"Carmine! Look what you've done!"
In the Roman's office, Carla Vitti's voice cut through the air like broken glass. Sharp. Furious. Barely controlled.
She stood in front of Falcone's massive desk, hands clenched into fists at her sides, face flushed with rage that had been building for months. Ever since Johnny Vitti's death, Carla had been a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Learning that Carmine Falcone had broken the long-standing rules of the mafia by hiring Gotham's super-criminals? That was the spark.
And now she remembered why she'd come to Gotham in the first place.
The Vitti family was rooted in Chicago. Had been for generations. But when Carla arrived in Gotham, she'd immediately begun targeting Falcone's operations—undermining his authority, questioning his decisions, building alliances with families who resented Roman control.
From the outset, the Vitti family had sought to seize control of Gotham City.
Johnny's death had given her moral cover for the power grab. Grief justified aggression. And now Falcone had handed her ammunition.
"You hired them!" Carla's voice rose higher. "Poison Ivy! The Riddler! The Scarecrow! The Mad Hatter! Four freaks! A bunch of perverts!"
She was pacing now, unable to stand still, energy crackling off her like static electricity.
"Do you understand what you've done?" she continued. "What kind of precedent you've set? What kind of—"
"Carla." Falcone's voice was quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.
But she wasn't finished.
The super-criminals of Gotham City were universally despised by the organized crime families, and for good reason. Even in the eyes of professional gangsters, that particular group could be called chaotic, disordered murderers. Mentally disturbed perverts. Freaks that were fundamentally incompatible with civilized society.
The difference was simple: the gangs operated on rules.
They did things for money. Only money. Everything else was secondary. So they established codes of conduct, built gangs with hierarchies and protocols, created networks of relationships that allowed them to operate smoothly. They carefully maintained a stable money-making infrastructure in Gotham City that enabled long-term profits.
Stability was the goal. Predictability. Control.
The super-criminals? They were the opposite of everything the gangs valued.
The Joker might resort to indiscriminate slaughter while chasing the Holiday Killer—not for money, but because it amused him. Poison Ivy would turn people into fertilizer for damaging plants, prioritizing ecological revenge over any rational self-interest. Scarecrow, when bored, would research new fear toxins and stage terrorist attacks just to test their effectiveness on civilian populations.
The Mad Hatter brainwashed young girls into becoming Alice in his delusional Wonderland fantasy, then killed them when they failed to meet his impossible standards. The Riddler never hesitated to risk human lives when leaving his puzzles, treating murder as a creative challenge rather than a business tool.
Crazy. Disorderly. Cruel. Acting according to their own impulses rather than rational interests.
Everything about them was incompatible with Gotham's underworld ecosystem.
The organized crime families couldn't afford to provoke those lunatics. The best policy was careful avoidance. Let them have Arkham. Let Batman deal with them. Stay far away and pray they didn't notice you.
But Carmine Falcone had hired them.
Hired them.
Used them as tools. Brought them into gang business. Blurred the line between professional criminals and psychotic murderers.
And it had failed spectacularly.
"Four freaks," Carla repeated, voice dripping with contempt. "A bunch of perverts. And you thought they could be controlled?"
Falcone stood behind his desk, staring at the front page of the Gotham Daily spread before him.
BANK HEIST FOILED: SCARECROW AND MAD HATTER APPREHENDED BY BATMAN
The headline mocked him. Every word was a reminder of wasted energy, squandered money, diminished reputation. He'd expected the combination of Scarecrow's fear gas and Mad Hatter's mind control to be unstoppable. A perfect team for the robbery.
They hadn't even lasted ten minutes against Batman.
All that preparation. All those resources. All the risk of breaking unwritten rules.
For nothing.
His mood was very, very bad.
"Carla," Falcone said quietly, turning slightly to look at his relative. "You are my family. And I love you."
For a moment, Carla's anger faltered. She saw something in his eyes—majesty and coldness combined, the weight of decades of power condensed into a single glance.
"But never," Falcone continued, each word precise and deliberate, "order me to explain myself to you."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Carla took a step back. Involuntary. Instinctive recognition of danger.
She turned and left the office, fury still radiating from every movement but now mixed with wariness. At least she didn't slam the door. Some survival instinct prevented that final act of defiance.
If she had, Falcone's mood might have gotten even worse.
The office fell silent.
Falcone stood alone, staring at the newspaper.
His empire was fracturing. He could feel it. Cracks spreading through the foundation, pressure building from multiple directions.
A few minutes later, Sofia knocked on the door.
"Father? Do you have time to talk?"
"Come in, Sofia." Falcone's voice had softened slightly. Family loyalty was complicated, but Sofia—unlike Carla—had proven herself trustworthy.
She entered, closing the door behind her.
"Have you read the newspaper?" Falcone asked, gesturing to the desk.
Sofia approached, studying the headline. "The bank robbery failed."
"Yes." Falcone handed her the paper. "That's the front-page story. If this operation had succeeded, my earlier decision to hire Poison Ivy for the Gotham Bank scheme would probably be forgiven. Written off as pragmatic. After all, success proves that hiring those lunatics can bring greater benefits than traditional methods."
He paused.
"Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful. Which means I now have to deal with the second troublesome matter. Turn the page."
Sofia flipped to the next article. Her expression wavered—just slightly, but Falcone noticed.
SAL MARONI TO TESTIFY AGAINST CARMINE FALCONE: DA HARVEY DENT ANNOUNCES AUGUST 2ND TRIAL DATE
"Harvey Dent's plan," Sofia said quietly.
"Exactly." Falcone shook his head. "I don't understand what's wrong with Maroni. I thought the war between us had stopped after St. Patrick's Day. The Holiday Killer nearly destroyed both our families. We should be unified against outside threats."
He moved to the window, looking out at Gotham's skyline.
"But lately, Sal's been insistent on this legal approach," Falcone continued. "Even threatening to testify against me personally in open court. There's definitely something going on behind the scenes. Someone's manipulating him."
"Batman?" Sofia suggested.
"Possibly. Or Dent. Or both." Falcone turned back to face his daughter. "I had intended to ignore this matter. Focus on running the family business. Rebuild after Alberto's..." He stopped. Didn't finish the sentence.
"But now Carla is ready to make her move," he said instead. "Challenge my authority. Use this failure as leverage. I don't want to be attacked from both sides—fighting Maroni's testimony while simultaneously defending against a power struggle within the family."
He met Sofia's eyes.
"Go find Sal Maroni. Tell him that I never ordered the shooting of his father or him. That was the Holiday Killer."
Sofia nodded slowly, understanding the mission.
"Tell him," Falcone continued, "that Falcone will work with the Maroni family to find whoever's manipulating this situation. There's no need for us to be enemies. We're both being played. This is a lose-lose scenario that benefits no one except Harvey Dent."
He paused.
"And Dent still hasn't been cleared of suspicion as a Holiday Killer himself. Remind Sal of that. The man hunting us might be the same man who tried to destroy us."
Sofia absorbed this. The logic was sound—if manipulative.
"And if he really doesn't listen?" she asked.
Falcone's expression hardened.
"Sofia, you should know why I sent you instead of anyone else."
She hesitated for just a moment. Then nodded.
She understood. Sofia wasn't just a messenger. She was an enforcer. If negotiation failed, other methods would be employed.
"I'll handle it," she said.
She put the newspaper back on the table and turned to leave. Paused at the door.
"Father, I wanted to ask—about your birthday. August 2nd is coming up. Should we start preparations for—"
"Not now." Falcone waved a hand dismissively. "Focus on Maroni first. The party can wait."
Sofia nodded and left.
Originally, she'd wanted to discuss the birthday arrangements properly. August 2nd—less than three weeks away—was important. The Roman's birthday was always a major event. A small family gathering followed by a large evening banquet. A show of power and unity.
But with Sal Maroni testifying on that same date? The trial would overshadow everything.
Sofia hurried out of the apartment, got in her car, and drove toward Blackgate Prison.
Time to negotiate. Or intimidate. Whichever proved necessary.
Across town, the DA's office buzzed with the usual afternoon chaos.
Prosecutors reviewed cases. Assistants filed paperwork. Phone lines rang constantly. The machinery of justice—such as it was in Gotham—ground forward with bureaucratic inevitability.
Harvey Dent sat in his office, preparing materials for the August 2nd trial.
Everyone in the prosecutor's office knew this case was important to him. Carmine Falcone on trial. Sal Maroni as star witness. Decades of organized crime potentially brought down by a single testimony.
It was the case Harvey had been building toward for years.
Vernon rarely came into Harvey's office anymore. Kept his distance. Maintained the fiction of being a loyal assistant while actually serving Maroni's interests.
But lately, people had noticed something odd about Prosecutor Dent.
He wore headphones. Constantly.
At his desk. During lunch. While reviewing documents. The headphones were always on, cutting him off from the office around him.
"To block out noise and distractions," Harvey had explained when someone asked.
Which sounded reasonable.
Except it also looked like isolation. Paranoia. A man cutting himself off from everyone around him.
Two junior prosecutors stood by the coffee machine, voices low.
"Isolated is what it is," one muttered. "Not noise-canceling. Just... isolated from the world."
"Keep your voice down. Attorney Dent hasn't left for the day yet."
"What am I afraid of?" The first prosecutor gestured dismissively. "He's wearing headphones. Doesn't care what's going on outside his bubble. Maroni's accusing Falcone, and Dent's throwing himself into the middle of it. Aren't you scared?"
His colleague glanced toward Harvey's closed office door. "Scared of what?"
"If the Romans get rid of Maroni, they'll turn around and deal with Dent next. I'm terrified of being dragged down with him."
"Stop talking. The Romans are—"
"Mafia, I know." The first prosecutor lowered his voice slightly. "Look, when someone has the power to control your wallet and your neck, you follow their thinking. I don't care if they're gangsters or those psychopathic lunatics in Arkham. You're a starving person first, prosecutor second. Do you understand?"
The second prosecutor said nothing. But he didn't disagree.
They refilled their coffee and returned to their desks, leaving the conversation unfinished.
Because what else was there to say?
In Gotham, idealism got you killed. Pragmatism kept you alive.
Harvey Dent was an idealist. Which meant he was already dead—he just hadn't stopped moving yet.
Inside his office, Harvey heard none of the whispered conversation.
The headphones weren't just for show. They were functional. Connected to the monitoring equipment in his basement, running audio feeds directly to him during work hours.
He was listening attentively to the feed from Maroni's cell.
A new voice. Prison guard. Professional tone.
"Mr. Maroni, you have a visitor. A very important person is here to see you."