Chapter 148: The Dead Alberto Falcone

The next day, inside the building where Harvey and Falcone had arranged to meet.

"Thump, thump."

A dull knocking sound rose, only two knocks, and the door was knocked open.

A man wearing a black trench coat and a felt hat appeared outside the door; beneath the coat was a suit and tie, and a long white scarf hung around his neck. The stand-up collar covered the lower half of his face, and dark sunglasses blocked his eyes.

This outfit was very handsome and very imposing; in fact, after the Romans became the real power figures in the city, many people in the entire city began dressing this way, and a submachine gun could be pulled from under their coats at any moment.

This was typical Mafia attire.

"Please come in."

The person inside whispered, welcomed the man in, then closed the main door, cutting off the gaze of the outside world.

"Mr. Falcone, must you even in disguise insist on gangster style?"

To Harvey's question, who was leading the way, the Roman did not answer; he casually removed his sunglasses. He had not worn this Italian gangster outfit in a long time, and now felt somewhat unaccustomed—black suit, white shirt, bow tie, plus a red rose in the pocket, that was his usual attire: elegant, upper-class, and dignified.

"Where is my son, Prosecutor Harvey?"

"Come with me."

Harvey led him inward, finally opening a door; this was the door to the basement.

Falcone's eyes narrowed slightly; he was very displeased. A place like a basement was generally used to imprison prisoners, yet his Alberto was actually placed in such a location.

"Prosecutor Harvey, I must remind you: if anything untoward happens to me or my son, the Falcone family will burn all of Gotham to ash."

"Mr. Falcone, your son is a dangerous person; we cannot simply place him anywhere, not even in the police station—only the basement is most suitable for him."

"A dangerous person?"

Falcone frowned tightly; he never expected to receive such an answer: "What madness are you speaking?"

At this moment, the two had already descended a long staircase and arrived inside the basement; a voice sounded from ahead, answering his words.

"Yes, a dangerous person, Mr. Falcone. Your son has astonishing marksmanship, is ruthless and cold-blooded; he continuously killed four gangsters inside a car, then manufactured a car explosion to attack Maroni's restaurant, massacred a large number of Maroni family members, and also a gunsmith in Tang Tang Renjie; finally, he shot Maroni and his father."

Chief Gordon, inside the basement, walked over, handed over a copy of a confession, and placed it into the Don's hands.

"Your son Alberto is a serial killer; he is—"

"The Holiday Killer."

Falcone looked at Chief Gordon, listening to the words spilling from his mouth; his expression grew somewhat dazed. The massive amount of information nearly overwhelmed him completely, causing his brain to nearly stop turning.

"My son, Alberto, the Holiday Killer?"

He incredulously opened the confession in his hand; the contents within were shocking.

It was Alberto's own account; he confessed to these crimes without reservation. Except for Johnny Viti's death and the annihilation of the Irish Mob, he fully confessed to all these crimes.

Regarding how he chose holiday gifts, how he commissioned a. 22 caliber pistol from the silenced gunsmith, how he tampered with shooting range data, how he obtained information on Maroni-related members from the family, how he faked his death and escaped on the New Year's Eve cruise ship, and finally how he was caught on the spot while attacking Maroni and his father.

Perhaps, in his view, these were his medals rather than crimes; if he concealed them and did not admit to them, it would be no different than wearing brocade at night.

The Roman could see that the signature at the end was indeed his youngest son's handwriting; precisely because of this, he felt extra incredulous. In his impression, this youngest son of his had always been a good child: obedient, sensible, loyal, and quietly staying outside the family's messy affairs, giving him little worry.

Falcone Import Company was originally his first step toward laundering; in the future, only then could white-collar industries be left to the white Alberto. This was why he insisted on keeping his youngest son away from family business, but now, that idea had shattered.

At this moment, Chief Gordon led him to a door; this was a small cell inside the basement.

"Alberto is inside; you can speak with him directly, Mr. Falcone."

Thus, the Roman forcibly suppressed his emotions and pushed open that door.

The furnishings inside were very simple; under dim light, there was only a table, a chair, and a person handcuffed—his son, whom he thought of day and night.

"Alberto, my Alberto."

Seeing his father, Alberto's face finally showed some expression; he smiled at Falcone, and the smile held some guilt.

"Father, you have come."

"Alberto, why? Are all the things they said true?"

"It is true, Father. I'm sorry."

"Alberto, listen to me. I can get you out, as long as you do not foolishly claim to be some Holiday Killer. You only say you attacked Maroni and Luigi, and admit only to that—"

"Father." Alberto suddenly interrupted him: "You don't understand why I did this, do you?"

"I—"

"You don't know when my birthday is, do you? Even though you love me so much, you are busy with business every year—a hint: my birthday is also a holiday."

"Alberto, I thought you would understand me."

"I understand you, Father, but you do not understand me."

Alberto sighed: "My birthday is on Valentine's Day."

Alberto was wrong; his father knew his birthday. On Valentine's Day, the Don had placed a bouquet of fresh flowers on his grave.

"I wanted to help; I wanted to intervene and make changes; but you did not agree. You wanted me to stay far away from family business. But you did not notice that Gotham City has changed, the times have changed—you did not agree, so I had to act personally. Otherwise, law-abiding gangs are like a precisely operating machine; if a few lawless madmen destroy just one gear, the rest will stop functioning."

"If there is anything in this world that makes me happy, Father, it was that dream on St. Patrick's Day. I pretended to be someone in a dream, and you pretended to be someone who could not wake up; no family, no turf war, only my father and me. That day, I was very happy."

"You love me very much; it is for this reason, Father." He sighed deeply: "That is why I must help you eliminate the Maroni family, in my own way."

"Gotham no longer needs gangs; I am proof. Look at me, Father; when I am the Holiday Killer, I carry more weight than everyone else combined."

"So, the old Alberto must die; and now, I am the Holiday Killer."

(End of this chapter)