Vincent stood on top of a rickety wooden crate, holding a megaphone that crackled with static every few seconds from the damp morning air. Rain drummed against the corrugated metal roof overhead. He glanced toward the row of police cruisers parked along the distant roadside.
He still remembered what the gang members had told him. The cops were the ones who'd stolen the money that should've been his. All he had to do was stir up the workers, get them angry enough to walk off the job, and fifty grand would be waiting for him.
Easy money.
---
Deep inside the Tuscan villa on the outskirts of Gotham, heavy velvet curtains sealed Falcone's study from the outside world. Only the flickering light from the stone fireplace illuminated the room.
Around the long table, his most important lieutenants sat rigid and silent, cowed by the atmosphere. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak.
Falcone sat at the head of the table, his cloudy eyes moving slowly from face to face like an aging lion surveying his pride, judging which of them were loyal and which were already calculating how to survive his fall.
"Go on," he said finally. "How much have we lost?"
Silence.
Then someone spoke up.
"Three underground casinos got raided in the Diamond District. Cash losses are over one point eight million. A few of the boys running security are still sitting in holding cells at Central."
That broke the dam. Complaints poured out like floodwater.
"Two warehouses we control in the Docks got hit with surprise inspections. They seized a shipment of construction materials. Worth a fortune."
"Several streets under my watch. They can't do business. Protection money's dried up completely."
Voices overlapped, faces twisted with frustration. Everyone in the room was suddenly the biggest victim of Barnes' crackdown, competing to prove who'd been hurt the worst. Falcone listened without interrupting, his eyes still moving across each face, sorting truth from exaggeration from outright lies meant to exploit the chaos.
He noticed Cobblepot sitting farther back, away from the table's center. That guy wasn't scrambling to list his losses like the others. He just nodded along occasionally.
"Enough." Falcone tapped the table lightly with one knuckle. The noise died instantly.
"Barnes wants to play by police rules, then we'll answer him the Gotham way. Send word. Starting tomorrow, the docks, the freight terminals, and those key processing plants in the industrial district, full strike. Tell the workers it's police misconduct that's cutting off their livelihoods. Make them understand that Barnes is the reason they can't feed their families."
His gaze fixed on the men responsible for those areas.
"I want cargo ships clogging the harbor. I want O'Brien and every politician in this city to see what the world looks like without order. Without my order."
"Yes, sir!"
"Understood. We'll take care of it right away!"
"Don't worry, we'll make Barnes eat shit!"
Declarations of loyalty rang out one after another.
Falcone watched them all. He said nothing.
---
Back at the docks, Vincent was starting to realize that fifty thousand dollars might as well have been fifty million.
According to the gang members who'd recruited him, he was supposed to be facing a sea of people, at least two thousand dockworkers and factory hands, enough bodies to bring Gotham Harbor to a grinding halt. Instead, what stretched out before him was maybe two hundred scattered figures holding a few pathetic signs that looked feeble in the cold morning wind.
The main freight routes were still busy. Inside the factories that were supposed to be shutting down, the machines still roared, quieter than usual, maybe, but nowhere near silent.
Rain soaked through most of the workers' jackets, dripping off their hard hats in steady streams. The faces staring up at him weren't filled with anger. They looked uncertain. Like they'd been promised something that hadn't materialized, and now they were wondering if staying was a mistake.
He raised the megaphone awkwardly and cleared his throat.
"Listen up!" he shouted. "The people running this city think we're disposable! They replace our hands with machines and strip away our dignity with contracts that screw us at every turn! But today, today we stand together!"
A gust of wind scattered his words across the water. There was no thunderous response. Just a few hesitant claps that got swallowed by the rain. Near the edge of the crowd, an old dockworker lit a cigarette and shook his head at the guy standing next to him.
Vincent caught fragments of conversation drifting up from below.
"Jimmy didn't show. He said Paul's crew told him attendance wasn't mandatory this time."
"Liz's whole shift didn't come either. She asked around at breakfast, Torino said there's no money in it."
Vincent looked at the gaps in the crowd.
None of them had come.
A man in oil-stained coveralls pushed his way to the front and looked up at Vincent. "Where the hell are Falcone's people? And what about the compensation they promised us for walking off the job?"
The crowd fell silent. More eyes turned toward Vincent.
"The money will come!" Vincent forced strength into his voice. "Everything will be settled! As long as we show our power today, as long as we make the people running this city see who really keeps Gotham moving..."
The wail of sirens cut through the rain.
Distant at first, but rapidly growing clearer. The crowd stirred like a flock of birds startled by a gunshot. People turned, craning their necks toward the street. The police cruisers were moving now, lights flashing, rolling slowly toward the docks.
"Cops!"
"They said it wouldn't be this fast..."
"I knew we shouldn't have believed this shit."
The crowd began breaking apart. People backed away, slipping into the shadows between shipping containers. The man who'd questioned Vincent spat on the ground and turned away without another word.
Vincent shouted uselessly into the megaphone, but his voice vanished beneath the intensifying rain. He watched the police lights grow brighter. The handful of workers who were supposed to be Falcone's enforcers in disguise just stood there, watching the crowd scatter like rats.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Gone.
He cursed under his breath, dropped the megaphone, and bolted into the shadows of the industrial complex, rain soaking through his jacket as he ran.
---
Zsasz appeared in Falcone's study, and quietly reported on the situation outside.
Falcone stood by the window, lifting one corner of the heavy curtain to watch the city in the distance. Gotham kept moving. Traffic flowed. The harbor's cranes kept swinging. The factories kept running. He let the curtain fall, and the room sank back into gloom.
He walked slowly back to his desk and settled into the high-backed chair, his figure looking slightly hunched in the firelight.
"They promised me..." he said softly, as if speaking to Zsasz or perhaps to himself. There was no anger in it.
Zsasz stood motionless in the shadows.
Falcone said nothing more for a long moment. He picked up the fresh Havana cigar sitting on his desk and held it beneath his nose, breathing in the rich aroma. But he didn't light it. There was no need to ask who had paid lip service while holding back their muscle. No need to ask who'd conserved their strength or sabotaged the operation from the inside. The outcome said everything.
Once, a single word from him could silence every dock in Gotham. It could shut down half the city's factories. Now, an order issued by his own hand was like a stone dropped into a swamp.
Barnes and his cops were just the surface problem. The real issue was deeper. The foundation beneath Falcone's feet had begun to rot and crumble. The halo of the Roman's empire was fading, and there was no getting it back.
He could feel it in the way people looked at him now. The awe was gone. In its place: scrutiny and hesitation. And underneath it all, contempt.
A log in the fireplace cracked softly. The flames jumped, briefly illuminating the look in Falcone's eyes.
"I made a mistake, Victor," he said slowly. "I tried to deal with a situation that no longer fears the past... using the methods of the past."
He rose and walked to the fireplace, picking up the old brass poker. He stirred the burning logs gently, sending sparks flying into the air.
"Since they've forgotten what fear tastes like, then we'll make them remember."
He turned away from the fire, returning the poker to its place, and for the first time fixed his full attention on Zsasz.
"Barnes thinks that by hiding inside the fortress of the police department, wrapped in law and badges like armor, I can't touch him." Falcone smiled. "He's wrong. He overestimates his armor. And underestimates my resolve."
Zsasz's eyes glinted faintly in the firelight.
"Find him. At the moment he least expects it. In the place he believes himself safest. I want you to go personally. There's only one target. Make Barnes understand that in Gotham, there are rules above the law he worships."
In Zsasz's eyes, a faint glimmer finally appeared. He inclined his head slightly and confirmed in a hoarse whisper:
"Alive? Or dead?"
"Death is too cheap." Falcone considered for a moment, then slowly sat back down, shadows swallowing most of his body again. "It would make him a martyr and inspire more fools who don't know their place."
He steepled his fingers.
"I want him to remember, every single day for the rest of his life, the price of challenging me. Let him spend his years living in fear. How you do it... Victor, I trust your professionalism."
Zsasz nodded once more and retreated soundlessly.
Falcone remained alone in the firelit room. He finally lit the Havana cigar, then slowly closed his eyes.
---
Back at the East End Precinct, Marco and Darnell stood near the entrance to the lobby, watching Crispus through the open door of a borrowed office. The Internal Affairs investigator was flipping through files.
Crispus was a tall guy, built solid, with a gentle smile that never seemed to leave his face. His voice was deep and smooth.
Darnell jerked his chin toward the office. "Hey, man. You think he's really that mellow? Like, does he ever get pissed off?"
Marco frowned. "Why? What stupid shit are you about to pull?"
"Let's make a bet." Darnell grinned. "I can get him to lose his cool with one sentence. They're here to audit the books, no reason to make it easy for them, right?"
Marco sighed and dug into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "That's all I've got."
"Deal!"
Darnell strolled into the office, greeting Crispus like they were old friends. Marco watched as they exchanged a few pleasantries. Then, after barely a minute, Darnell came slinking back out, looking deflated.
"You don't look like you won." Marco held out his hand. "Pay up."
"Goddamn it." Darnell sighed and fished out a twenty, handing it over reluctantly. "I asked him, 'You're pretty tall, was your dad this tall too? Did he push you into sports when you were a kid?'"
Marco winced. "That's low even for you. Did he tell you to go fuck yourself?"
"No..." Darnell said weakly. "He said his dad was an engineer at a construction company. Being tall was probably because he ate well growing up and got proper nutrition..."
Marco stared at him for a moment, then patted him on the arm, speechless.
"My condolences."