Poison Ivy's face darkened like storm clouds gathering. She turned to glare at Jude with the kind of fury that could wither houseplants.
"Even if I'd asked you to leave earlier, you wouldn't have gone," Jude said quickly, holding up placating hands. "So you can't blame me for this. But look—you can keep the flowerpot."
He extended the pot toward her. Batman remained silent in the shadows. Ivy looked between them, calculating odds, weighing options.
Finally, she sighed—deep and defeated—and handed the vine back to Jude.
"If it weren't for these children," she said, voice low and dangerous as she stood, "you would have experienced the wrath of nature firsthand."
"I do respect nature," Jude replied earnestly. "And I hope nature won't hold this against me. You're welcome to visit anytime."
It was hard to stay angry at someone so aggressively polite. Ivy's expression softened fractionally. She shot one last glare at Batman's silhouette, then followed him toward the window.
SLAM.
Jude closed the door with perhaps more force than necessary.
I can't take it anymore. Batman is pure evil.
He crawled back into bed, pulling the blankets tight. Batman had known Poison Ivy could sense when her plants were removed. Had known she'd track down whoever took them. The entire rescue operation had been designed as bait—with Jude as the worm on the hook.
And he'd walked right into it.
At least I wore underwear to bed tonight, Jude thought, wrapping himself into a blanket cocoon. If I'd been sleeping naked, I'd be dead from embarrassment.
He burrowed deeper into the covers and let sleep claim him again.
Several days later. Arkham Asylum.
Poison Ivy sat on one side of a square metal table, standard-issue furniture bolted to the floor. The person across from her remained hidden in shadow—just the vague outline of shoulders and a face obscured by calculated darkness.
"Everyone was against the idea."
A large hand emerged into the light—expensive gold watch glinting—and pushed stacks of green bills across the table. Crisp hundreds, bundled tight.
"We have certain... rules. We don't normally cooperate with people like you."
"If Batman hadn't interfered," Ivy said quietly, studying the money without touching it, "imagine what more we could have accomplished."
"Miss Ivy." The Roman's face moved into the light—three parallel claw marks cutting across his cheek like war paint. His expression carried no regret, no disappointment. Just cold calculation. "If there's one thing I've learned about business—"
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"—there's always an unexpected complication."
Gotham Prison. Stormy midnight.
The iron door groaned open with a metallic shriek, rust grinding against ancient hinges. Rain hammered the roof in sheets, punctuated by thunder that rattled windows.
A tall, broad figure walked out surrounded by prison guards with shotguns. Even in handcuffs, her physique was intimidating—mountain-solid, built like someone who'd spent years lifting weights in a cell.
Because she had.
The warden unlocked her cuffs with theatrical contempt. "Early parole. You'll be back soon enough."
The provocation got no response. Sofia Falcone stood silent as stone, expression unreadable.
Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the night—the prison yard, the razor wire, the warning sign at the gate reading GOTHAM PRISON in block letters designed to crush hope.
Sofia walked into the storm without hesitation. Rain soaked through her prison-issue clothes within seconds, plastering fabric to muscle, turning the world into a blur of water and wind.
Two headlights cut through the deluge. A black luxury car—Mercedes, expensive, bulletproof glass—pulled up at the gate. The back door opened.
"Get in," a voice called from inside. "He's waiting."
Later that night.
A knock echoed through the Roman's study.
"Come in." Carmine Falcone glanced over his shoulder. "What news?"
"They're on their way, Mr. Falcone."
Brief. Professional. The messenger retreated.
Silence stretched. Then another knock—heavier, more deliberate.
Falcone opened the door. Sofia stood there, coat and hat dripping onto expensive carpet, water pooling around her boots.
He smiled—genuine warmth breaking through the crime lord facade—and opened his arms.
The hug was tight, fierce, completely ignoring that his custom-tailored suit was getting soaked. "You've been away too long, daughter. The family needs you now. I need you."
Sofia's arms came up slowly, returning the embrace. "I missed you, Dad."
Meanwhile, across the city.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire echoed through the basement shooting range, shredding paper targets to confetti.
"Morte!" Carla Vitti screamed, emptying her magazine. Go to hell!
She stood there—blonde, overweight, cigarette dangling from her lips—one hand clutching a drink, the other gripping a light .22 caliber pistol. The gun bucked with each shot, cordite stinging her eyes, but the anger didn't diminish.
It never did anymore.
Not since Halloween. Not since Johnny.
A large hand settled on her shoulder.
"I rang the doorbell. You didn't answer."
Carla spun, gun still raised—then lowered it when she recognized the face. Sharp features. Fiery red curls. High nose bridge. Greek statue features on a body built like a linebacker.
Sofia.
"I didn't disturb you, did I?"
Carla didn't put down the gun. She just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her niece—the one who'd been in prison for years, the one she'd missed desperately.
Sofia stiffened, then slowly returned the embrace.
"Sophia, honey—" Carla pulled back, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Your father didn't tell me you were coming home."
She laughed, bitter and sharp. "I swear, sometimes I want to kill that Carmine."
Carla held up the pistol, letting firelight glint off the metal. Her eyes gleamed with something dangerous, grief transmuted into rage. "You see this gun? It's a .22. When your brother Alberto was killed on New Year's Eve, I 'forgot' to give it to the police."
She turned it over in her hands like a religious artifact.
"This is the same model that killed my Johnny on Halloween. The same gun the Holiday Killer uses." Her voice dropped, hard as frozen steel. "This is the gun I'm going to use to take down that bastard, Sophia. This exact gun. When I find them."
Sofia showed no surprise. Her father had briefed her on everything—the murders, the losses, the family's suffering. She'd spent enough years around blood and death to remain unmoved by threats of violence.
She asked calmly, "Does Father know about this?"
Carla's laugh was scornful, almost cruel.
"Oh, he knows now, doesn't he, Sophia?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~