The biggest benefit of being in prison, Sal Maroni had originally thought, was peace and quiet.
No phones ringing at three AM. No lieutenants showing up with problems that needed immediate solutions. No constant pressure to make decisions, manage territories, balance the complex web of alliances and rivalries that kept Gotham's underworld functioning.
Just silence. Solitude. Time to think.
He'd been wrong.
Spectacularly, frustratingly wrong.
After word spread that Sal Maroni was imprisoned in Blackgate, people had started calculating. The math was simple and seductive: the untouchable and powerful figure who'd ruled Gotham's streets for decades was now accessible. Contained. Available for conversation.
If someone could leave a good impression, be regarded as useful, maybe secure his patronage for the future—well, even if it couldn't be said they'd reach the sky in one step, at least they could get something. Benefits. Protection. A leg up.
A drop in the bucket from an underworld boss was a golden opportunity for everyone else.
Because of this, Maroni had been subjected to an endless parade of useless people. Sycophants. Opportunists. Small-time criminals trying to attach themselves to bigger fish.
He didn't mind greed. Greed was honest. Greed made people predictable.
But the prerequisite was that they had to be useful.
And to his growing disappointment, most of the people who came offering themselves were completely useless. No skills, no connections, no resources worth acquiring. Just empty flattery and wishful thinking.
It was like a DDoS attack, but with humans instead of bots. Constant interruption. Endless noise. Exhausting.
Maroni, fed up with the harassment, had finally told Vernon that he didn't want to see anyone during this period. No matter who they were. No exceptions.
That had been three days ago.
And now Vernon's voice was echoing in his ears again.
"Mr. Maroni, you have a visitor."
Maroni felt irritation spike through his chest. This sentence had been repeated dozens—maybe hundreds—of times over the past weeks. The sound of it made him want to vomit.
He turned the page of the Gotham Daily in his hand and replied without looking up. "I don't want to see anyone."
His tone was flat. Final. The kind of voice that ended conversations.
Vernon stood outside the cell, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He'd always supported and carried out Sal Maroni's instructions unconditionally. That was the basis of being a good subordinate—obedience without question, loyalty without hesitation.
But the person who'd come today was different.
Dangerous.
Vernon was genuinely afraid to refuse her.
"Vernon." Maroni's voice hardened. "I don't want to say it again."
Vernon opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to figure out how to explain that this visitor wouldn't take no for an answer—
The door pushed open.
A figure walked in as if she owned the place, stride confident, posture perfect, moving past Vernon like he was furniture.
She stopped in front of the iron bars of Maroni's cell.
Maroni's face changed. Just slightly—a flicker of surprise, quickly suppressed. He put down the newspaper, straightening in his chair.
Sofia Falcone stood before him.
Red hair like fire. Sharp features that would have been beautiful on someone less intimidating. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like someone who could and would kill you if necessary.
The Goddess of Death of the Falcone family.
And she was here. In his cell. While Vernon stood behind her looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.
"Vernon," Maroni said, voice carefully neutral. "Go ahead. I want to hear what this Falcone family member wants to talk to me about."
He paused.
"You go find yourself something to do."
Vernon fled. Actually fled, relief visible in every line of his body. He closed the door quickly behind him, making sure it latched properly.
He knew better than to listen to conversations between people at this level. Some things you didn't hear if you wanted to keep breathing.
The door clicked shut.
Maroni pulled the cigarette from his mouth, stubbed it out in the ashtray with deliberate care. Buying time. Composing himself.
"I had someone test it," he said conversationally. "This prison is soundproofed. Once the door closes, even if someone outside wants to eavesdrop, they can't hear anything."
He looked up at Sofia through the bars.
"So, Sofia," he continued, voice dropping lower. "Does your father know you're here?"
The burly red-haired woman looked at him through the iron bars. Her expression—harsh and sharp when dealing with Vernon—softened. Shifted into something entirely different.
Something dangerous in a completely different way.
"It was my father who sent me here, Sal."
Her voice was quiet. Almost gentle.
"Oh?" Maroni's tone stayed neutral, but there was an edge underneath. "Why did he send you here? To negotiate with me? Or to kill me?"
He stood, moving closer to the bars.
"Would Sofia, the infamous Goddess of Death of the Falcone family, come only for peace?"
The title sounded bitter in his mouth.
Sofia didn't respond to the aggression. Instead, she moved closer, pressing against the bars until her face was inches from his. Red hair framing sharp features. Eyes intense.
"I've been to jail for you, Sal."
Her voice carried weight. Accusation and longing mixed together.
"I didn't talk," she continued. "Didn't ask for anything in return. When the police found me, I didn't tell them your name. Never said a word."
Maroni's cold facade cracked. His hand went to his chest, pressing there like he could contain the guilt physically.
"That's your business!" he said, voice rising with emotion. "I had to do what was right—what I should do—the right thing!"
But the words rang hollow even to his own ears.
He couldn't continue.
Sofia reached through the bars. Her index finger pressed gently against his lips, silencing him.
"I missed you, Sal," she whispered. "I thought about you every night in prison."
The air in the cell changed. Charged. Electric.
If Carmine Falcone or Luigi Maroni could hear this conversation, Gotham City would probably re-enact a gangster version of Romeo and Juliet. The bloody version. Bodies in the streets. War between families that had been enemies for generations.
Of course, it was possible for the two families to merge through this relationship.
But only if both Roman and Luigi were dead.
The hope of two people from bloodline-enemy families being together was almost nonexistent. The hatred ran too deep. The history too violent.
The fact that Maroni—pragmatic, ruthless Sal Maroni—had actually fallen in love with the tall, brutal Sofia Falcone was a miracle in itself. Or a curse, depending on perspective.
When Sofia had been rescued from prison and sent to kill Maroni on her father's orders, they'd seen each other during the attempt. Brief eye contact. Recognition that transcended orders and obligations.
Sofia knew she could never disobey her father's direct commands. Family loyalty was absolute. Maroni knew that Sofia would always put family before personal feelings. That's how their world worked.
So since her release from prison, they'd never met again.
Until now.
They looked into each other's eyes across the iron bars. Years of suppressed longing. Impossible feelings. The weight of family obligations crushing down on something genuine and fragile.
They kissed through the bars.
Not gently. Desperately. Like drowning people finding air.
This was something they could never do in daylight. Never show in public. But here, in this quiet cell, with soundproof walls and Vernon standing guard outside—this was one of the few places where they could express their feelings openly and without reservation.
The kiss lasted longer than it should have.
When they finally pulled apart, Sofia's voice was barely audible.
"The Falcone family will work with you to find the Holiday Killer," she said. "And the gunman who shot your father. We've been fighting for so many years. We shouldn't both end up destroyed while someone else takes advantage."
A voice in Maroni's head screamed the truth: It was the Holiday Killer Alberto who brought the Maroni family to this state. It WAS the Falcone family who did it.
But Sofia was still talking.
"Dad knows Dent manipulated you into this situation," she continued, fingers still touching his through the bars. "We're all better off without Harvey Dent. He's using you, Sal. Using both families to destroy each other."
She met his eyes.
"I know you'll do the right thing," she said softly.
The balance in Maroni's heart began to tilt.
Not because of Falcone's promises. Not because of weighing pros and cons. Not because of hatred for Dent, though that existed.
But because of her.
Sofia. The woman he loved. The woman he could never have. The woman who'd gone to prison rather than betray him, even though betraying him would have been the smart play.
"Sofia," he said finally, voice rough. "You have to know—I don't trust Falcone. And I don't trust Harvey Dent either."
He paused.
"I'm agreeing to this because of you. Only you."
Sofia's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Relief? Triumph? Guilt?
Maybe all three.
She stepped back from the bars. Composed herself. The Goddess of Death settling back into place, professional enforcer replacing the vulnerable woman who'd been there moments before.
The cell door opened.
Sofia walked out without looking back. Vernon stood outside on guard duty, trying to look like he hadn't been imagining what was happening inside.
Sofia said nothing to him. Just turned and walked away, heels clicking on the concrete floor.
Inside the cell, Maroni's voice called out.
"Vernon! Come here!"
Vernon hurried back inside, relief at being summoned mixing with apprehension about what he might be asked to do.
"Mr. Maroni, what do you need?"
"When is my trial?"
Vernon blinked. "Uh, August 2nd, sir."
"August 2nd." Maroni's smile was cold. "The Roman's birthday. Truly his lucky day."
He looked at Vernon.
"Today, I need you to cooperate with me on something."
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