Chapter 743

"Have you chosen the address for your restaurant yet? Still in the East District?"

Schiller and Cobble were led by a waiter into the Falcone estate; as they walked, Schiller asked Cobble about his new restaurant.

"Yes, the address is settled—not far from the East District docks, in the old Edward family mansion." Cobble replied.

"Looks like you've got ambition." Schiller smiled.

"All thanks to the Godfather." Cobble lowered his gaze and said, "It was originally for the rich. I told him I wanted to turn it into an ordinary restaurant open to dockworkers—he didn't object."

"That shows he has high hopes for you."

Schiller looked up, gazing straight ahead; through the long corridor, he could already see the Godfather seated at the head of the dining table. He hadn't aged much in the time apart—still upright, vibrant.

The two entered the dining room; Schiller and Falcone embraced—they truly hadn't seen each other in a long while.

Ever since Alberto began taking over the Falcone family business, he had almost no free time for classes; only Yin Wensi still attended university regularly, but Schiller rarely gave him private tutoring—his grades were excellent.

"God bless you, Professor. What have you been busy with lately?" Falcone asked.

"Same old things." Schiller took a cigar from the waiter, lit it, and drew in a puff. "Preparing lessons, teaching, writing papers—and now I'm the tutor for two Wayne children. I still have to teach them."

Falcone also took a cigar, lit it, and smiled. "I never expected little Wayne to have children so early. Still, I've been hoping Yin Wensi would marry soon."

"If a man never marries, he remains a boy forever—I know this well." The Godfather tapped his finger lightly on the table. "If he can't learn to shoulder family responsibilities, to protect women and children, he has no voice in anything. That's how I've always ruled the Twelve Families."

"Family does make a man more mature." Schiller paused. "But some men need to learn more."

Falcone seemed to understand who he meant; he smiled again, relaxing. "If a man chooses a path destined to be extremely difficult, he must bear it himself. More often than not, he will sacrifice much."

Schiller turned and saw Falcone's eyes half-closed; through the drifting smoke, he seemed to recall something.

"Your Grace, perhaps we all think this way—when you teach someone, you always want to say more, yet you know clearly that some things words alone cannot change. Sometimes, you don't want him to pay the price, but you know he must."

"At such moments, I weigh what price he must pay. If it's only a fall, let him fall." Falcone leaned slightly left, resting his elbow with the cigar on the chair's arm.

"Everyone stumbles, bloodied and broken, at some point in life—today or tomorrow. If so, let him stumble." Falcone waved his hand.

Schiller smiled. "Even for Yin Wensi?"

"Of course not. He's far from a mature man." Falcone exhaled another plume of smoke. "He's improved lately. Perhaps after marriage, he'll improve further."

"Enough small talk. Cobble, how's your restaurant? Has construction started?" Falcone turned to Cobble.

Cobble never looked directly at the Godfather; he stared at the table. "Yes, renovation is nearly complete. But the suppliers I contacted had issues—I'm negotiating with them."

"You must show your strength." Falcone shook his head. "Don't use the word 'negotiate.' Threaten them. Put a gun to their heads. Remember—in Gotham, you must first be a gangster before you can be a businessman."

"The place you chose is the best—and the worst. Every dockworker in the East District resents it, because it's their forbidden zone. No matter how much they earn, they can never enter."

"Once, old Edward's sister tried to climb into my bed just to get a ticket into the mansion. I didn't like her, so she went to someone else. She got in—but was thrown out quickly, because back then, she wasn't yet a family lady."

"I assume placing a mansion once used by the Twelve Families at the heart of the East District was intentional?" Schiller asked.

"Exactly. I want them to see how many lives they can never touch. They'll feel rage, envy, nearly go mad."

"They won't work harder, because they know labor won't get them such a life. They'll steal, rob, kill. I'm encouraging such behavior."

"As long as they do what gangsters do, they must answer to me. If everyone obeyed the law, Gotham would collapse."

"Following rules means weakness. You can be a cruel slave—but never a helpless independent."

"Gotham people know they can be cruel, violent, cold—but they must never show weakness. Once they cry, it's their funeral. Once tears come, they lose all will to fight."

As Falcone spoke these words, his cigar had burned halfway; smoke clung close to his fingers, curling like morning mist rising between vines, weaving through towering trees.

"Why don't you cry?" In a hospital ward, Batman looked at the eight children around him. "Why do you only scream but shed no tears? Can't you cry?"

Everyone stood still, watching him. Batman knelt halfway, eye level with them. The strongest among the eight—a white boy, the cutest of them all—stepped forward and said:

"Hi. What work do you want us to do?" He lowered his head, twisting his shirt hem. "We're too young to deliver papers. If we beg, me, Bigfoot, and Diamond can go to the outer streets. The rest can only work inside."

"I don't want you to work." Batman repeated. "I want you to lie on your hospital beds instead of screaming and biting the doctors who come to give you shots."

But the boy ignored him entirely, continuing: "You're our new boss. We'll call you Dad. Me and the few older kids only need half a loaf of bread daily; the others need a quarter. We'll give you all our money. We're good kids."

Batman stood still, pressing his fingers to his forehead, feeling his breath grow sluggish.

He stepped closer to the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. "I'm not one of those 'dads' or 'moms.' I'm here to save you. I won't let you beg on the streets and hand your money to me."

But Batman saw fear flash in the boy's eyes—he struggled to suppress it. "Dad… I mean, sir… we're too young. We… we can't do that kind of work… or maybe… maybe when we're older…"

Batman knew exactly what he meant. He opened his mouth to speak, but saw the other children trembling violently. The thinnest girl finally broke down, wailing: "I saw… I saw what they did to Selina… she died. I'll die too…"

All the children began screaming uncontrollably—meaningless shrieks, no tears. They scrambled to the corner, huddling together, impossible to reason with.

"Stop crying!"

Batman finally lowered his voice. He no longer spoke to them as he did to Elsa or Dick.

When he used this tone, he realized—he was speaking to them as he once did to criminals.

Yet strangely, after he shouted, the children fell silent. They crouched in place, eyes wide, staring at Batman. He took a deep breath, overwhelmed by helplessness.

All the children in this room were older than Elsa, yet their sizes barely differed from hers—even some younger ones looked smaller.

Facing such children, Batman couldn't force them. He could only repeat his reassurances, trying to give them a sense of order and safety.

Until late at night, the endless rain grew heavier. When raindrops struck the sea, they stirred hazy halos. The docklights of Gotham never dimmed; with improved logistics, more people now crowded here.

Not far from the docks stood a mansion utterly out of place with its surroundings—now with a new sign: "Iceberg Lounge."

The building was far too large for a restaurant—seven full stories, a lavish entrance, dozens of parking spots. Now it stood empty, since the restaurant hadn't opened yet—but many already peered curiously inside.

In the restaurant's center, Cobble stood before the reception desk, addressing nine children:

"Listen. I'm your boss now, your new employer. Your new job isn't begging outside—it doesn't pay enough."

"See this? The whole building is mine. Now lift your heads. Look around. Use your limited knowledge, your narrow eyes—study the materials of every object here. Then you'll know who I am."

All the children raised their heads. At first, they weren't paying attention—but soon, they were captivated by the intricate ceiling decorations.

The first-floor hall had once been a dance floor, so its ceiling bore exquisite carvings—all preserved. These children had never seen anything so beautiful in their lives.

Begging children were rare in Gotham. Most of these kids were abandoned infants picked up by mothers, raised all their lives in narrow, dark alleys. Even if they worked the outer streets, they only sat in broken corners, never daring to look up.

Soon, their mouths hung open. They turned their heads, staring at everything they'd never seen. Though unfamiliar, they understood their splendor—this was human instinct.

"Good. I think you can see now—I'm far richer than your old boss. I killed him and took you from them, so I could make even more money."

Cobble's words were blunt, using no vocabulary beyond basic literacy—so the children understood him easily.

At once, the strongest boy stepped forward. "What work do you want us to do?"

"You're the leader of this group? Come here." Cobble pointed to the floor. The boy walked slowly over. Cobble gestured around the restaurant. "My restaurant isn't open yet. Your job is to clean this place during this time."

"Listen—I'm not like those poor bastards. Starving you only makes you weak. Here, you'll eat your fill. You sleep in the basement—four to a

But working here isn't just sitting down anywhere—you must follow the rules, or you'll regret it.

There are two meals a day, at 7 a. . and 2 p. . bread and some leftover dishes. You can use the stove to heat them. For water, go to the faucet. When the guests leave, return to your room and don't wander around.

On your way here, you should've seen where this is—it's the outer street where you used to work. If you go out at night, no one will be rummaging through the garbage truck for your body tomorrow morning.

Also, don't let me catch any of you stealing— you know what happens if you do.

"We won't steal anything. We'll hand over everything to you. We're good kids," said the lead boy.

"Alright, now go back to your rooms and don't come out unless necessary." With a glance, Cobblepot signaled his tall, burly subordinate to take the children down to the basement.

What no one saw was that, the moment the lead boy turned away, he strained the muscles at the corner of his mouth, forcing a smile that looked like delight.