In The DC World With Marvel Chat Group

On a rainy night in Gotham, the rain was always fine and persistent, carrying a bone-corroding, soul-devouring chill. Under the glare of the streetlights, the raindrops resembled a hazy, gray web. As they approached the ground, each drop created tiny splashes.

The sound of an engine started at the end of a dark alley. Accompanied by the faint sound of water, the subtle noises of tires rolling over uneven pavement grew closer. When the blinding headlights appeared at the back door of the police station, Gordon knew trouble was on the horizon.

A stretched luxury car pulled up in front of Gordon. He saw the reflection of rifle barrels in the car's window glass, and a person inside the rearview mirror nodded at him. No words were exchanged; the entire process unfolded in silence, much like Gotham's night.

Gordon took a deep breath and reached for the handgun holstered at his waist. Though it had just been fitted with new parts, it offered him no real sense of security. In this city, the police couldn't rely on their guns for authority or even self-preservation.

A man in a black suit stepped out of the car and opened the door for Gordon. Gordon checked his watch; it was now 9:12 in the evening, and he was going to miss dinner with Barbara again.

In the end, Gordon got into the car. As the vehicle started, he gazed out the window. Neon signs of stores flashed by in his field of vision, leaving behind streaks of red and blue brilliance at the intersections. Raindrops splattered against the car window, blurring these faint halos of light.

Gordon asked, "Who am I here to meet?"

"You'll find out when you meet them," the person in the passenger seat replied.

As the car drove down a somewhat rough road, it swayed slightly, and the headlights blinked onto different buildings. Soon, it turned into an alley that Gordon had never been to before. He knew this place was in the East District, the most dangerous fringe of the East District, to be precise.

He got out of the car, and the man in the black suit led him to the entrance of a mansion. Two people stood in front of the door, both holding guns. One of them approached Gordon, who crossed his hands over his forehead. The person took away his gun and conducted a quick search, ensuring there were no weapons. After that, Gordon followed his guide inside.

The mansion was lavishly decorated, brightly lit on the inside, but it was sparsely populated. Gordon went upstairs, and as the guide opened a door, Gordon saw a rather burly figure. He knew it was Sal Maroni, the new leader of the East District.

Maroni turned around; he wasn't particularly handsome, and he had a menacing appearance. The corners of his mouth always turned downwards, while the corners of his eyes seemed to perpetually arch upwards, giving him a sinister look.

He twirled a ring on his hand and said, "Commissioner, please have a seat. I apologize for inviting you so abruptly."

Gordon's response was impolite, and he didn't sit down as Maroni had suggested. Instead, he stood upright.

Maroni's expression fluctuated, but he didn't seem to mind Gordon's disrespect. He said, "I invited you here to discuss business, as Gangs often do."

"I don't do business with Gangs."

"Oh?" Maroni chuckled. "That's quite novel. I've heard some of your colleagues complain that my offers weren't generous enough, but I've never heard of anyone refusing to work with a Gang."

"The fact is, I don't collaborate with any Gang."

"Then why are you involved in The Godfather's business? Your outdoor task force must be making money from his private prison operation, right?"

"I'm just doing my job as a cop. Combating crime is a policeman's duty," Gordon replied.

He spoke the truth; even if he knew that the criminals he apprehended were increasing The Godfather's revenue, his actions were aimed at capturing criminals. If this work happened to be profitable for him, all the better. But if not, Gordon would continue to uphold his duty. After all, before this business came along, he had been doing it this way, and he was the only one who had.

"My conditions are quite simple. You don't have to do anything, just delay and find various reasons to hinder the outdoor task force from going out."

Maroni spread his hands and said, "It's so simple! All you need to do is nothing, and I'll offer you a satisfactory price for it."

Gordon noted, "I can see you've been trying to imitate The Godfather. I've never met Falcone himself, but I know there are plenty of poor imitators here in Gotham. They try to mimic his eloquent speech, politeness, and even his Italian accent."

"But it won't work, Mr. Maroni. You're not Falcone, and there won't be a second Falcone in Gotham, at least not now. Gotham belongs to The Godfather, not you."

Maroni's expression darkened completely because Gordon had hit a nerve. He was indeed trying to emulate Falcone, or as Gordon put it, there were too many people in Gotham trying to mimic The Godfather.

Even though they hadn't completed high school, they imitated Falcone, using highly refined language to twist simple sentences into complex, grammatically intricate ones.

They wore suits, tied ties, pinned flowers to their lapels, and held pens instead of handguns, just like The Godfather.

Falcone was like a benchmark for the city of Gotham. The charisma of The Godfather was so powerful that all the mob bosses were imitating him, and Maroni was no exception.

When you arrive in Gotham, you'll be quite surprised. The gangs here don't employ a bunch of thugs to kidnap you; instead, they send a black luxury car on a rainy night to your doorstep. Then, in a lavishly decorated room, they sit behind a black office desk, dressed impeccably, with an attitude that's polite and refined as they engage with you.

They don't look like your typical gang; they resemble more of an old-fashioned aristocracy, all influenced by Falcone.

This is what makes Maroni feel ashamed because unlike others, he has always believed he'd never succumb to The Godfather's power. He sees himself as the one destined to overthrow Falcone, but he can't deny that he has been emulating The Godfather all along.

Yet, his imitation falls short. Maroni doesn't fit into a suit the way The Godfather does. He lacks that refined air that The Godfather effortlessly exudes. Even in a well-tailored suit, he can't conceal his roughness.

But Falcone represents the most glorious era of Gotham's gangs. His every move carries the mark of that boiling period, a demeanor that suggests mastery over everything. It captivates Maroni.

He harbors malicious intentions to replace The Godfather, but like everyone else in Gotham, he also holds deep respect for him.

Gordon observes Maroni's silence and says, "Do you know? Even before entering this door, I knew it couldn't be The Godfather inviting me. Despite using his favorite car model and the most common method of invitation."

"Is that so?" Maroni inquires.

"Because why? If it were Falcone inviting me today, I wouldn't be searched, and my guns wouldn't be confiscated. The Godfather doesn't care if I'm armed when I meet him because he's much more confident than you."

Maroni is struggling to maintain his facade. Every word Gordon speaks pierces his heart. Everything Gordon says is true.

When Falcone invites someone to talk, he never disarms them, even if they are notorious killers. He dares to sit behind a table, less than two meters away from them, unarmed, and persuades them with words alone.

But Maroni doesn't dare. How can he allow a well-trained old cop with a gun to approach him within two meters? He has no certainty, and he must be wary of Gordon's sudden attack. He doesn't even understand why Falcone can do it.

Why is The Godfather so confident that no one he meets would dare harm him? Maroni has never understood this. In his view, one mistake, and all his efforts would be in vain under the sound of gunfire. He won't give anyone that chance.

He feels his caution is justified, but it doesn't stop him from feeling a sense of impending defeat. He says in a low voice to Gordon, "Do you think your actions here are wise? Provoking me repeatedly on my own turf?"

"Are you dropping the act now?" Gordon asks. "Just now, your words were no different from a street thug's. You didn't use any sophisticated vocabulary. Is it because you think I've seen through the truth, so there's no need to pretend anymore?"

Maroni waves his hand, and behind him, there's a distinct click as a shotgun is loaded. The man in the suit behind him points it straight at Gordon.

Gordon shakes his head and says, "This is where you differ from Falcone. You brought me here supposedly to discuss business, but in this world, there's no reason to resort to violence if a deal can't be struck. You're still playing by the old gang rules. If I don't agree with you, you'll point a gun at me and force me to comply."

"That's enough," Maroni says, taking a deep breath. He gestures, and the man behind him lowers the gun. He continues, "You're clever; you know I don't want to lose to Falcone."

"Your cleverness saved your life tonight, Commissioner Gordon. I can let you leave tonight, not because I'm imitating anyone, but because I'm being merciful and giving you a chance to think. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

As Gordon leaves the mansion, he is almost soaked in cold sweat. Only he knows how dangerous the situation was just now. If it weren't for his repeated provocations of Maroni using Falcone, it's questionable whether he would have made it out of the mansion unscathed.

The cold wind of Gotham blows against him, and the fine raindrops strike his face. Slowly, he walks back, thinking that perhaps the trouble is far from over.

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