The door to Falcone's bedroom slammed open with enough force to rattle the framed photographs on the dresser.
"Do you know what happened yesterday?" Carla Vitti strode in like a general reporting victory, newspaper clutched in her hand like a battle standard. Her eyes gleamed with the kind of excitement that usually preceded bloodshed.
Carmine Falcone sat on the edge of his bed, still in yesterday's dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up. The Roman looked every one of his sixty-three years this morning. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His hair, usually immaculate, stuck up at odd angles. One hand pressed against his temple like he was physically holding his skull together.
"Carla." His voice came out as a rasp. "I know you probably have something important to tell me, but I really need to rest right now. Very much."
He rubbed his brow with two fingers, the gesture of a man nursing a spectacular hangover. "Last night's birthday party lasted too long. You guys were really crazy. I didn't sleep very well."
Carla ignored him completely. She'd learned decades ago that the Roman's complaints about discomfort were purely performative—the man had once conducted a business meeting while a doctor extracted a bullet from his shoulder. A hangover wouldn't slow him down for long.
"Maroni didn't testify against us in court," she announced, jabbing a finger at the newspaper's front page. "Instead, he attacked Harvey Dent! Carmine, do you know what this means?"
Falcone's eyes remained closed. His voice carried the patient exhaustion of a man explaining basic arithmetic to a child. "A district attorney can't do much real harm to us. If he hadn't influenced Maroni to testify, we wouldn't have cared about the outcome of this trial."
He finally looked up, meeting Carla's gaze with the calm certainty of a chess player who'd seen this move coming three turns ago. "As for Maroni not testifying again—that was my arrangement."
"But the best news," Carla pressed forward, refusing to let him deflect, "is that Maroni failed. Harvey Dent was unharmed. It's said he just went to the bathroom to wash his face after leaving court. The only damage was to his suit."
That got Falcone's attention.
The Roman stood slowly, joints protesting, and took the newspaper from Carla's hands. His eyes scanned the front page—PROSECUTOR ATTACKED IN COURT, MARONI HEIR SHOT—and widened with something that might have been genuine surprise.
A photograph dominated the fold: Harvey Dent standing in the courthouse hallway, half his face stained dark with black dye while the other half remained clean. Two-faced. The prosecutor's expression was calm, almost serene. Like a man who'd anticipated exactly this outcome.
"Maroni's actions are really strange," Falcone muttered, studying the image. "When did he become so soft-hearted?"
"It's said the acid was replaced with dye," Carla said, waving one hand dismissively. "But that's not the point. The point is that Harvey Dent even claimed he would sue Maroni for attempted murder. You can imagine how serious this lawsuit is, right?"
The Roman's eyes narrowed to calculating slits. His hangover seemed to evaporate like morning fog, burned away by the heat of strategic opportunity. "A crime committed in public. Completely undeniable. Everyone saw the entire incident. There was even video recording in court."
He set the newspaper down with deliberate care. "This case is almost impossible to lose. The key question is how much it will cost Maroni."
"That's right." Carla's smile sharpened to something predatory. "Look at these pictures again."
She flipped to page three, where a series of photographs documented Maroni's fate: the mob boss lying in a pool of blood, three gunshot wounds visible, bailiffs standing over him with smoking weapons. dye streaked across the marble floor like abstract art. In one particularly striking shot, a man in cheap clothes was being dragged away from the scene while Maroni clutched his collar with blood-slicked fingers.
The Roman stared at the images, his mind racing through implications. He could never have imagined that Sofia could manipulate Maroni to the point of attempting murder in open court, getting shot by bailiffs, facing a prosecutor's lawsuit that would bury him legally and financially.
What exactly did she say to him?
"I received a really great gift on my birthday," Falcone murmured.
"Falcone." Carla's voice took on an edge of urgency. "This is an unprecedented opportunity. You should know what I mean, right?"
"I know." The Roman walked to the window, looking out over Gotham's morning skyline. "If Harvey had died, Maroni would eventually be bailed out of jail by his father. The old man would make calls, grease palms, bury the evidence. Even the lawsuit could be settled with enough money."
He turned back to face Carla. "But now, they're stuck together. Harvey's alive, angry, and has an airtight case. And Maroni has to defend against a prosecutor who wants him destroyed."
Carla nodded sharply. At this moment, she no longer even considered forcing Falcone to abdicate. There was plenty of time for internal power struggles. The most important thing was to swallow the Maroni family whole while they were vulnerable.
The relationship between the two families had always operated on a paradoxical balance: they helped each other against common threats while simultaneously maneuvering for advantage. But both sides still abided by the rules—the unwritten laws that kept Gotham's underworld stable rather than a perpetual warzone. The intensity of bloody conflict had always been limited, calculated, controlled.
This was different.
"That idiot Harvey's lawsuit is so insignificant it can be easily settled by Maroni money," Carla said, her tone dismissive of the legal system's threat. "It's really boring on its own. But if we intervene—if we push from behind—we can directly get rid of Sal Maroni and cripple the Maroni family in the process."
"Work with Harvey Dent?" Falcone's eyebrows rose.
"A push isn't cooperation." Carla's smile turned cold. "There's no loss of life on our part, no bloodshed, and we don't even have to personally intervene. It just costs money. Besides, if we hadn't intervened earlier, Maroni would have already cooperated with the prosecutor against us. Doesn't he understand we're just finding a different approach?"
The Roman fell into deep thought.
The underworld fighting with the help of legal means—this kind of thing hadn't happened in Gotham City for many years. Not since the early days, when his own father had first consolidated power using corrupt judges and bought prosecutors.
Will there be hidden dangers if we replace the chessboard of violence with Gotham's judicial system?
Falcone thought for a long time. He thought of St. Patrick's Day—the silent, sad moment of remembrance for the dead from both families.
Finally, he and Carla exchanged a glance that held decades of shared history and mutual understanding. The Roman made his decision.
"Then we won't engage with Harvey Dent directly. When he accuses Maroni, we'll intervene from behind." His voice carried the cold finality of a judge pronouncing sentence. "We'll restore 'justice' to this court, which has been influenced by Maroni's money. We'll increase the sentence. We'll make sure the legal system does what violence couldn't."
Carla's smile could have cut glass.
Neither of them mentioned that they were planning to do to Maroni exactly what Maroni had tried to do to them—weaponize the prosecutor's office, corrupt the very foundations of justice, turn the law into a cudgel for mob warfare.
In Gotham, hypocrisy wasn't a vice. It was a survival skill.
Of course, it was Jude who'd sent the photos to the Falcone family.
"Oh, how stingy!" He stared at his phone in disbelief. "Another six thousand, and it's a one-time thing."
Jude hung up the phone helplessly and sighed at the cosmic unfairness of it all.
This morning, he'd taken the photographs of Maroni being shot to his supervisor—the same man who'd hired him for the infiltration job, the same man who'd once paid him $6,000 biweekly to be Gotham's unluckiest employee. The supervisor had been delighted with the pictures. Absolutely thrilled. Had transferred another $6,000 on the spot with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners.
Then he'd told Jude that if he wanted to continue getting money, he should bring evidence of Maroni's misfortune next time.
"Wait." Jude had blinked in confusion. "You won't hire me back as an employee?"
"What nonsense are you talking about?" The supervisor had replied with a sneer that bordered on panic. "Let me ask you—after seeing what happened to Maroni, who would dare to hire you as an employee? We gave you six thousand dollars because we hope you'll continue working. If possible, we don't want to have anything to do with you at all."
"Then what is our relationship now?"
"Don't ask. Just keep working."
Jude had thought about it carefully after hanging up. A temporary worker was still a worker. An informant was still a person. Since he'd taken the Falcone family's money, he must be considered a member of the Falcone family. By that same logic, there was no reason Maroni shouldn't pay him either.
The mental gymnastics improved his mood considerably.
Seeing that it was already afternoon, Jude hummed a little tune and changed into a cheap coat—the kind that screamed "working class" with its faded fabric and worn elbows. He spent ten minutes in front of the mirror applying a fake beard, adjusting the angle, making sure the adhesive wouldn't betray him with an untimely peel during conversation.
Satisfied with his reflection—a thoroughly average electrician, forgettable and functional—he grabbed his toolbox and headed out.
Half an hour later, Jude stood downstairs at the Gotham City Courthouse.
The building loomed over the street like a monument to justice that had been left out in the rain too long. Gray stone, tarnished bronze fixtures, windows that hadn't been properly cleaned since the Reagan administration. The steps leading up to the entrance were worn smooth by decades of defendants, lawyers, and the occasional idealistic prosecutor who thought they could make a difference.
Security personnel saw a bearded man in plain clothes approaching and immediately moved to intercept.
"Wait a minute." The guard held up one hand. "Who are you?"
"I'm the electrician, Marcus," Jude replied in a perfectly unremarkable voice—the verbal equivalent of beige paint. "Here to fix the cameras in the underground prison area. Did you forget about me? Jenkins asked me to come here a month ago."
Recognition flickered across the security guard's face. Yeah, he did remember something about an electrician. And Jenkins definitely knew this guy. The prison guard had mentioned it.
Still, procedure was procedure.
"Wait a minute, I'll—"
"Just call Prosecutor Harvey," Jude suggested helpfully. "Tell him that Marcus is here to fix the cameras."
The guard hesitated, then pulled out his phone. A brief conversation ensued—muffled words, bureaucratic confirmation, the kind of exchange that happened a thousand times a day in government buildings across America. When he hung up, his expression had shifted to bureaucratic indifference.
"Okay, go in."
Jude picked up his toolbox and walked into the courthouse building.
Nobody in the building paid any attention to the electrician passing through. Why would they? Electricians were part of the infrastructure, like fire extinguishers or water fountains—necessary, functional, invisible. He whistled tunelessly as he navigated the maze of corridors, taking turns with the confidence of someone who'd studied the building's layout beforehand.
The underground prison area smelled like disinfectant, sweat, and institutional despair. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with the irregular rhythm of failing ballasts. The walls were painted that specific shade of green that only exists in government facilities and hospitals—the color of bureaucratic surrender.
Jude showed his work ID to the prison guard on duty. The man barely glanced at it before waving him through and unlocking the access door with a heavy clank of metal on metal.
"Third camera on the left's been glitching," the guard said. "Keeps cutting out."
"I'll take a look."
Jude set up his ladder beneath the indicated camera, opened his toolbox with a metallic click, and got to work. Screwdriver, wire stripper, multimeter—the tools of an honest tradesman doing honest work.
He hummed while he worked, a tuneless sound that suggested a man whose thoughts were entirely occupied with blown fuses and loose connections.
After a few minutes of tinkering, he opened the camera's internal housing.
There, nestled among the legitimate wiring like a tick on a dog, was a tiny eavesdropping device. Professional grade. Connected in parallel with the circuit so it wouldn't affect the camera's function while siphoning off audio feed.
Jude carefully extracted the device with needle-nose pliers, examining it in the fluorescent light.
"Alas, Jenkins," he murmured to the empty corridor, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "You are so careless."