Chapter 314

"That was a afternoon thirty years ago. I boarded a train to San Diego to do business with the Mexicans. On the train, an Italian approached me—he said his name was Richie, from Sicily. We chatted for a while…"

In the study of the Falcone estate, the old godfather's voice sounded like a faded record. Sunlight filtered through heavy curtains, casting a dull golden hue into the room. Schiller did not sit across from him but on a sofa beside, snipping a cigar with a cutter.

The cigar smoke was thick as layered clouds along the sunset horizon. Amid the swirling smoke, shapes emerged—elusive, evocative—like the realism of paintings from a bygone era.

Accompanied by the clatter of the train on the rails and the elongated whistle, a man with dark brown hair sat in the train car reading a newspaper.

A click. The compartment door opened. Another man in a long overcoat removed his hat and placed it against his chest. He bowed slightly toward the occupant and said in Italian: "Good day, Mr. Falcone. I'm Richie, from Sicily."

The young Falcone lowered his newspaper and looked at Richie entering the compartment. He replied in Italian: "Hello, Richie. You came looking for me?"

Falcone's Italian accent differed entirely from Richie's. His intonation always dipped at the end—the only thing he carried from his hometown, Rome. It made his tone sound cold.

Richie didn't care. He sat opposite Falcone and said: "I heard you came from Gotham, headed for California. I boarded this train specifically to find you."

Richie had golden hair and brown eyes. His cheeks were sunken, his face unmistakably typical of southern Italy. He lowered his head, adopting a posture of submission, and said to Falcone in Italian: "Sir, I beg your protection. The Richie family has nowhere left to go."

Falcone watched him in silence, his fingers tracing the edge of the newspaper's fold. Richie placed his hat on the table. "My family and I got entangled in a dispute in Chicago. A British man from the West Coast tricked us with two exhausted mines, leaving us deeply in debt to Federio of Chicago."

Richie lifted his gaze, his brown eyes meeting Falcone's—but he saw no emotion in the young mob boss's eyes. His next words lost all conviction.

"The Richie family cannot repay this debt. But the fault isn't ours. That cunning Brit has vanished, and we cannot explain to Federio why we can't pay…"

"Mr. Falcone, my family and I have heard of your reputation on the East Coast. We came to you seeking a way out. Federio is merely a dog of the Chicago Mafia boss…"

"I beg you, sir, save us. The Richie family will pay any price…"

The young Falcone set his newspaper beside his seat, leaned back, and stared out the window at the receding landscape. In his cold Italian accent, he said: "Federio means nothing. He's just a petty thug from Ragusa. Without his wife, he'd still be on the docks, mixing with riffraff."

"But you, Richie… how do you prove you're worth more than Federio? Federio at least had a father-in-law who lifted him up. What do you have? Isn't your Richie family also rooted in dock smuggling?"

Falcone placed one arm on the table, flexed his fingers, and looked at Richie: "Most Sicilians who came to the East Coast with you now have their own trades. Only you remain a stray dog on the East Coast…"

"We all know why you were fooled by that Brit—you rushed to join Chicago, desperate for a doghouse in the city. And when you got kicked out, you came to me, hoping to join Gotham…"

A flicker of shame crossed Richie's face. Anyone exposed like this would feel humiliated.

But Falcone spoke truth. The families who arrived with Richie now thrived in the city. Only theirs, after one blow after another, had no stable home—only a cheap hotel near the train station.

"My lord, I said it—I'll pay any price for your acceptance. Save me and my family. I'll serve you without question…" Richie bowed his head.

Falcone pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one, and held it between his fingers. Richie stood, leaned forward, and lit it for him. The flame glowed in the dim car, like a flickering candle.

"Federio is a good dog. I hope you are too, Richie."

Richie bowed his head and kissed the back of Falcone's hand—the one not holding the cigarette. "As you wish, my lord."

The cigarette smoke resembled incense rising in a temple. After the initial thick, milky plume, it thinned into a pale, gauzy veil.

The window frame framed the two men's profiles like a painting. Click. The compartment door shut. No one overheard their private talk. The old godfather had no more to say. He simply remarked:

"Over the years, many have come begging to me. Most were unpleasant—waving wads of cash, wanting to do business. But I am no merchant, nor a hired killer."

"When Richie came to me, he had nothing. But I liked his attitude. So we went to San Diego together."

"I've forgotten whether I ever closed that deal with the Mexicans. But on the return journey, Richie followed me back to Gotham…"

"Back then, there were no Twelve Families. I was merely a boss in Gotham's North District—slightly known…"

"Later, I grew larger—North District, East District, Central City, Financial Street… Soon, many in Gotham began speaking my name. More and more followed me…"

"Professor Rodriguez, human psychology is a strange thing. When Richie begged me on his knees, desperate to survive, he was willing to pay any price—sacrificing dignity, abandoning pride."

"But after he helped me rule all of Gotham, he forgot all of it. He began to believe he was a co-architect of this empire, that as one of my earliest followers, he deserved equal share of glory and power…"

"At first, he looked down on newcomers—even though they were far more useful. He still saw himself as an elder. He despised the Spencer family for being British, mocked the Lawrence family for their salt-and-iron roots, even looked down on the Greek man with only a daughter…"

"Then he began ranking the Twelve Families by seniority, insisting those who came first deserved more rights…"

"Finally, he even believed that as Yin Wensi's uncle, he had the right to interfere in his choices and direct his actions…"

"Humans always like to feel superior." Schiller's voice rose with the click of a lighter. He lit the cigar and slowly placed it in his mouth.

"Those who once lost everything crave control from the top. If they cannot achieve it in reality, they convince themselves psychologically that they've crushed many beneath them—and thus find inner peace."

"From this, extreme control-freak personalities emerge. They seek to dominate everyone they deem beneath them—whether by rank, age, lineage, even height, build, or appearance…"

"They derive spiritual pleasure from belittling and controlling others. Once accustomed to this behavior, everything spirals off course. They grow arrogant, reckless—anything to satisfy their need for control, they will do."

"The Heavens Descend"

"But he wasn't clever," the old godfather continued. "The moment I saw him, I knew—he lacked wit."

"But back then, I didn't care. I only needed a dog. The louder he barked, the better—it showed neighbors I'd chosen a good one…"

"But now, after all these years, when he wanted to become the master, he sent his young daughter to Yin Wensi's bed. The girl was too stupid, taught to use beauty and affection to ensnare the new godfather…"

"Wasn't it Alberto who slept with her?" Schiller asked. "Yin Wensi doesn't enjoy chasing women."

"Correct. Yin Wensi resembles his mother—stubborn, loyal, pure. But Alberto… he resembles me. He doesn't care about such things."

Schiller shook his head. "Regardless, Richie played a terrible hand. Even if his daughter were a celestial beauty, she couldn't sway Alberto. Frankly, neither could Yin Wensi fall for such a trap."

"True. But I grew tired of his endless foolish schemes. Letting him die at the hands of a mysterious serial killer was the most dignified death I could give a dog."

"I thank that serial killer. Otherwise, I'd have to gather everyone, dredge up old grudges, make them all suffer headaches from his stupidity, then have a gunman shoot him dead—and endure the wailing of his family and those foolish girls, clean up the corpse, attend the funeral…"

The old godfather exhaled smoke. "I have little time left. I won't waste it mourning a dog."

"To be honest, the mercenary assassin you introduced me to—expensive, yes, but efficient. In this age, such professional killers are rare…"

"I'm curious, my lord—why didn't you use your own gangsters? Why hire an outsider?"

"My men can shoot, plant bombs, or poison. But dissecting a body like a serial killer? They can't handle such bloody work. They'd return like ostriches burying their heads, claiming psychological trauma. Then I'd have to pay extra medical bills…"

Falcone showed a flicker of disgust. "In my later years, my reputation for mercy and tolerance spread too far—it drowned out my earlier deeds. That was good—it let me live peacefully. But some ungrateful fools…"

Schiller relaxed against the chair, exhaled slowly. "Yesterday, the mercenary called me. He confirmed receipt of the final payment. He asked me to praise you for paying promptly—and said if you need him again, just call."

Falcone crushed his nearly finished cigar on the paper. His voice grew low. "Perhaps soon, he'll have plenty of business."