"Sal, like his partners, had a bit of cunning. I remember the first time I met him—he was just a punk kid who had just come to Gotham, shaking down cargo ship owners at the docks with a few men. Not long after, he caught the eye of Lauren from the Red Light District, who took him around the neighborhood, and soon he had bought his first bar. That was more than twenty years ago…"
Falcone sat back in his chair, cigar smoke curling around him as he reminisced. "Sal won't let that police commissioner live. Even if he squeezes some information out of him, he'll die in the end. You could ask for something else instead—maybe there's someone else you'd like gone, or some other trouble you want handled?"
"My troubles come from Metropolis, Godfather. I won't trouble you with them."
Falcone shifted his eyes toward him, squinting slightly. "Those people I cleaned up for you—they seemed to have some real weight. Just who have you gotten yourself tangled with?"
Schiller raised his gaze. "Godfather, I think I might just be the longest-living tutor your son has ever had."
Falcone tapped the table with the ash end of his cigar. "You work for me, and I won't let trouble come knocking. But you've gone and stuck your nose in all kinds of strange business, and now you've run here to hide…"
"Aren't you afraid I'll drag the Falcone family down with me?"
Falcone turned his chair back toward him.
"The Falcone family never set foot on shore. From the day I came to Gotham, I knew we were wreckage from a sunken ship. Don't ever think about reaching land."
Then he sighed lightly.
"…But my son doesn't see it that way."
Young Falcone—Evans Falcone—wasn't like the old Don. He was hot-blooded, believing he could restore order to Gotham by his own hand. Yes, though he was heir to a crime family, he genuinely thought of reordering Gotham—but his order would be built on violence, not on some utopian dream.
To be fair, his idea was almost more reasonable than Batman's: absolute violence bringing absolute authority, authority controlling everyone. The question was simply whether Evans could pull it off.
A knock came at the door. The butler stood outside, Evans behind him. When he walked in and saw Schiller, he froze. Turning to the butler, he whispered, "Remember me mentioning forgetting homework, or forgetting to turn in assignments?"
The butler shook his head. Evans let out a breath of relief. Schiller stood and said, "Evans?"
"You know each other?" Falcone asked.
"Father, this is my university professor. I told you about my psychology assignments."
Before Falcone could speak, Evans rushed to say: "Sorry, Professor. If there's been an issue with my homework, it's because I've been busy. If you're not satisfied, I can rewrite it immediately."
He glanced nervously at his father and added, "Father, the problems in the East District have kept me tied up. Maybe I've neglected my studies. If Professor Schiller has come to see you, I truly apologize."
Evans thought Schiller was here for a home visit—and he was terrified. He'd heard the professor's fearsome reputation: a man said to bring death wherever he went, the so-called serial killer stamp-collector, the one who publicly humiliated Bruce Wayne in class and even issued him a formal expulsion notice…
The "assignment-hunting demon" of Gotham University. A professor who demanded essays with an iron hand. No excuses—if you dared not turn in work, he'll rip you apart with cold ridicule, even if you were Bruce Wayne himself, or the chairman of the board.
And now here Schiller was—in the Falcone household itself—chasing him down for homework. Evans thought miserably: this professor must be insane. No wonder he treated Wayne like a stray dog and even the new headmaster walked around him on eggshells.
But it wasn't that Schiller was insane. He still carried over the mindset from his past life as a teacher: students who couldn't handle the dense tomes of psychology would never do well on finals, so their coursework was vital to lift their grades. No homework meant no course credit—and no passing rate.
And if pass rates dropped, his teaching evaluation would tank. Gotham University might not care about evaluations, but Schiller's instincts hadn't changed. He hadn't even gone full throttle yet, and already these Gotham kids—raised on "happy education"—were cracking under pressure.
In his old world, students wrote 20,000 words for "short essays" and dissertations to publishing standards. Yet here, a mere 3,000-word paper was too much? Two thousand words, really. And still, they couldn't do it.
So Schiller hounded them mercilessly until three-quarters of the class finally submitted essays. Evans, to his credit, was one of the better ones—handing in every time, word counts met, quality decent, even topping the class a few times.
Schiller thought he deserved some praise. Unlike Bruce, whose 2,000-word essays were one-third transition words, one-third pointless padding, and the rest just "the" and "a." He even filled lines with endless dashes. And still had the gall to beg for mercy.
Falcone frowned. "So then, how has Evans performed? His assignments? His grades?"
Evans braced himself. Schiller said: "Actually… quite well. Anna, who teaches advanced math, told me his science work is strong. For my part, I'd gladly give him a spot in graduate studies. He has talent in psychology."
Evans exhaled with relief. Seeing his son's standing, Falcone declared:
"From now on, Professor Schiller will be your tutor."
Evans shivered, cold down his back, but he dared not argue. "Yes, Father."
Falcone rose from his chair, gripping the armrests. "It seems I'll have to deal with some of those troubles you brought from Metropolis."
Schiller shook his head. "It's too big a mess. What I've paid isn't worth your intervention."
Falcone replied: "Being my son's tutor alone isn't enough. But if you become a friend of the Falcone family, we take care of our friends. No trouble too big."
"Metropolis hides a darkness no one could imagine. I escaped, but I lost a great deal in the process. Gotham doesn't need to be drawn into that."
Falcone shook his head, drew on his cigar. "You don't understand me yet, Professor. Forty years ago, I came alone to Gotham, no one had heard the name Falcone. Thirty years ago, I controlled three streets, long before there was a Falcone family…"
"I won't boast of my achievements. But in forty years, I've ruled Gotham—ruled the city they once called Hell."
He pressed the cigar tip to the table, smoke curling upward. "So all you need to say is 'yes.' And all your troubles will be gone."
Schiller studied him. Falcone was calmer than he'd expected.
This man wasn't the bumbling mobster of Batman's early comics. He was the true Godfather, Gotham's uncrowned king.
Even before Batman, Gotham had never been peaceful. It was Falcone who had tamed it over forty years. A man like this could never be so foolish and shortsighted as the comics had drawn him.
At last, Schiller stepped forward, kissed Falcone's hand, and said:
"…God bless Gotham, Godfather."
He lingered just slightly on the final word. Falcone heard the subtle emphasis, but let it pass.
For all his glory, the Don was old now. His heir is still too green.
Perhaps, Falcone thought, Gotham's kingless era was about to begin."