Silence lingered in the empty room until Batman finally spoke.
"From that day forward, everything I've done, every ordeal I've endured, has been for revenge."
"The law and the courts told me it was Joe Chill who killed my parents. But I know that isn't the truth. I've spent years forging myself, just to be able to question that verdict."
"…And now, it's time for the Bat's vengeance."
As the heavy evening bells tolled from Gotham Cathedral's tower, Batman's shadow vanished.
The Edward family's recent turmoil had caught the watchful eyes of Gotham's Dark Knight. Before their rise, back when they had just arrived in the city, the Edward brothers ruled the very alley where his parents had been slain.
But now the brothers were dead. Only their nephew remained—and with Young Edward having crossed the Godfather, Falcone, the family's days were numbered.
Batman went to him first. He didn't need to summon people like Falcone would. He simply stepped out of the shadows behind anyone, anywhere.
The next day, Gotham lay once more under a heavy pall of fog. By dusk, the haze above the city took on hues of fading light.
At the church gates, Schiller was conversing with the priest. Like any devout Westerner, he came and went punctually, blending in without a trace of discord.
The old priest was a learned man, his grasp of theology profound. Schiller relished their talks on philosophy and faith—and the chance to gather information.
The priest said, "Lately, the dockworkers don't come as often. Perhaps their business has improved. I hope so. The Lord tells us that hard labor is the path to redemption."
"There are more merchant ships at the docks these days," Schiller replied. "The traders are doing well."
"I remember many years ago, for a time, the dockworkers flocked here to pray. The church had never been so crowded."
The old man's voice carried the weight of history, like rails stretching back into times immemorial.
"I recall the chaos of that age. At the docks, the man who held sway was one called Leif. A brute of a fellow—people called him 'the Bearded One,' others, 'the Viking Pirate.' He and his gang of hulking men ruled the piers, extorting protection money and terrorizing laborers."
"And who brought them down?" Schiller asked.
"Falcone did. The Godfather crushed him."
The priest ran his brittle fingers over each other. "By rights, Falcone should've taken the docks afterward. But somehow, the Edwards ended up with them instead."
He shook his head. "I don't say they mismanaged things. But perhaps if the Falcones had secured the docks, uniting the whole East Side, their family would be even stronger today."
"I often hear people say," Schiller mused, "Falcone's grip on the East is thin—he only controls the northeast and southeast. But the central docks, the most important prize, he left alone."
"Perhaps he had his reasons," the priest replied.
Schiller pondered. The old man's stories weren't secret, just forgotten with time. Still, he suspected Falcone's retreat from the docks had been more complicated than it appeared.
By nightfall, Schiller bid farewell and stepped outside.
As the last rays sank beneath the horizon, the cathedral bells tolled seven heavy peals—solemn, funereal.
The priest traced a cross over his chest and whispered, "It is the death knell… God rest your soul."
Schiller turned back. Through the dim gray haze, he glimpsed a dark figure, black and gold, perched atop the high belfry.
Elsewhere, Young Edward collapsed to the floor, trembling before the shadow with pointed ears.
"I only know… only know that when the Godfather ended the chaos at the East Docks, my father and uncle wanted their share—even a single pier would do. But… but the Godfather suddenly wanted none of it. And so, we ended up with all five docks. I don't know why! I was too young! You'll have to ask him—I swear, I don't know anything!"
When the Bat's shadow withdrew, Edward shakily got to his feet, muttering curses. But another shadow fell across him.
A massive umbrella pointed straight at his chest. Behind it, a pair of predatory eyes glared down. Edward barely had time to scream before his throat—and his voice—were cut away.
A faint hiss, a heavy thud, and then darkness as the lights in the Edward estate flickered out. Silence returned.
At last, Batman came to Falcone's manor. Unlike the Edwards' bright, guarded house, the Godfather's mansion lay silent and unlit, as though deserted. Batman knew that was wrong.
In Falcone's office, he found him alone, waiting.
"I knew you would come," Falcone said. "You weren't careful when you dug into Edward's history."
"Which means there's something about it worth hiding," Batman replied.
Falcone gave a thin smile. "Indeed. Want to hear a story from long ago?"
And so Gotham's Godfather, ruler of four decades, began to recount an age Batman had never seen.
"They were ruthless men, gathering gangs to themselves. Among them, the Viking Leif was the strongest. To secure my family's hold, I had to break him. He was rich from years of extortion. He resisted. So—I slaughtered his kin before his eyes, stuffed him in a powder keg, and lit the fuse.
It terrified many. And it cleared my path."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "I want to hear about Park Row."
"Patience. We're nearly there."
Falcone turned his chair, studying Batman. "You're like your father," he said softly. "Very much like him."
Before Batman could reply, Falcone continued.
"I wiped out the dock gangs, but I didn't take the docks. I left them to the Edwards—and that decision was tied to your parents.
Your mother was kind. She pitied the laborers, thought their endless hours were cruel. Your father agreed. Together, they decreed a gentler system: shorter hours, frequent breaks.
The Waynes wanted to reform the docks. But I knew… it wouldn't work. And I didn't want to cross them. So I withdrew and let the Edwards handle it."
He lit a cigar, the glow casting sharp shadows over his face, still carrying echoes of the fierce young man he once was.
"So it was the Edwards who hired Joe Chill to kill my parents?" Batman asked, his voice raw.
Falcone exhaled smoke slowly. His tone grew distant, hazy with memory.
"No. Not them. The one who ordered it was a dock foreman. A laborer. His name was Louis."
"A laborer?" Batman's voice cracked. "Why? My parents fought for them—protected them!"
Falcone shook his head. "You don't understand. Even among workers, there is a hierarchy. The hardest jobs—hauling sacks, backbreaking loads—always fell to the lowest men, while foremen took the lighter tasks.
Your parents wanted equality. No more endless toil. But then no one would do the dirtiest work. Cargo rotted on the ships. Merchants lost fortunes. Some refused to dock here again.
Louis was a foreman at the third or fourth pier. He was forced to divide labor equally. The big merchants demanded compensation. He couldn't pay. They beat him—broke his legs.
So he turned to Old Edward. Together, they staged the Park Row murder."
Falcone's voice dropped. "It sounds absurd, doesn't it? Judas betrayed his savior. But that is Gotham. A city where even devils tread carefully."
Batman closed his eyes. The truth was nothing like what he had imagined. Not a tale of clear villains and innocent victims—just a blurred reel of old gray film, caked with the dust of a darker age.
"The thug is dead. The Edwards are dead. But Louis still lives. If you still crave vengeance… go to 7 Grace Alley, off Divine Street, east of the church. That's where he is."
Falcone exhaled one last curl of smoke and closed his eyes. The cigar burned to ash, its ember fading—like the last spark of a bygone, violent era.