Alberto Falcone, the Roman's most beloved son, lay buried somewhere in the icy waters of Gotham Harbor.
It was earth-shattering news. The kind that made even hardened criminals pause mid-conversation, made newspaper editors scramble to rewrite front pages, made the entire underworld ecosystem shift its weight like a house settling on a cracked foundation.
No one could have imagined this.
The Falcone family had dumped countless bodies into Gotham Harbor over the years—hundreds, certainly. Thousands, probably. Bodies wrapped in chains, stuffed in barrels, weighted with concrete blocks that ensured they'd never surface. The harbor floor was practically paved with the Roman's enemies.
But never, never, had anyone imagined that the son of the current Falcone patriarch would suffer the same fate.
If this were cosmic justice—cause and effect, karmic retribution coming full circle—it seemed excessively cruel to inflict it on Alberto. He'd always wanted to participate in the family business, yes. But his father had deliberately isolated him from operations, kept him clean, preserved him from the bloodstains that marked every other Falcone.
In practical terms, Alberto had never directly committed a crime worth prosecuting.
Using the death of such a marginal figure as revenge against Carmine Falcone felt less like justice and more like sadism.
But regardless of philosophy or fairness, everyone in Gotham could recognize the same fundamental fact:
The city was about to change.
"SEARCH!" The Godfather's voice cracked like a whip across the yacht deck. "Find my son! If there's no body, it means Alberto is still alive!"
The crowd remained silent. Nobody moved with particular urgency.
Everyone knew Carmine Falcone was clinging to the last thread of hope—the desperate calculation of a father who couldn't accept what basic physics made inevitable. Alberto had been shot. Even if the bullet hadn't killed him immediately, even if he'd somehow survived the impact and the shock and the fall—
The water was freezing.
January in Gotham Harbor. Ice forming at the edges. Temperature hovering just above the point where the entire surface would crystallize solid.
Hours had passed since the shooting.
If Alberto Falcone wasn't dead yet, he would be soon. And if the body hadn't surfaced by now, the currents had probably carried it out to sea, or the weight of winter clothing had dragged it down to join all the other corpses the Falcones had contributed to Gotham's aquatic graveyard.
The irony was too perfect.
Too cruel.
Nobody dared point it out to the Godfather.
But what did this turbulent upheaval in Gotham's criminal ecosystem have to do with Jude Sharp, part-time waiter and full-time survivor?
"Boss!" Jude's voice carried warmth that would've been convincing if you didn't know him well. "I missed you so much! When you weren't around, I thought about the peaceful days in the restaurant every single day."
He stood in the Red Dragon's employee entrance, dressed in casual winter clothes—thick jacket, scarf, gloves that made his hands look twice their normal size—radiating the kind of friendly enthusiasm that made suspicious people more suspicious.
Supervisor Philip stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on crutches, one leg encased in plaster from ankle to mid-thigh. His face carried an expression that suggested he'd just bitten into something rotten and couldn't spit it out without causing a scene.
He really, really didn't want to take this unlucky bastard back.
The evidence was damning:
Two months ago, Jude had started working at the Red Dragon Restaurant. By the end of that first month Batman had raided the establishment, destroyed a chandelier, hospitalized the entire armed staff, and forced the restaurant to close indefinitely.
One month ago, Donald had pushed Jude toward the Falcone family as an exclusive event waiter. A prestigious position. Good money. Connections to Gotham's most powerful crime family.
And now?
Alberto Falcone—the Roman's beloved son, Jude's direct supervisor for that cruise party gig—was dead. Shot by the Holiday Killer on New Year's Eve and dumped into the same harbor where his family had dumped so many others.
Nobody suspected Jude was the murderer, of course.
Batman had destroyed the Red Dragon for reasons entirely unrelated to any individual waiter. And the Holiday Killer clearly had a vendetta against the Falcone family specifically. The pattern was obvious.
But still.
It was too much coincidence. Too much bad luck concentrated in one person.
The gangs in Gotham—for all their brutality and corruption—maintained certain old-school sensibilities. They believed in honor codes, in loyalty, in omens. They threw salt over shoulders and avoided black cats and read fortunes in tea leaves when nobody was watching.
And Jude? Jude was starting to look like a walking curse.
Jude remembers his last interaction with the Romans.
"Every time I see you," Carmine Falcone had said, one heavy hand resting on Jude's shoulder, "I can't help but think of Alberto."
His eyes had been red-rimmed. Exhausted. Carrying the kind of grief that burned from the inside out.
"Go, child." The Godfather's grip tightened, then released. "You should be able to understand my feelings as a father. Go back to Red Dragon. Donald will be happy to have you."
Jude's feelings at that moment had been... complicated.
On one hand, his December salary had arrived as scheduled. Thirty thousand dollars, deposited into his account with no fanfare, no ceremony, just the cold efficiency of a criminal organization that paid its employees on time even when the boss's son was floating face-down in the harbor.
Because to the Falcone family, both things mattered: family and business. Sons and operations. You mourned your dead, yes—but you also paid your soldiers, because unpaid soldiers became former soldiers very quickly, and former soldiers talked to rivals or cops or whoever would listen.
Maybe, Jude thought with uncomfortable insight, Alberto had actually been more important to Carmine than the business. The fact that salaries got paid despite the tragedy suggested that maintaining appearances, maintaining structure, was the Godfather's way of coping.
Regardless, thirty thousand dollars was thirty thousand dollars.
For a job that had consisted primarily of cooking Nanakusa-gayu for orphans in a soup kitchen while technically being "on call" for events that never happened? That had occasionally allowed Jude to sneak away and do charity work while still drawing a paycheck?
It was the best employment arrangement in Gotham.
On the other hand—
The Godfather had been planning war with Maroni before Alberto's death. Now? With his beloved son murdered by a killer who seemed to target Falcones specifically? With evidence planted at the scene pointing toward the same Holiday Killer who'd already claimed multiple family members?
The coming gang war would be apocalyptic.
Continuing to work for the Falcone family meant putting himself in the crossfire of a vendetta that would paint the streets red.
Returning to Red Dragon was the safer choice.
Assuming Philip would take him back.
"I've got you covered." Philip's voice carried all the enthusiasm of a man describing his own execution. "No matter what chaos you bring with you, just—practice your shooting. You should be able to hit a target by now, right?"
"No problem." Jude patted his chest with absolute confidence. "Apart from accuracy, my shooting skills are basically flawless now."
Silence.
Philip's face slowly turned red. Not the healthy flush of exertion, but the deep crimson of blood pressure spiking toward stroke territory. Memories flooded back with perfect, painful clarity:
The chandelier. The expensive chandelier reduced to sparkling debris because Jude had aimed at a table and hit the ceiling fixture instead.
The mumbling. The endless excuses. "The gun pulled left. The target moved. The lighting was bad."
The infuriating marksmanship that somehow got worse the more he practiced.
The hopelessly casual attitude that treated near-fatal friendly fire incidents like minor inconveniences.
All of it came rushing back like a PTSD flashback condensed into three seconds of pure, concentrated frustration.
Every word Philip wanted to say—every lecture about competence, every threat about termination, every screaming question about how the fuck do you miss a man standing three feet in front of you—dissolved into a single, furious instruction.
"GO CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES AND GET TO WORK!"
Jude slipped into the locker room with the speed of someone escaping an explosion.
The familiar space welcomed him back—metal lockers lined up like soldiers, wooden benches worn smooth by years of use, the faint smell of industrial cleaner that never quite masked the underlying odor of cigarettes and stress sweat.
Some of his former coworkers were already there, changing into their uniforms for the evening shift. The Red Dragon had reopened two weeks ago, operating at reduced capacity while they recovered and the legal complications from Batman's raid slowly untangled themselves through Gotham's spectacularly corrupt court system.
Not everyone had returned yet. The more seriously injured were still in hospitals or rehabilitation. But enough staff had recovered to maintain basic operations.
Jude exchanged greetings—careful, professional, noting which faces were missing.
Santos wasn't here. Lloyd Rick wasn't here. Bridget Castro wasn't here.
The competent trio who'd actually known how to handle shootouts, who'd checked Jude for gang tattoos on his first day, who'd been professional enforcers disguised as waiters.
Probably still hospitalized. Batman didn't pull punches.
"Good to see you back, Jude," one of the line cooks said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Heard you've been working for the Falcones. That true?"
"Was," Jude corrected, pulling his waiter's uniform from his assigned locker. "Not anymore."
"Smart move." The cook's expression turned grim. "Things are about to get messy. Alberto's death—the Roman's going to burn Gotham down looking for revenge."
Jude didn't argue. He just nodded and finished changing.
As he buttoned his vest, the system notification chimed in his peripheral vision.
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Employment Hours - December:
Total verified: 160 hours
Wage rate: $15/hour
Base calculation: $2,400
Falcone Family Bonus:
Exclusive event retainer: $27,600
Total December Income: $30,000
Asset Points Earned:
Wage conversion: 2,400 points
Tips collected: 3,100 points
Total: 5,500 asset points
Current Balance: $119,900
Jude stared at the number.
Six figures. He'd crossed into six-figure asset point territory.
119,900 asset points.
The number felt surreal. Like finding out you'd won the lottery using a ticket you'd found in the trash.
A second notification expanded across his vision:
MISSION UPDATE
"Winter in Gotham City"
Status: In Progress (100%)
Reward Activated
Festival Attribute Effect - UNLOCKED
Your cooking gains permanent festival-specific enhancements when prepared during appropriate holidays. Current festival food: Nanakusa-gayu
Attributes Granted:
Harmonious Nourishing - Nanakusa-gayu provides enhanced nutritional supplementation to consumers beyond normal food values.
Warm Body, Dispel Cold - Nanakusa-gayu grants consumers enhanced resistance to cold temperatures for 12 hours after consumption.
Current Enhancement Progress: 100%
Mission progress has reached maximum threshold. Holiday attribute enhancement cap has been opened. As mission continues to advance, festival attributes will be permanently added to food. Additional reward period ends mid-January. Maximum permanent enhancement: 50%
Current Permanent Enhancement: 15.360%
System Note: Perhaps you should consider employment in Antarctica—the biggest difference between polar bears and you are that they aren't as resistant to cold as you.