Jenkins sat in his office reading the newspaper, and his mood was deteriorating with every paragraph.
Not good. Not good at all. In fact, spectacularly, catastrophically bad.
"Maroni." His expression shifted from gloomy to something approaching panic. "How could this happen so suddenly? I finally managed to find such a powerful patron—"
The prison guard's office was small, windowless, lit by fluorescent tubes that hummed with the irregular rhythm of failing ballasts. The walls were painted that institutional green that existed only in government facilities—the color of bureaucratic surrender. A coffee maker in the corner produced something that technically qualified as coffee but tasted like regret brewed in despair.
Jenkins had worked in this building for twelve years. Twelve years of watching criminals come and go, of turning blind eyes for the right price, of understanding that in Gotham, everyone had a racket. His had been simple: loyalty for sale, surveillance for hire, cooperation available to the highest bidder.
Maroni had been the highest bidder.
Had been.
The newspaper showed photographs from yesterday's trial. Maroni lying in a pool of blood, shot three times by bailiffs. Harvey Dent standing in the courthouse hallway with half his face stained dark. The headline screamed about attempted murder in open court, about a prosecutor who'd somehow known to switch acid for industrial dye.
Jenkins' hands trembled slightly as he turned the page.
His cell phone rang.
He set down the newspaper with deliberate care and answered. "Jenkins."
"Director Jenkins." The security guard's voice crackled through the line. "An electrician just came into the basement cell area. He said Prosecutor Harvey asked him to check the circuits."
Jenkins' stomach dropped. His grip tightened on the phone. "What's his name?"
"Marcus, sir. Said you know him."
The tension leaked out of Jenkins' shoulders like air from a punctured tire. He breathed a sigh of relief so profound it bordered on prayer.
"Let him be." He shrugged even though the guard couldn't see it. "I know this guy."
Know wasn't quite accurate. Bribed was more precise.
Jenkins hung up and leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a moment of smug satisfaction. Marcus the electrician—money-hungry, morally flexible Marcus—had been one of his better investments.
The whole arrangement had been beautifully simple. Harvey Dent, paranoid prosecutor that he was, had told Jenkins there was only one surveillance camera in the underground holding cells.
So Harvey had hired an electrician—Marcus—to install two additional eavesdropping devices connected to the circuit. If they weren't wired into the building's power, they'd need batteries or regular charging. Wouldn't last half a month otherwise.
Of course, Jenkins had been smart enough to bribe the electrician Harvey hired.
The conversation had been brief, professional, transactional. Jenkins offered money. Marcus, demonstrating the flexible ethics that made Gotham's service industry so accommodating, accepted. Then Marcus had told Jenkins the full extent of Harvey's surveillance setup: three eavesdropping devices total.
That information had made Jenkins trust the money-hungry Mr. Marcus even more.
Jenkins had commissioned him to disable all three of Harvey's bugs. Also asked him to help sabotage the camera.
After all, I have Maroni's protection now. Even if Harvey finds out his setup failed, what can he do to me? I'll just say it's a circuit malfunction. Marcus will back up my story.
Jenkins flipped through a few more pages of the newspaper, scanning stories about the usual Gotham chaos. Another robbery in the Narrows. A fire in the East End that might or might not be arson. An editorial about corruption in city government that was so naive it bordered on comedy.
Then he stopped.
Went back.
Read the security guard's words again in his memory.
"Wait." Jenkins spoke to the empty office. "Why do I feel something is wrong?"
At that exact moment, his phone rang again.
"Didn't I just tell him to let the electrician be?" Jenkins muttered, reaching for the phone with mild irritation. Probably some bureaucratic follow-up question about paperwork or access logs.
But this time, the caller ID showed a different number.
Unknown.
Jenkins answered. "Hello?"
"Mr. Jenkins." The voice on the other end was cold, professional, and utterly devoid of warmth. The kind of voice that delivered bad news for a living. "Mr. Maroni sends his regards."
Jenkins' blood turned to ice water.
"He asked me to convey his exact words." The voice continued with the mechanical precision of a man reading from a script. "'Among my friends, there has never been anyone who dared to betray me. Nor have I ever been a useless waste.'"
Click.
The line went dead.
Jenkins slumped in his chair, the phone slipping from nerveless fingers. His face drained of color until he looked like a corpse that hadn't gotten the memo about lying down. His whole body trembled—hands, legs, the muscle beneath his left eye twitching with irregular spasms.
"It's over." His voice came out as a whisper. "It's all over."
The pieces connected with horrible clarity. The electrician visiting the basement cells. Harvey's surveillance equipment. The "malfunctioning" bugs that had somehow allowed Maroni's assassination plan to proceed. And now Maroni knew—knew—that someone had betrayed him.
Jenkins had thought he was paying off Harvey's electrician.
He'd actually been paying off someone else's.
The phone rang a third time.
Jenkins stared at it like it was a live grenade. For a desperate moment, he hoped—prayed—that it would be Maroni. That he'd have a chance to explain, to beg for mercy, to throw himself on whatever remained of the mob boss's capacity for forgiveness.
With trembling hands, he picked up the phone.
"Jenkins." Harvey Dent's voice was calm, almost gentle. The tone a doctor might use when delivering a terminal diagnosis. "I called you just now, but the line was busy. I guess you've received Maroni's 'greetings.'"
Jenkins couldn't speak. His throat had closed up, vocal cords paralyzed by fear.
Harvey continued as if he'd expected no response. "Whether it's true or not, remember what I said—if you don't want to die on the streets of Gotham City or in your own bed, don't hesitate. Take the evidence of your crimes and go to Commissioner Gordon."
The prosecutor paused, letting that sink in.
"Whether you turn yourself in or become a witness, that's your only chance of survival. Good luck on your journey, Jenkins."
Click.
Jenkins sat in his office, surrounded by the institutional green walls, the humming fluorescent lights, the coffee maker producing its bitter brew. He thought about the money Maroni had paid him. Thought about the life he'd built on small corruptions and calculated betrayals. Thought about dying in a Gotham alley with a bullet in the back of his head.
Then he thought about Commissioner Gordon's office, and the slim possibility of protection that came with cooperation.
It wasn't much of a choice.
But in Gotham, slim possibilities were better than certain death.
Ever since Harvey Dent's trial, Gotham City became calm on the surface. Eerily, suspiciously calm.
More than a month passed without a single major incident.
No annexations. No assassinations. No dramatic gunfights in the streets. The Maroni family didn't retaliate. The Falcone family didn't press their advantage. The District Attorney's office processed paperwork. The Gotham Police Department responded to routine calls.
To casual observers, it looked like peace.
To those involved, it looked like the moment before an avalanche—when the snow has already started moving but hasn't yet gained enough momentum to become unstoppable.
Only those deep in the game understood what undercurrents were surging beneath Gotham's murky surface. Money changing hands. Favors being called in. Witnesses being prepared. Evidence being compiled. The machinery of corruption grinding away in basement offices and late-night meetings.
Salvatore Maroni, who had basically recovered his ability to move after being shot three times, prepared for war.
His first targets should have been Vernon and Jenkins—the two traitors who'd exposed him, failed him, destroyed the careful assassination plan that would have eliminated Harvey Dent. Maroni had plans for them. Detailed, creative plans that involved pain, humiliation, and eventually death.
Then he learned they were both in GCPD custody.
Commissioner Gordon had taken them into protective custody within hours of the trial. Vernon Wells, assistant prosecutor turned informant. Jenkins, prison guard turned witness for the state. Both of them locked up safe in police headquarters, ready to testify, ready to turn state's evidence in exchange for immunity.
Maroni spat with such force he nearly choked.
Those two bastards had completely betrayed him, racing to become tainted witnesses so they could hide behind police protection while avoiding the consequences of their corruption and bribery.
Cowards. Rats. Traitors who can't even betray with dignity.
But it didn't matter. Not really. Maroni had bigger concerns than two insignificant pawns who'd flipped.
Harvey Dent's lawsuit was about to begin, and Maroni had plans for that too.
Even with Vernon and Jenkins testifying, I can still bribe the court. At worst, I'll spend some time in prison. Not too long. My father Luigi will take control of the situation and get me out.
It was a solid plan. Corruption was Gotham's native language, and Maroni spoke it fluently.
The lawsuit proceeded quickly due to the severe impact and overwhelming evidence. But Maroni wasn't slow either. By the day the court announced the verdict, he'd already bribed the relevant court staff. This kind of thing was familiar territory. The court staff had no professional ethics worth mentioning. The whole process had been remarkably untroublesome.
Three million dollars to the judge alone. Insurance money. The price of freedom.
Maroni stood in the defendant's dock, confident despite the circumstances. He'd been shot, yes. Humiliated, certainly. But in Gotham, money could purchase almost anything. Justice included.
The judge cleared his throat. "Mr. Maroni, you have been sentenced to a long prison term of thirty years for the attempted murder of the District Attorney in open court."
The courtroom went silent.
Maroni's brain stuttered like a scratched record.
"Can you say that again!?" He gripped the railing of the defendant's dock so hard his knuckles went white. Veins bulged on his forehead. Every muscle in his body tensed with the effort of not lunging over the barrier and strangling the judge with his bare hands.
He forced the words through clenched teeth. "Say it again! How many years!?"
I gave you three million dollars! You're giving me THIRTY YEARS!
The courtroom might as well have been spinning. Maroni looked at the judge—whose face had gone stiff and pale, like a man who knew he'd just signed his own death warrant regardless of which family killed him first. Then Maroni's gaze swung across the courtroom to Harvey Dent.
The prosecutor looked genuinely surprised. Shocked, even. Like he hadn't expected a thirty-year sentence any more than Maroni had.
But someone had expected it.
Someone had planned for it.
Someone had out-bribed him.
The name appeared in Maroni's mind like a neon sign in the darkness.
"Carmine Falcone."
Of course. Who else could influence a court's trial outcome after millions of dollars had already changed hands? Who else had the resources, the connections, the sheer vindictive patience to wait until after Maroni had spent his bribery money, then spend even more to ensure the opposite result?
"Mr. Maroni!" The judge's voice carried stern authority that rang hollow given the circumstances. "Please respect the court. This incident has already earned you a thirty-year prison sentence and a substantial fine. If you do something similar again, your sentence will be further increased."
The guards moved in before Maroni could respond. Strong hands gripped his arms. He was dragged from the defendant's dock, still staring at Harvey Dent's shocked expression, still processing the magnitude of his defeat.
Thirty years.
Three million dollars.
Carmine Falcone.
The unwilling Sal Maroni was taken from the courtroom, and within days, Luigi Maroni returned to assume control of the family operations.
Several days passed.
Maroni still couldn't get out of prison. His lawyers filed appeals that went nowhere. His father spent money liberally—on lawyers, on consultants, on investigators trying to find leverage for a new trial. Nothing worked. The system had been activated, and once Gotham's corrupt machinery started moving in a particular direction, it was nearly impossible to reverse.
Eventually, Luigi spent a considerable sum just to visit his son in prison.
Blackgate Prison's visiting area smelled like disinfectant trying and failing to cover the underlying scent of human misery. Metal tables bolted to the floor. Plastic chairs that had been sat in by thousands of criminals and their families. Bars separating the visitors from the visited—iron bars, thick as a man's wrist, spaced just wide enough that you could reach through but never quite touch.
Maroni sat on one side, looking depressed. His head hung low. The fight had gone out of him, replaced by the hollow realization of how thoroughly he'd been outmaneuvered.
On the other side of the railing, Luigi Maroni stood with his head full of white hair and his eyes full of disappointment. The old man looked at his son and sighed with the weight of decades.
"Dad." Maroni's voice came out small, childlike. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."
"Sal." Luigi's voice carried more sorrow than anger. "You bring shame to the Maroni name."
The words hit harder than any physical blow could have.
Luigi gripped the bars, knuckles going white. "I have already checked. Falcone did interfere in this trial. That idiot Harvey Dent was used as a gun—he should have been our gun. Do you understand?"
Maroni understood. He understood perfectly. Every piece of the puzzle had fallen into place with horrible clarity.
"The Holiday Killer," Luigi continued, his voice taking on the patient tone of a teacher explaining a lesson to a particularly slow student. "They captured Alberto Falcone. Dent helped us with that. They were planning to cooperate with us to deal with the Falcone empire. It was such a good situation."
The old man's grip on the bars tightened until his hands shook. "Why did you go crazy and do something like attacking a prosecutor in open court? For what? For who?"
For Sofia.
Maroni didn't say it out loud. What was the point? His father wouldn't understand—couldn't understand—that sometimes a man did stupid things for a woman. That sometimes love made you betray your family, ignore your training, throw away every advantage for a smile and a promise.
"With Falcone obstructing the appeal process, I can't rescue you now." Luigi's voice softened slightly, though the disappointment remained. "Just stay in here and reflect on your actions. Think about what you've done to this family."
"I will, father."
The two men sighed simultaneously across the iron railing.
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