze mid-air while trying to pull his own gun from his pocket.
His eyes widened. He stared at the other person's smiling mouth and nonchalant eyes. At this moment, Maroni realized he faced a real lunatic.
This man didn't care about consequences of killing him. Didn't care how powerful Maroni was. Didn't care about retaliation or gang wars or any of it.
He genuinely didn't mind killing right now.
The clown spoke again. "Or should I call you the Holiday Killer?"
Hearing this outrageous statement, Maroni retorted reflexively. "Holiday Killer? Me?"
"Of course." The Joker tilted his head, curious. "You're the second most powerful man in Gotham City. Carmine Falcone, the Roman, is the 'first man' in Gotham."
"The Holiday Killer only slaughtered Romans. So of course you got the most benefit—"
"No, wait, I swear on my mother's grave—"
Maroni panicked. Spoke without thinking. All demeanor and dignity as a gangster gone.
"Look, this is all about business. The whole Holiday Killer thing is ruining everyone's business!"
The Joker blinked, confused. Scratched his head like a puzzled child. Then put his pale face directly in front of Maroni's, blinking with exaggerated curiosity.
"Then who is the Holiday Killer?"
The question hung in the cold restaurant air.