The cold wind in Gotham's western suburbs swept through the bare hedgerows. Marco pulled his gaze from the distant spire of Wayne Tower piercing the clouds and looked at the faded, worn letters on the sign beside the gravel path.
Private Property...
He'd assumed that with Falcone's status, the estate would be some Gatsby-level mansion. Instead, it was located in a relatively remote part of the suburbs, looking more like an old country farmstead than a crime lord's palace.
The tires crunched over thin frost on the gravel. The G20 belched black smoke as it struggled along the winding path. Bob had asked Logistics to do "some repairs," and they'd really taken that literally. The front passenger door lock was held together with a thick piece of wire, and the suspension groaned with every bump. Whether the car could make the return trip was anybody's guess.
When the engine finally died with a sputter, Cobblepot, waiting under the porch, nearly had his eyes pop out of his head. He clearly hadn't expected a pile of scrap metal held together with gasoline to still run. Watching Marco hop out and lift a box from the seat, he hurried forward with his uneven gait.
"Welcome, Officer."
Marco nodded and took a sweeping glance around. The high walls and iron gates he'd imagined were nowhere to be seen. Behind a low stone fence lay a slightly overgrown orchard, bare apple tree branches stretching toward the gray sky. The manor itself was a sturdy two-story Tuscan-style building with an Old World feel to it. The roof was covered in deep red tiles, while the paint on the shutters had faded to dull gray-white. Smoke drifted from the chimney, disappearing into the leaden clouds.
They walked past a small fountain at the entrance, the cherub statue no longer spraying water in this season, and climbed the porch stairs. The wooden floorboards echoed hollowly beneath their feet as they approached the parlor door.
Cobblepot knocked gently. After a moment, the door opened a crack, revealing a pale, gaunt face like a living skull. The deep-set eyes were filled with a lifeless emptiness.
"Officer Vitale has arrived."
Cobblepot's voice grew more servile, even trembling slightly. He bowed lower than usual.
Those dead eyes flicked over Marco. The man stepped back and opened the door wider. Cobblepot gestured for Marco to enter, but Marco's focus stayed on the skull-faced man.
Clean-shaven, bald head. An expensive, tailor-made suit. Scars stretched from beneath the cuff on his wrist, continuing inward. He stared back at Marco, and as they passed each other, their gazes clashed in mid-air.
"Officer Vitale?"
A sudden fanatic gleam flashed in the man's eyes. Marco simply smiled and raised the box in his hand slightly.
"This gift isn't for you."
He turned toward the room. Inside was unexpectedly warm. Several intricately patterned handmade rugs lay on the floor, and firelight glowed from logs crackling in the hearth. The walls were painted an old, slightly yellowed cream color, adorned with a richly colored painting of the Italian countryside.
On the main sofa in the center of the room sat a tall, broad-shouldered old man in an open-necked thick wool sweater. He looked more... solid than the newspaper photos suggested. Less crime lord, more grandfather. His gray-and-white short hair was meticulously combed, and though the deep lines on his face could've belonged to any old man on the street, his eyes were different. Dark flint, polished sharp. The kind of eyes that saw straight through skin and bone.
He held a steaming ceramic mug. Seeing Marco enter, he lifted a hand toward the empty seat opposite him.
"Sit down, son. I heard the GCPD has produced an impressive talent. I wanted to meet you."
Marco walked around the sofa and placed the gift box on the coffee table. He was about to speak when he noticed someone sitting nearby. He turned his head and couldn't help exclaiming:
"Detective Gordon?"
He quickly remembered he hadn't greeted the host yet and turned back, waving lightly. "Good afternoon, Don Falcone." He pushed the gift toward him. "Just a small token."
"Thank you very much." Falcone straightened and picked up the box, examining it. "What fine thing is this? May I open it?"
"Of course. It's Amarone, a wine from Valpolicella." Marco gestured at the bottle. "Not the expensive reserve vintages, just a decent bottle. But it's from a good year."
"Oh?" Falcone had been about to hand the box to the skull-faced man behind him, but after hearing Marco's words, he pulled his arm back. "Zsasz, fetch me something to open this. I'll do it myself."
He extended one hand backward. "Victor Zsasz, my fiercest guardian. I believe the two of you have already met."
"Uh... yeah." Marco raised a hand toward Zsasz. "I'd guess his body fat percentage is pretty low."
Falcone chuckled, taking a corkscrew from Zsasz. "Amarone. A fine choice. I know this wine well. You honor me with this gift, son."
"Honestly, Don Falcone, I can't take too much credit. It's what I could afford." Marco rubbed the back of his neck. "The really good vintages cost more than my monthly salary."
"You're an honest young man." Falcone smiled and set the bottle aside. "No matter. I appreciate it all the same. Cobblepot?"
He raised his voice. Cobblepot opened the door and bowed slightly. "Sir?"
"Come, sit." Falcone patted the sofa arm on his right, then the space on his left. "Zsasz, you sit as well."
Cobblepot's face lit up as he limped quickly to the sofa, giving thanks before sitting down. Zsasz shook his head and remained standing silently behind Falcone.
"All right, I'll be direct, many things have happened recently." Falcone took a cigar from the box on the table, clipped and lit it. Cobblepot started to rise to help, but Falcone stopped him with a wave. He looked around, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. "Some of you here were directly involved in these events. Some suffered losses."
Sitting opposite, Marco clearly saw Zsasz's eyes flick silently toward Cobblepot. That guy, who'd been sitting upright a moment ago, immediately shrank, trying to sink himself deep into the soft leather.
"The cause of all this is simple. Some people in the family let greed cloud their judgment. Mooney, what she betrayed wasn't just me. She betrayed the family. The tradition. The order we've built over decades with blood and loyalty."
He paused. Not a sound came from anyone present. The entire room was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Marco, however, wasn't particularly intimidated. He'd sat through enough tense meetings with authority figures to know the drill. His gaze drifted past Cobblepot's shoulder to the mantelpiece, where in an inconspicuous frame, a faded photograph showed a much younger Falcone standing on a fishing boat with several men, Gotham Harbor's murky waters behind them.
"Power is a tool. A burden. This position I hold, it doesn't matter. What matters is la famiglia. Blood. Family. That's older than any throne, more sacred than any oath."
Marco had zoned out slightly and missed some of the speech. He snapped back when he heard Falcone call his name.
"...If not for the courage of Officers Gordon and Vitale, things might have spiraled beyond control."
"Huh?" Marco refocused. Falcone turned to him. "I owe you an apology. To avoid unnecessary panic, I didn't allow Cobblepot to exaggerate the severity of the situation, but I also underestimated Mooney's instability. And some of the weapons her people used came from families I thought were loyal."
Ah, got it. So you weren't sure you could handle it either.
"No problem at all, Don Falcone. When an officer on duty encounters armed criminals attacking civilians, I can't just stand aside." Marco smiled politely. "Though my partner was seriously injured and my patrol car was destroyed, forcing me to drive this half-dead vehicle here today, as a member of the Gotham Police Department, I'm committed to protecting the city's stability, preserving Gotham's peace, and defending innocent citizens. Everything else is secondary."
None of the people present had apparently ever experienced this kind of bureaucratic double-speak. Even Falcone, a hardened crime lord, showed momentary confusion. He composed himself, flicked ash from his cigar, and smiled.
"Well said..." But then he fell silent for a while before returning to the topic.
"I've heard that Cobblepot, during this... incident, took it upon himself to act in certain ways that caused some misunderstandings." Falcone turned to Cobblepot, who sat motionless, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. "But his strategy succeeded in exposing the traitors and stabilizing the situation. Therefore..."
He looked toward Marco, then toward Zsasz. "Zsasz?"
"Your will, Don Falcone."
Zsasz nodded, saying nothing more, but continued staring at Cobblepot. Sweat rolled down Cobblepot's neck, soaking through his shirt collar.
"So... Marco?"
"No problem. I told Mr. Cobblepot two days ago that his approach was effective. If I were in his position, I might've done the same."
Even though Marco still found Cobblepot irritating, the guy had paid the department and donated equipment. Taking the money and refusing to play along would be unprofessional.
"And Mr. Cobblepot made generous donations to the precinct. Our chief is extremely pleased. Though my car was wrecked, that's secondary. Worth it for the greater good."
"Yes, for stability and order, it's worth it." Falcone chuckled. "Now the greedy ones and the fence-sitters have been dealt with. Peace has returned, and will last for some time. Don't worry about your car."
He waved his hand. Zsasz took a small case from the cabinet and placed it on the coffee table. Falcone opened it, took out two bundles of cash, placing one in front of Marco and one in front of Gordon.
"We're family. Losses in the family shouldn't be borne alone."
"I'm sorry, Don Falcone, we're not family."
Gordon, who'd been silent like a ghost, suddenly stood up. "I'm an officer of the Gotham City Police Department. I will never be family with the Falcone crime organization."
He turned and looked at Marco with unconcealed contempt and disappointment. "You insisted I come today just to show me how a police officer can be bought. But I'm not like him."
He lifted his head toward Falcone. "To me, justice is priceless. Maybe you were a friend of my father, I can respect you for that. But I won't compromise."
Without another word, he turned and walked out. Zsasz moved to stop him, but Falcone raised a hand.
"Let him go." The Roman sighed, then looked back at Marco. "And you? What's your choice? Do you also believe justice is priceless?"
Marco exhaled slowly. He looked at the money on the table. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he pushed the cash back across the table.
"I think justice is a rare and precious quality, something worth fighting for. So..." He swallowed. "Justice is worth more than this."
---
"What do you think?"
Watching the smoke-belching Chevrolet struggle away from the balcony window, Falcone turned and asked Zsasz and Cobblepot.
"Fools." Zsasz sneered coldly. "Give the order. I'll kill them both by morning."
"I find it fascinating." Falcone dropped his cigar and clapped softly. "Two men with completely opposite personalities rejecting me for completely opposite reasons. Truly interesting."
A slow grin spread across his face. "Cobblepot... could you tell me what exactly you whispered to the officer when you walked him out?"
Meanwhile, inside the rattling Chevrolet, Marco was sighing deeply.
"Damn... came here for nothing. Lost big on this trip."