Carla's response was mockery in its purest form. She knew—they both knew—that Sofia would report every word of this basement conversation to Falcone. What Sofia knew, Carmine knew. That was how the family worked.
And Sofia didn't pretend otherwise.
"Aunt Carla, I was sent here with respect." Sofia's voice remained calm, professional. She watched her aunt turn back to the shooting range, lining up another target. "We're hitting Maroni on St. Patrick's Day morning. Father thinks Maroni might be the Holiday Killer himself—or at least knows who it is."
She paused. "Will you stand with us?"
Carla didn't answer directly. She raised the .22, squeezed the trigger with practiced ease. Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Carmine controls the bank now," she said between shots, tone flat. "Money's flowing again. Things are back on track."
Sofia leaned over and kissed the back of her aunt's hand—a gesture of respect, family tradition, acknowledgment of shared grief.
The conversation was over.
St. Patrick's Day. 5:00 AM. Sal Maroni's hideout.
Gunfire erupted outside the door—dense, chaotic, overwhelming. Bullets chewed through the glass panels, shredding the bodies of Maroni family soldiers who'd been stationed in the hall for exactly this kind of emergency.
Some fought back. Some managed to get shots off before they died.
The killer outside remained cautious. Even after the return fire stopped, they kept shooting—methodical, systematic—riddling the chandelier with holes until crystal rained down like frozen tears.
The door opened with a soft click.
Footsteps moved through the darkness—nearly silent, professionally quiet. Soon, all the groaning stopped. The .22 caliber gunshots ceased.
Silence settled over the massacre like a shroud.
St. Patrick's Day. 5:13 AM. Same location.
The golden hands of Sofia Falcone's watch pointed to thirteen minutes past the hour. She withdrew her wrist from beneath her coat sleeve, confirmed the time, and began issuing orders.
The black limousine stopped at the curb. Sofia's expression darkened as she stared at the hideout—door hanging open, interior pitch black, the smell of blood thick enough to taste even through the rain.
Broken glass. Bullet holes pocking the door like diseased skin. The stench of cordite and copper.
"Someone got here first." Her voice was ice. "That changes everything."
She drew her pistol and flashlight, stepped out into the downpour, and approached the entrance.
The chandelier lay in pieces across the floor. Bodies sprawled everywhere—the hall, the stairs, the second-floor landing. Red and black splashed across expensive wallpaper, creating an abstract painting of death and terror.
And there, arranged carefully in the center of the carnage: a .22 pistol with filed serial numbers, a shattered baby pacifier, and a ceramic Irish leprechaun figurine holding a wand.
The square base was emblazoned with a shamrock—Ireland's symbol, St. Patrick's Day iconography—and the words "Erin go bragh" inscribed in flowing script.
Long live Ireland.
Sofia turned and walked back into the rain. The attack plan was obsolete now. The Holiday Killer slaughtering people at Maroni's hideout cleared Maroni of suspicion completely.
This wasn't like the car bombing—four soldiers, expendable losses. This was a massacre. Core members. Elite bodyguards. The heart of Maroni's operational security.
A man might sacrifice flesh for a gambit. Maybe even an arm. But a mob boss would never give up his face, his dignity, his family just to play victim. And this did nothing to benefit the Maroni organization.
Maroni was reckless. But he wasn't stupid.
Sofia climbed back into the limousine, glancing up at the broken windows. Through the shattered glass, she could see firelight—a cigarette, maybe a lamp. And a pale face looking down.
Maroni. Terrified. Alive.
"Holiday Killer."
Salvatore Maroni's voice trembled as he took another drag from his cigarette, using the nicotine burn in his lungs to suppress the fear clawing at his chest.
In minutes—minutes—every elite bodyguard and core member in the hideout had been slaughtered. In his decades running the Maroni family, he'd never felt death approach with such methodical certainty.
No resistance. No escape. The shooter's skills were terrifying, their tactical thinking flawless. They'd carved through the entire building like a surgeon with a scalpel.
If Maroni hadn't built a secret panic room in the upper floors, he'd be dead now. Just another body in the pile.
He watched the black limousine disappear into the rain, taillights bleeding red through the downpour. Falcone's people. Coming to visit at this hour meant they'd planned violence, not negotiation.
But he had no mental energy left for that problem. The Holiday Killer occupied his entire mind—a specter of methodical death that had walked through his defenses like they didn't exist.
The fact that he could still think was testament to why he held the title of Gotham's second most powerful crime lord.
Then a figure appeared on the street.
Yellow raincoat. Small motorcycle. Insulated delivery box strapped to the back seat.
The rider stopped in front of the hideout, pulled a pizza box from the bag, and stared at the bullet-riddled door with visible confusion.
"Uh..." The delivery driver's voice carried through the rain, uncertain and slightly panicked. "Is there anyone who can sign for this order?"
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION
Mission: Private Takeout Orders in Gotham City
Description: Your supervisor has given you paid leave with a certain understanding of your... unique situation. But as the saying goes—increase income, reduce expenditure. Why not take another job during your vacation?
Background: A gangster once tasted your cooking in a restaurant kitchen and praised it highly. If not for certain unexpected events, you might have been personally recommended to Maroni. Regardless, he still wants to eat your pizza.
Status: 21/21 COMPLETE
Rewards:
$50 asset points per pizza sold
Motorcycle Driving Mastery (earned per 10 pizzas, no upper limit)
Jude stared at the bullet holes covering the door, smelled the thick copper reek of blood wafting from inside, and felt his scalp tingle.
Quick mental math: at least a dozen people dead in there. Maybe more.
The gangster who'd been ordering his pizzas? Definitely among the corpses.
He looked up. Maroni stood at the broken window, staring down at him with wide, horrified eyes.
Recognition flashed across the crime lord's face.
Maybe, Jude thought with grim resignation, he won't be hiring me as an employee anymore.
The pizza box felt absurdly heavy in his hands.