From his expensive Italian sofa, he could just barely see his gardeners hard at work, caring for his wife's beloved roses. The three men were father and sons, made less money in a year than his sons spent in a day, lacked all ambition or hunger beyond the desire to finish their work on time to watch the ball game, and were overall happier than he ever could be.
Carmine Falcone knew that to be true.
'And yet,' he thought, taking a long puff of his cigar, the cheapest one money could buy, a tradition from his most humble days, enjoying the few moments of peace before he was inevitably served a generous serving of hot steaming shit, 'these three men are more loyal than half my capos, and much more competent at their jobs,'
He was tempted to upend the structure of his entire criminal enterprise to reward gardeners above killers and racketeers, before calming himself with another puff of mediocre tobacco, he couldn't let his frustration take the best of him.
Not yet, frustration was best left to marinate slowly, turned into cold anger and wielded against fools and foes.
"Don Falcone," his consigliere entered, Dante Silvio was a man of constants and one of the more bearable people in his entourage.
He always wore bespoke Italian suits even in those old days where he could scarcely afford them, bought from the very same store each and every time, always wore a red shirt under black vest, and always hid a small ivory blade behind his tie.
He always made the same bad imitations of old mobster movies, always spoke in a calm and level tone of voice, and always knew when to shut up, or when to speak out.
Unfortunately, that meant he always did what he had to do, as opposed to what Carmine wanted him to do.
The distinction between those two things became rather apparent when the Don would rather enjoy his cheap cigar and ignore the problems for another moment, or forever if possible.
"The men have arrived," Silvio said calmly, standing with his back straight as he always did, "shall I invite them in?"
Falcone deeply, truly wished to say no, to tell him to send them off to a whore house where they could find people more suitable and prepared to be screwed, but he was the number one and that came with the most bittersweet poison.
Responsibilities
"They can come," The Roman exhaled, a sigh mixed with smoke, and he put out his cheap cigar before lighting another one, suitably expensive for his big nosed lieutenants not to have further reason to open their mouths in his absence, "and bring me a drink while you're at it, I'll need it,"
Silvio didn't bother answering, only opening the door and gesturing at the men to enter, before moving toward the liquor cabinet to serve two glasses of Scotch and Campari, handing him his glass just as the room started to fill.
A chorus of greetings and 'Don Falcone' followed with varying levels of reverence, fear and bravado from his lieutenants, capos and their seconds.
He maintained his nonchalance, nursing his drink while fixing each one with a deep look, only humoring them with a nod as he idly figured out which ones were the most likely to try and kill him, the most ready to flip when given an offer they couldn't refuse, or the most foolhardy and reckless of the lot.
Often, those traits were shared in a single person.
He looked at the musclebound form of Fat Tony, who still bore that nickname from his childhood despite spending years trying to overcome it, only for the irony to make it stick long after he made his bones, and now became a capo.
"Don Falcone, I came as soon as I heard," said the six-foot-five man in charge of Burnside, his voice slow and measured, and almost enough to convince those who didn't know any better that there were some serious thoughts going inside that meathead's brain.
Fat Tony was a relatively poor earner, especially for someone in charge of Burnside, in the mainland and the economic potential that represented, but he was also as loyal as it came and predictable in action and appetites.
That meant he was a useful idiot in the literal sense.
'A foolish man's mistakes harm only himself, but a clever man's mistakes harm his master,' Falcone thought, sipping the scotch as he looked at the next man, a wiry and rather frail looking man who lacked all the intimidation of Fat Tony, yet proved much more troublesome, 'ain't that right, Ralphie?'
Ralph Cifaretto had none of Fat Tony's physical presence, none of Dante's easy charm, and none of his own time-tested ability to survive and thrive in the underworld, only a great debt toward him for accepting him within his organization, albeit the very bottom of the totem pole.
What he did have was more smarts than sense, the least profitable part of Fat Tony's turf which he quickly turned into the highest grossing one, and the sheer potential to climb up the ranks within his empire if he only learned to control his temper and childish outbursts.
He was some sort of pariah exported from a pathetic Jersey family in decline, sent away with the promise of lead in his brain and cement shoes if he ever came back, and a quarter of a million dollar debt he owed the New York families for some slight he did.
He was also probably going to die in the next couple years, unless the city managed to beat some sense into him first.
Which, to be fair, Gotham was indeed the best place to test one's mettle if the purpose was to harden their heart and cool their temper, lest they be ruined.
'Though I doubt it,' He nodded at his capo's second, then moved on to the next , sizing them up.
Some of them were his own kin, others childhood friends of his who were lucky enough not to die in action, or try to betray him. Others were had simply risen through merit, but all of them had been capo for more than three years.
Nine Capos, nine seconds, his consigliere and him made the large and opulent place feel almost claustrophobic, and he would even be worried about security if Luca Brassi wasn't on the other side of the door armed to the teeth and eager to kill someone if they gave him a reason.
Some people lived their lives asking to be killed, looking for the chance to escalate every conflict, until they ended up spending the rest of their days in jail, waiting for their turn on the electric chair, or simply lying in a pool of blood somewhere in a dark alley.
Luca Brassi was such a man, and Carmine was more than happy to make use of him.
Then Falcone stayed silent, and let the silence fill the room until the pressure was enough to be felt by even the most obtuse of children, until each man was alone with his thoughts and paranoia, and their fears made manifest in their eyes.
He looked around, noted the nervous looks being masked with varying levels of skill, figured out who knew what, who had suspicions for the reason behind their meeting, and whose suspicions were based on a little more than guts and simple deduction.
His conclusion? The incoming crisis was somehow not the result of one of his idiots doing something foolish.
Another cretino was to blame, for better or worse.
That meant he could finally end his soldier's suffering.
"Take a seat," He said, gesturing the expensive couches and leather chairs, and soon every single capo was sitting, their seconds taking the hint to hand them drinks or light their cigars depending on "I thank you all for coming on such short notice, but the situation simply did not allow for any delay, I believe some of you are already aware…"
Carmine said absolutely nothing, but puffed his cigar and did not intend to say more, until the already well cooked capos and their lieutenants cracked and broke the silence before it could form.
"Lenny Sullivan got himself killed,"
The statement came from one of the seconds, a nervous little man named Vincenzo who seemed perpetually one bad day away from a heart attack.
Nobody reacted.
Nobody in that room knew Lenny Sullivan personally, and if they did, they certainly weren't sentimental enough to show it.
Carmine merely took another sip of scotch.
"So I've heard."
Then Vicenzo caught his capo's look, the kind that said 'shut your damn mouth, the don was asking a rhetorical question' and promptly choked on his next words.
It was a great opportunity to let them simmer a bit more, but Silvio decided to end the fun before it could start.
Spoilsport.
"A weapons shipment was hit, everyone was killed and nearly every bit of iron taken away, the rest was looted by local bums and steeet kids," The consigliere continued, adjusting his tie as he stood to his left, "a clean job, I must say, well executed,"
Well executed for a massacre, that is, but even then Falcone would have had a lot more respect if it ended there, if the perpetrators had the sense to keep their heads down for a few months then smuggle the guns away from Gotham…
Then he wouldn't have such a headache coming his way.
"How many rifles?" someone asked the least important question.
"About eighty AKs. Ammunition too." Vicenzio's capo opened his mouth, despite admonishing his second for not closing his.
A few whistles sounded around the room, that was enough firepower to arm a small army.
Or, more accurately, a Gotham street gang.
It was bad on many levels, but one thing every single man could say, was that it was expensive.
Every man present knew exactly how difficult it was to lose an entire shipment of weapons.
Money had changed hands.
Many hands.
Truck drivers.
Dock workers.
Police officers.
Inspectors.
Union officials.
Everybody got paid, everybody needed to get in on the action, and even more people expected a nice windfall or at least some solid weaponry to outfit their men with.
Instead, they got fuckin' nada
For eighty rifles to simply vanish meant someone had put in serious effort.
"The Panessa family started moving AKs less than a week later," Silvio finished. "Cheap as it got, and with many more kept in their grubby hands,"
The room grew quieter.
Not silent.
Just quieter.
Like a room full of predators smelling blood, like a pack of prostitutes smelling a freshly divorced middle aged man, like a bunch of politicians hearing the laughs of young children.
Hungry.
"And the Sullivans?" asked Falcone.
"They figured it out."
"Of course they did."
One of the capos barked out a laugh, the others joined in, because there wasn't much mystery involved.
A Sullivan crew loses a shipment, and one of their owns.
Panessa soldiers suddenly have brand new rifles, and were dumping more onto the hands of any friendly face willing to throw a few bills and some gabagool.
Even Gotham's police could solve that one.
"The drive-by happened yesterday evening," Vincenzo continued. "Panessa soldier named Marco Vitti, made man for three years, made his bones almost a decade ago. Three gunshot wounds."
"Dead?"
"No."
A collective groan filled the room.
Falcone almost smiled, an ugly, smoke filled, scotch stained smile that would be empty like only an old man who knew the malice within the human heart could muster.
Because he, and most everyone here knew…
Nothing started gang wars quite like surviving.
A corpse was tragic, but it could be mourned, widows consoled, terms negotiated in a table with every crime family of importance, like fucking civilized people.
A survivor, though, was angry.
"He's expected to recover."
"There it is," Fat Tony muttered, because you didn't need triple-digit IQ and years in college to see the pattern of shitfuckery so common to their line of work.
"There what is?" Ralph asked, like the fucking greenhorn he is.
What did the jersey mob do? Play bocce in retirement homes?
"The war." Silvio said with patience of a man who got his law degree while running a gambling den.
Several heads nodded.
Not just because of the shooting, or the stolen rifles, or even the Sullivan boy who got his head blown open, but because everyone in the room had been waiting for this.
The city had spent months tightening like a spring.
Territories disputed, rackets expanding the weapons trade running so hot even a rusty pipe could find a buyer, a thief and a fence in less than a day's work.
Old agreements ignored.
Young men making names for themselves.
Older men refusing to give way.
Everybody had been loading guns, everyone was ready for catastrophe when the pazzi started their game of hot potato with dirty bombs, and attacked the madhouse.
Now somebody had finally pulled a trigger.
"The Panessas hit one of ours three weeks ago," another capo said, which Falcone knew for a fact was not true, because the one who did it was currently sipping whiskey on the other side of the room, and he personally got his share of the spoils.
"They denied it," Silvio said matter-of-factly.
"They always deny it."
"They also robbed a gambling operation in Bristol."
"That wasn't them."
"It was absolutely them."
The argument started immediately.
Voices rose as accusations flew, some of them entirely made up, most more or less exaggerated, but that wasn't the point. The point was to argue and shout and curse together, the basic components of camaraderie.
Old grievances resurfaced.
Falcone sat quietly through all of it.
Watching, carefully listening to every ounce of truth, bullshit and whatever else the human mind could conjure when it knew people were about to die soon and they might very well be one of the corpses.
In those meaningless words he could find which men around him seemed convinced the war had begun because of a shipment of rifles, that it was just business.
Idiots.
The rifles were irrelevant.
The dead Sullivan was irrelevant.
The drive-by was irrelevant.
They were sparks.
The city had already been soaked in gasoline.
Eventually something was going to light it.
If not this, then another robbery.
Another insult.
Another murder.
Another ambitious idiota trying to make his name, trying to play fancy games or impress his stupid fucking friends and play ninety caliber like he's fucking capone.
The result would have been the same.
"Enough."
The room fell silent instantly.
Falcone didn't raise his voice, he didn't beat on his men to show he's the boss, he didn't summon Brassi to look big and strong and show he had balls and a strong tool to enforce his will.
He didn't need to.
No true leader would ever need such things.
"Tell me," he said, looking around the room, "which one of you is surprised?"
Nobody answered.
That was answer enough.
He pointed at Fat Tony.
"You surprised?"
"No, Don."
Another capo, his nephew.
"You?"
"No."
Another.
"No, Don."
Another.
"No."
Falcone spread his hands.
"There."
His voice remained calm.
"We've spent six months preparing for a war everybody knew was coming."
He looked toward the window.
The gardeners were still working.
Still trimming roses.
Still enjoying lives infinitely simpler than his own, and surely much more human.
"The Panessas knew."
He pointed at the floor.
"We knew."
Another gesture.
"The Russians knew."
Another.
"The Penguin knew."
Another.
"Hell, the police knew."
A few chuckles followed.
Sionis might've known too, but that boy was simply some sadistic rich brat playing at being a gangster, 'False Face Society', what a bunch of nonsense.
Back in the day, people like him were content to beat up prostitutes and drown themselves in drugs and alcohol, now they wore masks and helped the Batman get more experience and skills.
"The only mystery was who would fire the first shot."
The room quieted again.
Because that was the truth, some people don't like hearing it, but it remained true.
"The Sullivans are asking for permission."
That pearl came from Dante Silvio.
Of course it did.
He always waited until the useful part of the conversation.
"What permission?" He asked despite half-knowing where this was going.
"To retaliate," Silvio said with a straight face which he knew was hiding a guffaw
Falcone laughed.
Actually laughed.
A short tired sound, the kind made by men who were disappointed by every child they had, the world they lived in, themselves and were keenly aware that they only had themselves and their weasley black guts to blame.
"They already retaliated," Ralph said with a look of mild incomprehension and great familiarity with that level of stupidity and incompetence.
A few grins appeared from the older heads, the ones who knew what kind of crazy a bunch of pissed off Irishmen with too much booze, just enough guns and a dead cousin could get up to.
"The second retaliation," Silivio said calmly.
"Ah."
That made considerably more sense.
He considered the question for several moments, it was the kind of crap that needed such consideration despite how utterly inevitable everything felt and probably was, because some words once spoken, couldn't be taken back.
The room waited.
Every man understands the significance, or understanding that they should shut their mouths lest they say some exceptionally stupid shite.
The head of the family could still attempt peace.
Still negotiate, despite the odds of reason prevailing being slim.
Still sit down with Panessa and carve up the city one more time, throw some folks under the bus, get a deal going that would prevent even more bloodshed.
Talk about how such things would disturb both their business, and only result in lost money, men and kins for them all.
It wouldn't work.
Everyone knew it.
You couldn't just call off a war, even one so pointless.
But the option technically existed.
Carmine finished his drink, set the glass down and made his decision.
"Inform the Sullivans that they have my blessing," He said with utter finality and the resignation of wicked men.
Gotham was now in a gang war, and many a corpse would fall, before the madness ended.
The Roman's Empire, however, would overcome this crisis.
Carmine Falcone knew that to be true.
. . .
I'm back.
Get onto Discord to know what happened, it involves corn, crimes and cuisine.