Chapter 66: The Clown

Making a crystal ball music box model was far more technically demanding than the previous two tasks, yet it wasn't difficult to satisfy, since its requirement was simply "silent."

A music box that didn't need to produce sound was merely an ordinary crystal ball; the most labor-intensive parts—the cylinder and the comb with its teeth—were entirely omitted, requiring only that it be made to rotate.

The components for this part were easy to buy, and assembly wasn't difficult either; Ma Ma Zhaodi didn't need to spend extra skill points to purchase the Basic Handicraft skill, as he could assemble it step-by-step following tutorials found online.

"Luckily tomorrow is Christmas, and the Falcone family isn't holding a banquet but staying home to celebrate; otherwise, I'd have to specially seek out Falcone to request leave. Tsk, is this the smell of a wage slave's shift?"

Don't misunderstand; Ma Ma Zhaodi, an ordinary waiter, currently had no chance to disturb the Gotham City mafia godfather, who was busy managing ten thousand affairs, even if he had successfully changed professions to become a head chef—the Falcone he went to request leave from referred to the Roman's biological son, Alberto Falcone.

Although he was the godfather's own son, this person's name was rarely mentioned by those within the family; whether in newspaper reports or among Gotham's underworld insiders, their perception of him was limited to four words: smart, invisible.

Through his own efforts, he had earned a scholarship to Harvard University and later pursued advanced studies at Oxford University; his academic credentials and intelligence stood head and shoulders above everyone else in Gotham's mafia circles, so logically, having such a son should have meant the Roman's underworld empire had a worthy successor.

Yet the second impression, "invisible," was precisely what the Roman himself had created—Carmine Falcone had forbidden Alberto Falcone from touching family business since childhood, instead appointing his older brother Mario Falcone and his sister Sofia Falcone as his right and left hands to assist with clan affairs; although Alberto had countless times expressed to his father his desire to follow in his footsteps, the answer he always received was just one.

"No, you do not need to touch the family business."

Thus, he could only handle some trivial and harmless administrative arrangements within the family, living a life like that of Bruce Wayne, a wealthy young master—yet he wasn't accustomed to indulging like Bruce, making him appear even more reserved and quiet, while everyone's impression of him grew increasingly faint.

But in fact, Ma Ma Zhaodi could state with certainty that he was absolutely Carmine Falcone's favorite son, bar none.

—

At the same time—

"Dent! It must be Harvey Dent!"

Outside the Maroni family's Italian restaurant, faint murmurs were drowned out by the wind and snow filling the sky; the doors and windows were tightly shut and well-sealed, leaving passersby unable to see anything happening inside.

Inside the restaurant, the dim ambient lighting typical of high-end establishments illuminated one dining table, vaguely revealing the situation around it.

Most tables and chairs were neatly arranged in perfect order; the entire restaurant now appeared utterly empty, having been cleared out by the two people sitting at that table.

"I want to find some people, my dear friend—I mean, find some capable hands to place inside the District Attorney's office, watching Harvey Dent twenty-four hours a day."

"It's already being arranged, Mr. Maroni. We found a kid named Vernon, hahahaha hehehe."

The man with the handlebar mustache held his glass of red wine, unable to suppress a sinister laugh, his voice sounding exactly like a dark villain from a cartoon—though what he had just said was indeed the speech of a dark villain.

"My dear friend?" Maroni, sitting opposite, frowned; such a loss of composure was extremely unusual for the other party, and that villainous laughter sounded truly chilling: "What the hell is so damn funny about any of this?"

Yet the man holding the wine glass remained silent, merely continuing to emit a hair-raising laugh.

"Hehehe hoho haha xixixi hufuhu—"

"Gurgle!"

Laughing wildly, he threw down his wine glass and plunged his face straight into the plate of pasta before him; the smile on his face was brilliantly bright, the corners of his mouth stretched all the way to his ears, and he made no further sound.

"Hey!"

Maroni was splattered all over by the pasta sauce sent flying when the man buried his head in the dish; instantly furious, he hadn't yet had time to explode when a waiter dressed in white approached his side carrying a tray.

"Would you like some more wine, Mr. Maroni?"

A mocking voice sounded beside his ear, immediately capturing Maroni's attention; he turned his head to look.

Dark green curly hair, skin as pale as a corpse, a sharp and narrow nose bridge, two thin and cruel eyebrows, his mouth stretched almost to his ears, displaying his smile without any restraint.

Not a warm smile, but a hair-raising smile, a chilling smile.

His gaze was like a cat staring at a mouse, like a viper watching a traveler; there was no mirth within those eyes, creating a stark and jarring contrast with the enormous grin on his face.

Merely looking at his face, Maroni instinctively felt a wave of dread; chaos and madness, mixed with thick malice, rushed toward him, actually stirring a trace of fear in this underworld boss who had spent years living on the edge of a blade.

So he used anger to mask his fear.

"A clown."

He evaluated the man before him from a position of superiority, an angry and arrogant expression on his face: "No clown can enter my territory, ever—"

"Mine is bigger than yours, Maroni."

A revolver with a barrel large enough to cover Maroni's entire forehead was pressed against his head, freezing his motion of drawing his own gun from his coat halfway through.

He suddenly widened his eyes, looking at the other's grinning mouth and casual gaze; only at this moment did Maroni realize that the other was a true madman—he didn't care about the consequences of killing him, nor did he care about how much power he wielded.

He truly didn't mind killing him.

At this moment, the clown spoke again: "Or perhaps I should call you—the Holiday Killer?"

Hearing such an outrageous claim, Maroni immediately retorted instinctively: "The Holiday Killer? Me?"

"Of course, you are Gotham's number two; Carmine Falcone, the Roman, is Gotham's 'number one.'"

"The Holiday Killer only slaughters the Roman's men, so naturally, you reap the greatest benefit—"

"No, wait, I swear on my mother's grave—"

Flustered and at a loss, Maroni now spoke without thinking, having lost all the demeanor and dignity of an underworld boss: "In the end, this is all about business; this whole Holiday Killer affair has ruined everyone's business!"

Upon hearing this, the Joker scratched his head in confusion, then leaned his deathly pale face close to Maroni's, blinking his two eyes in bewilderment as he asked a question like a curious child.

"Then..."

"Who is the Holiday Killer?"

(End of Chapter)