Chapter 81: Winning a Game Sometimes Lies Outside the Chessboard

Gotham City, Valentine's Day.

In the cemetery of Gotham Cemetery, apart from the biting wind and the pale, thick ice and snow, there remained only a shattered father, slowly placing a blood-red rose before his son's tombstone.

"Was it worth it?"

A low, hoarse voice sounded, startling this father from his grief; he instinctively reached into his chest, his eyes instantly becoming sharp and filled with authority. In this moment, he unconsciously reverted to being the current head of the Falcone family, that gangster godfather of Gotham City, that "Roman."

"Who is it—"

"Was it worth it!"

A black shadow of fear suddenly appeared before him; the wind mixed with ice and snow was swept toward Falcone along with that figure. The biting cold current made his cheeks sting, causing him to squint involuntarily.

Only the hand holding the gun remained as steady as Mount Tai.

"What is worth it or not?"

Falcone pointed the gun at that black bat. Even he, when facing this elusive bat, could not help but feel a trace of fear in his heart.

Moreover, a one-million-dollar bounty hung over the other's head.

"The cost."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your son."

"Alberto never participated in my business."

"Either directly, or indirectly—how many other innocent sons have you destroyed?"

The godfather's face suddenly turned iron-green; he glared at the person who asked this question through gritted teeth. In fact, he could not answer this question, but he was also absolutely unwilling to show weakness before others.

Because he was the "Roman."

Moreover, regardless of whether he had destroyed dozens or hundreds of other people's sons, the Falcone family had already reached this point, like a train speeding forward at high speed, able only to continue rushing ahead, unable to turn back.

Like human desire, rolling down a mountain like a stone, endless and ceaseless,

"No one, and I mean, no one—" The godfather cocked the hammer of his pistol, applying pressure to the bat opposite him with the crisp click sound and his own imposing aura from long years in power. This was his usual tactic; few could withstand these moves of the godfather.

"No one dares speak to me like this."

The atmosphere became tense and confrontational at this moment; neither side would yield. The godfather and the bat glared at each other furiously; when the gun fired, it would be the moment the two began their firefight.

However, someone did not want them to fight, at least not at this moment.

A resilient wire with small steel beads suddenly flew out from the side, tightly wrapping around the hand the godfather held the gun with; with just a slight pull, that pistol fell to the ground.

"Catwoman!"

The Bat detected immediately where the attack came from; he turned his head and saw a cat-like figure appearing and disappearing in the depths of the white cemetery.

"That's me."

Every time I get close to the Roman, she appears, the Bat thought. When I went to the Roman's room last year to find evidence, I also ran into her stealing the account books.

He intended to figure out why this was.

The Bat leaped to block the cat, his five fingers tightly grasping one of her hands: "You have been staying far away lately."

"I guess this sentence means 'thank you for saving my life'."

"Do you really think I couldn't handle that little guy with the small pistol?"

"Eh?" A playful smile appeared on Catwoman's face; she gently scratched his face with one sharp claw, and a drop of red blood seeped out: "Jealous?"

"You should continue to stay far away—Falcone is still putting a bounty on you."

The playful banter between cat and bat still yielded no results.

Bright lights, warm heating, the clinking of cups and glasses being passed around, loud conversations, well-dressed upper-class people—even on such a winter night, this Italian high-end restaurant felt no chill whatsoever.

This was natural, because this was the restaurant of the Maroni family, Gotham City's second-largest gang, and Maroni's standard has always been to align with the Roman.

The clinking sounds were not only in the front; inside the dining area for customers, they also rang out in the back kitchen, and were even noisier and busier. The waiters naturally could not drink alcohol here; the clinking sounds here were from the washing of a large number of cups, plates, knives, and forks.

Today was Valentine's Day; the business in the shop was better than usual, so the back kitchen naturally appeared exceptionally busy. Dishwashers holding cups and plates walking back and forth; waiters in suits and leather shoes carrying food trays; assistant chefs chopping vegetables with knives moving like flying, without a moment's pause; and the head chef sweating at the temples after continuously wielding the wok for several hours. Everyone in the back kitchen was so busy their feet barely touched the ground.

Ma Ma Zhaodi was also washing plates casually among the crowd; he integrated very quickly. With the help of an insider in the restaurant, claiming to be the insider's nephew, plus paying some money, he easily blended into the back kitchen.

At this moment, his ears were precisely capturing the conversation between two people deep in the back kitchen through the noise.

"Mr. Maroni, this is too much!"

A young man with blond hair, wearing a cheap suit and round glasses, spoke with a stutter, his words full of flattered gratitude, but his hands tightly grasped those few thick stacks of green bills, as if letting go would cause these colorful little darlings to fly away from his fingertips.

Seeing this appearance, the composed Maroni flashed a trace of disdain in his eyes, but it quickly turned into a friendly smile. He despised this kind of person, but at the same time, he liked this kind of person very much.

Having greed means one can abandon bottom lines; having greed means one can be tempted by profit; for Maroni, who controls resources, a person with greed is the most trustworthy and usable person.

He comforted with a kind tone: "Nothing is 'too much' for a friend of Sal Maroni, and you are my friend, aren't you, Vernon?"

"Of course, Mr. Maroni." Vernon answered reflexively: "But—"

"You have no appointments tonight anyway, Vernon? Do you want to stay for dinner? The dishes in my restaurant, you certainly haven't tasted them."

"Mr. Maroni, my employer, Mr. Dent, that District Attorney, he has you as a target, sir—he thinks you are the weakest link in the Falcone organization."

Hearing this answer, Maroni could not help but laugh. This laughter contained both disdain and anger at being underestimated, and also carried a bit of wariness toward that relentless iron-faced judge, but

"He thinks so? He thinks so, right?"

Maroni reached out, patted Vernon on the back, and led him toward the booth like an older brother embracing a younger one: "Come on, Vernon, taste this veal; this is the best in Gotham City."

Watching Vernon devouring the food, a proud smile rose on his lips.

Although he had some wariness toward Harvey, winning a game sometimes does not require being within the chessboard.

Is that not so?

(End of this chapter)