The question wasn't whether Maroni could defeat Falcone within the rules of the underworld.
The answer to that was simple: no. Hard no. Impossible no. Not-even-worth-discussing no.
Falcone had spent forty years building an empire in the shadows. Every capo, every judge, every union rep, every construction permit—the Roman's fingerprints were on all of it. Fighting him in his world meant fighting on his terms, and on Falcone's terms, Maroni had already lost before the first punch was thrown.
But what about within the rules of the white road? The legitimate world, where laws supposedly mattered and justice was more than a word printed on courthouse doors?
That was... still difficult. Incredibly difficult.
But—and this was the crucial difference—it was possible.
The jury system that Falcone had spent decades corrupting could be manipulated by anyone willing to get their hands dirty. Case in point: Richard Daniel, the Gotham Bank director who'd been threatened by the Godfather to pass the bank resolution, then warned by Batman to withdraw his support, and had finally solved his moral dilemma the Gotham way—by resigning and leaving town entirely.
Richard's resignation had been the product of pressure from both sides. Falcone pushing from below. Batman pushing from above. Caught between a crime lord and a vigilante, Daniel had done the only rational thing: quit and moved to Miami.
Maroni's threats worked the same way Falcone's did. Same leverage points. Same vulnerable family members. Same offshore bank accounts that could be frozen with a few phone calls. The entire judicial system in Gotham City was built on foundations of intimidation and bribery—which meant anyone with enough money and muscle could make it dance.
Harvey Dent had always opposed this. So had Bruce Wayne. Both men believed in the rule of law with an earnestness that bordered on religious fervor. The idea of deliberately manipulating trials, even to fight corruption, went against everything they stood for.
Until Jude had said something that neither of them could dismiss.
"If an honest official wants to deal with a corrupt official," Jude had told them, seated in his ridiculous LED-lit wheelchair like some kind of cyberpunk oracle, "he has to be smarter than the corrupt official."
Harvey had frowned. "We can't sink to their level—"
"Falcone has already manipulated the rules," Jude interrupted. "And Harvey, you don't have the power to correct them. You're the DA, not God. So you can keep following rules that don't exist anymore, or you can adapt."
"There's a difference between adaptation and corruption," Batman said.
"Is there?" Jude leaned back, the wheelchair's LEDs pulsing faintly in the darkness. "Let me ask you something. If a child needs training wheels to learn to ride a bike, does that make the training wheels immoral? Or are they just... a temporary measure until the kid can balance on their own?"
Harvey's jaw tightened. "Gotham isn't a child."
"Gotham is exactly a child," Jude countered. "A traumatized, brain-damaged child that's been beaten by its parents for eighty years. You want it to 'just follow the rules'? That's not integrity, Harvey. That's stubbornness. You're banging your head against a wall and calling it courage."
Batman had been silent for a long moment. Then: "And if we manipulate the system the same way Falcone does... who solves the real problem?"
"You do," Jude said simply. "After you've removed the people who broke the system in the first place. You can't reform a broken machine while the vandals are still inside it, smashing things. You remove the vandals first. Then you rebuild."
That conversation had been three weeks ago.
Now, standing in the rain outside Wayne Manor, Sal Maroni was having second thoughts.
"Father," Sal said quietly, rainwater dripping from his collar, "are we really going to help Harvey Dent?"
They were back at the Maroni manor—the real one, not the decoy properties they'd been rotating through since the St. Patrick's Day massacre. Luigi had swept the entire estate for bugs three times. Sal had watched him do it personally. Old paranoia died hard, and recent events had proven that paranoia wasn't paranoia if people were actually trying to kill you.
"The Holiday Killer is gone," Sal continued, keeping his voice low even though they were alone in the study. "Alberto's in custody. There's no reason for us to keep working with... those people."
By "those people," he meant Batman. And by extension, the vigilante's peculiar coalition of prosecutors, police captains, and whatever the hell the guy in the glowing wheelchair was supposed to be.
Luigi Maroni looked at his son for a long moment. The old man's white hair was slicked back from the rain, his lined face unreadable. He'd survived four decades in Gotham's underworld by being smarter than his enemies, and right now, those dark eyes were calculating odds Sal couldn't see.
"The Holiday Killer is Falcone's son," Luigi said finally. "Alberto. Not some random psychopath—Carmine Falcone's boy. You understand what that means?"
"It means the Romans are weaker than we thought."
"It means," Luigi corrected, "that Falcone's family is falling apart from the inside. The man's son tried to destroy us to prove himself worthy, and instead handed Batman the perfect weapon."
Sal blinked. "What weapon?"
"Testimony." Luigi's smile was cold. "Alberto knows everything. Family operations, money flows, political connections. The entire Falcone empire's infrastructure is in that boy's head, and Batman just gift-wrapped him for the DA's office."
"He'll never talk—"
"He'll talk," Luigi interrupted. "Maybe not today. Maybe not next week. But Harvey Dent is very good at making people talk. And even if Alberto stays quiet..." The old man's smile widened. "The threat of his testimony is enough to make Carmine sweat. Every ally, every bought judge, every corrupt cop—they'll all start wondering if their names are on Alberto's list. Falcone's empire isn't built on loyalty. It's built on fear. And fear works both ways."
Sal was quiet, processing this. His father had always been better at the long game.
"We're talking about morality and humanity here, Sal," Luigi said softly. "The Holiday Killer tried to kill us on Father's Day. Batman and Harvey Dent saved us from bleeding out in that orchard. We owe them."
"Debts in this business get people killed."
"Debts unpaid get people killed faster," Luigi replied. "And besides—it's good to have allies who aren't just working for money. Batman and the DA want to destroy Falcone. We want to destroy Falcone. That's called alignment of interests. Cherish it while it lasts, because once Falcone's gone..." He shrugged. "We'll deal with future wars when we get there. First, we handle the enemy in front of us."
Sal was silent for another moment, turning this over in his mind.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Across town, in a very different kind of room, Alberto Falcone sat in an interrogation chair and tried to understand how he'd ended up here.
The room smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional despair that seemed unique to police stations and DMV offices. Gordon stood by the door, arms crossed. Harvey Dent leaned against the wall, looking grimly satisfied.
Batman loomed in the corner like a particularly ominous coat rack.
And Jude sat off to the side, looking vaguely annoyed to be there.
"I don't understand how you can be sure it was me," Alberto said finally.
He wasn't denying it. There was no point. They'd caught him at the scene, gun in hand, literally fleeing from the murder attempt. But the logistics still bothered him. How had they known?
"I can understand you doubting me," he continued. "Everyone doubted me. That was the point. But how could you be certain?"
"Your target selection was too obvious," Batman said flatly.
Alberto frowned. "What?"
"Every Holiday Killer attack except your own followed a pattern," Harvey explained, his prosecutor voice crisp and detached. "All the victims were either Maroni associates or people who'd wronged the Falcone family. The attacks benefited your father's organization. And conveniently, the one attack that didn't fit—the one where you supposedly died—never produced a body."
"We suspect," Jude added from his wheelchair, tone conversational, "that you considered finding a doctor to forge a death certificate, but ultimately decided it was too risky. Too many people would need to be involved, and any one of them could talk. Easier to just... vanish. Let people assume the worst."
"But those are just suspicions," Alberto said. "Circumstantial evidence. Not proof."
"Your marksmanship," Batman said.
Alberto blinked. "What?"
"Your marksmanship is terrible," Batman clarified. "At any shooting range in Gotham City, your scores are consistently below average. Embarrassingly so. You've clearly gone out of your way to establish a record as a poor shot."
"I am a poor shot—"
"Your marksmanship is terrible in Gotham," Batman corrected, emphasizing the location. "But you didn't learn to shoot here, did you?"
Alberto felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"You received a scholarship to Harvard," Batman continued, his voice mechanical, like he was reading from a case file. "Full ride. Law degree. Then Oxford for your master's. Very impressive. Your father must have been proud."
"He wasn't," Alberto said quietly.
"Falcone's influence doesn't extend to Massachusetts," Batman continued, ignoring the interruption. "And it certainly doesn't reach Oxford. You could live there freely. No family reputation. No expectations. Just... Alberto Falcone, law student. Normal life."
Alberto said nothing. His hands, cuffed to the table, had gone very still.
"You can tamper with shooting range records in Gotham," Batman said. "Pay off the staff, delete files, whatever you need. Easy. But your shooting records in Boston and Oxford are on public leaderboards. We checked." A pause. "You're a championship-level marksman. Top three percent in both cities."
The room was very quiet.
Alberto felt something like pride flicker in his chest, followed immediately by the crushing weight of realization.
Batman had gone to England. Had flown across the Atlantic Ocean just to verify a hunch about shooting range statistics.
"I didn't expect," Alberto said slowly, "that someone would be that persistent."
"You should have," Jude muttered from his wheelchair. "He's Batman. Paranoia is basically his love language."
Gordon made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
"No wonder Gotham City's vigilantes have changed their ways recently," Alberto continued, looking at Batman with something approaching respect. "You're thorough, I'll give you that."
Harvey and Gordon both glanced reflexively at Jude.
Jude noticed. "Why are you looking at me?"
"You know why," Gordon said.
"Alberto got lucky today," Jude said primly. "If I'd caught him alone, he would never have the nerve to commit crimes again in his life."
And with that ominous declaration, Jude rolled his wheelchair toward the door. The LEDs pulsed once and then he disappeared around the corner, leaving behind three men who were trying very hard not to imagine what "never have the nerve again" might entail.
Alberto subconsciously covered his groin.
Harvey cleared his throat. "Let him go. We've got bigger problems. We still need to—" He checked his watch. "Christ. We have that meeting with Bruce Wayne in an hour."
"Mr. Wayne arranged a conversation in good faith," Gordon said carefully.
The weather was still cool that afternoon.
Gotham in summer was supposed to be unbearable—humid, sweltering, the kind of heat that turned the entire city into a pressure cooker of bad decisions and worse tempers. But thick clouds had rolled in overnight, blocking the sun, and last night's rain had washed most of the stuffiness out of the air.
The result was something almost pleasant. Cool. Breathable. The kind of weather that made you forget you lived in Gotham, right up until someone got shot three blocks over.
At Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth was serving tea.
He moved with the efficiency of a man who'd spent decades perfecting the art of hospitality, setting out china cups with the same precision he'd once used for classified military operations. Harvey Dent and James Gordon sat on the antique sofa, both looking slightly uncomfortable in the manor's opulence.
Bruce Wayne sat across from them, hands folded, expression carefully neutral.
"As for my father and the Romans' father," Bruce began quietly, "the connection between them happened a long time ago. Before I was born, actually. But I remember..." He paused, collecting the memory. "I vaguely remember that it was raining heavily in Gotham that day."
Thirty years ago.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The gate of Wayne Manor shook under the assault. Someone was pounding on it with desperate, violent force—the kind of knocking that said life or death in every syllable.
Thomas Wayne had been reading in the study. The sound made him look up sharply, instincts from his days as a combat medic kicking in before conscious thought caught up.
Something was very wrong.
He reached the entrance hall just as Alfred opened the gate.
The man outside was drenched. Rain plastered his hair to his skull, water streaming down a face that was all sharp angles and harder edges. Ferocious. That was the word that came to mind. This was a man who'd built a life on violence, and it showed in every line of his body.
But right now, that ferocity was swallowed by panic.
In his arms, cradled like something infinitely precious and infinitely fragile, was a young man.
Blood soaked the boy's shirt. It mixed with the rain on his face, dripping to the ground in a steady tap-tap-tap that sounded obscenely loud in the sudden stillness.
Thomas couldn't stop the exclamation that escaped him: "Vincent—"
Because of course he recognized the man. Everyone in Gotham knew Vincent Falcone. You didn't rise to the top of the underworld by being subtle. Vincent was a legend—ruthless, cunning, unstoppable.
And right now, he looked like any other terrified father.
The young man in his arms—pale, unconscious, bleeding from five distinct bullet wounds in his chest—was obviously his son. The resemblance was undeniable, even through the blood and rain.
Carmine Falcone. Maybe twenty years old. Dying.
"Look what they did to my child!" Vincent's voice cracked. "Look what they did—"
"Alfred!" Thomas was already moving, medical training overriding shock. "Get my kit! Now!"
They carried Carmine inside—Vincent clutching his son like he might disappear if he let go, Thomas supporting the boy's head, Alfred sprinting for the medical supplies. The dining room was closest. Thomas swept everything off the long table by the fireplace—plates, candelabras, the entire elegant setup crashing to the floor—and they laid Carmine down on the polished wood.
Blood immediately began pooling on the surface.
"You have a child too, right, Dr. Wayne?" Vincent was talking, words spilling out in a frantic stream. Shock, probably. Or guilt. Or just the overwhelming terror of watching your son die in front of you. "You understand how a father feels, right? You understand—"
Thomas didn't answer. He was already tearing open Carmine's shirt, wiping away blood and rainwater with a towel, examining the wounds with practiced efficiency.
Five bullet holes. Chest. Close grouping. Professional work, which meant whoever did this knew what they were doing.
Not good.
He checked for exit wounds. Found three. That meant two bullets were still inside, which meant surgery, which meant—
"This person needs a hospital," Thomas said, looking up at Vincent. His voice was firm. Professional. "I can stabilize him here, but he needs a surgeon, proper equipment—"
"No." Vincent's voice was flat. Absolute. "We can't send him to the hospital."
"Mr. Falcone—"
"If I take him to any public place," Vincent interrupted, and his voice shook with barely-controlled rage, "that beast Luigi Maroni will finish the job. He'll walk right into the hospital and put a bullet in my son's head while he's unconscious. I can't—"
He stopped. Drew a breath. Forced himself to meet Thomas's eyes.
"Dr. Wayne." Vincent Falcone, one of the most powerful men in Gotham's underworld, lowered his head. "You can name any price. I just beg you. Please. Save my son."