"Salvatore Maroni—dead."
Every channel said the same thing. News anchors stumbled over their words, half in shock, half in relief.
"The infamous mob boss Sal Maroni was found dead last night. Gotham breathes a little easier—"
Bruce muted the feed. The cowl hung loose on the back of his chair, the man beneath it bathed in the cold glow of the Batcomputer. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed. Maroni was scum, yes—but scum that kept balance in Gotham's underworld. Now, with him gone, the scales had tipped.
And they were tipping fast.
The case board flickered onto the screens, crime scene photos pinned like a grotesque gallery. He scanned each one. Victims sprawled in alleys, sprawled in penthouses, sprawled in backrooms. Bodies cut clean in half. Others riddled with wounds—entry points without bullets, exit wounds without casings. Just blood. Too much blood.
Efficient. Surgical. Deliberate.
He traced the lines between faces: gang bosses, corrupt politicians, judges, and dirty cops. Even Nancy Woodside, a sitting judge, found in her chambers with a neat hole in her skull. Every name had ties to Gotham's criminal web.
Batman leaned forward, voice low as if the cave itself were listening.
"Not random. Someone's sending a message."
At first, he thought vigilante. Gotham always breeds them, angry men with masks and a gun, convinced justice means pulling a trigger. But this… this was different. No pattern. No calling card. No hesitation.
One lead stood out.
Salvatore Maroni's heir. His son. A loose end with a target painted on his back. Penguin wouldn't talk. Falcone wouldn't even answer the call. Both too scared—or too smart.
Bruce's hand hovered over the cowl. Another night in Gotham. Another war brewing in its streets.
And tonight, Batman would be there when the first shot was fired.
POV Switch: Arkham Asylum
The yard of Arkham was alive with restless chatter. Orange jumpsuits shuffled across the cracked concrete, faces scarred, eyes wild. "Patients" was the polite word the doctors used. Prisoners fit better.
Two sat hunched on a bench near the fence, whispering like school kids swapping secrets.
Prisoner 1: "You hear about it?"
Prisoner 2: "What happened?"
Prisoner 1: "Maroni's dead."
Prisoner 2: His eyes went wide. "As in Salvatore 'The Boss' Maroni? That guy?"
Prisoner 1: "Which other Maroni could I be talkin' about, ya dope? There's only one Maroni."
Prisoner 2 leaned back, smirking. "Fifty bucks says it was Two-Face."
Prisoner 1 shook his head. "Nah, Maroni's boys say it was a guy with white hair."
Prisoner 2: "A contract killer?"
Prisoner 1: "Probably. I think Joker might've hired the killer—"
Prisoner 2's eyes went wide with panic. He slapped a hand over his friend's mouth, hissing.
"You talk crazy like that again and we're both dead."
He jerked his chin toward the far side of the yard.
Sitting alone, a splash of neon in a sea of orange, was the man himself. Green hair wild. Sickly pale skin. Orange jumpsuit stretched over a lanky frame. His smile, too wide, like a crack in porcelain.
Prisoner 1 paled. "You tryin' to get us both ki—"
Joker: "Couldn't help but hear my name, boys."
They froze.
The Clown Prince of Gotham loomed over them now, silent as a shadow, smile carved wide. He twirled the loose thread of his sleeve like it was a fuse burning down to something awful.
Joker: "Now… what's this I hear about me, a contract killer, and poor old Salvatore?"
He leaned in, voice playful, eyes murderous.
The prisoners swallowed hard, wishing they'd never opened their mouths.
Prisoner 1: "Nothing, sir."
Joker's head tilted, that eerie smile splitting his pale face. He slid onto the bench beside them, casual as a neighbor dropping by for tea.
Joker: "Oh, please, don't call me sir. Makes me feel old. Stiff. Like my father. Or my grandfather—ghastly man. Terrible laugh. Call me Joker. Everyone does."
He leaned forward, eyes dancing.
Joker: "Now then… you were saying?"
Prisoner 1: "Noth—"
The rest dissolved into a shriek as a sharpened shiv buried itself through his hand into the bench. His blood spread across the wood in a crimson bloom. Joker's grin never faltered.
Joker: "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Rude. I said I insist."
Prisoner 2 stammered, words tripping over themselves. "S-Sal Maroni's dead! We—we thought you hired the killer!"
Joker's eyes went wide in mock offense, lips curling into a giggle.
Joker: "Me? Kill Maroni? Ohhh, don't get me wrong—I loathed the man. He had terrible taste in suits, worse taste in women. Always smelled like cheap wine and cheaper aftershave. But why, oh why, would I waste a perfectly good mob boss?"
He turned back to Prisoner 1, still writhing, hand nailed to the bench.
Joker: "Can you believe this guy? Me! Kill Maroni! That's like blaming the weatherman for the hurricane. I love hurricanes. I don't stop them."
He patted Prisoner 1's cheek with his free hand, mock gentle.
Joker: "No, no, boys. If I'd killed Maroni, you wouldn't be whispering about it in the yard. You'd be… ha-ha-ha-ha!" His laugh burst out, jagged, uncontrolled, echoing across the asylum. "…you'd be on the six o'clock news, covered in confetti and blood."
Joker yanked the shiv free with a wet schlick, letting the first prisoner crumple to the ground, clutching his mangled hand and howling. Joker wagged the bloody blade like a conductor's baton.
Joker: "Tut-tut, look at this! Gotham, Gotham, Gotham… she never disappoints. New killer on the loose—mystery man! Very hush-hush. Oooh, makes me wonder… what's ol' Batsy doing right now? Think he's brooding? Ohhh, he's definitely brooding. Broody Batsy in his big black tower…"
He turned suddenly, snapping his neck toward the second prisoner. His face lit up with glee, leg shooting into the air like a ballerina on opening night.
Joker: "Well? Don't keep me in suspense, cupcake! Do you think he'll pop in and say hi to his favorite clown?"
The man's throat worked, panic squeezing the word out.
Prisoner 2: "Ye—"
THUNK!
The shiv buried itself in his skull before the second syllable could leave his lips. He toppled sideways, deadweight.
Joker gasped like a child who just dropped an ice cream cone. Then he burst into a delighted cackle.
Joker: "Ohhh! Too slow! And comedy, my dear boy, is all about timing! HAHahahaha!"
Boots pounded as guards rushed in, guns raised, encircling him. Joker turned, arms spread in exaggerated surrender, still grinning wide.
Joker: "Relax, fellas, relax! No need for the cavalry. Just a little game of stab-tag! Friendly competition between buddies. Nobody wins, everybody bleeds—ain't that just life in Gotham?"
He winked at the nearest guard, blood dripping from his fingers as he twirled the shiv like a magician showing off a trick.
Joker: "Now, who wants to play the next round?"
POV Switch
As she entered the manor, the smell hit her first. Copper. Blood.
Corpses littered the marble halls like discarded dolls. Not her guards—no. These were outsiders, intruders perhaps. Whoever had stormed the mansion never made it back out. Her guards? Gone. Vanished. Not a single loyal man in sight.
It had been a long day for Lucia Maroni. Too long. Her husband's funeral had been as unpleasant as expected—fake smiles, hollow apologies, crocodile tears. No one cared. Not really. And now… she was going to die.
She knew it.
Whether by Black Mask tying up loose ends, or her own sons deciding their mother had betrayed their father—death waited for her either way.
She climbed the stairs into her wing of the mansion. The bedroom light flicked on. The room was grand, suffocatingly so—an ocean of velvet and glass: a vast bed, mirrored vanity, side tables heavy with gold trim, and a portrait looming above it all. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Gotham Heights.
And sitting casually in her chair, as though he'd always belonged there, was a man.
Black suit. White shirt. Red tea-shades catching the light. A lollipop between his teeth. A glass of wine within reach.
Alistair: "I was hoping we'd meet under more comfortable circumstances, Mrs. Maroni. Or do you prefer… Lucia Scirara?"
(She is played by Monica Bellucci, circa Spectre.)
Lucia froze.
Lucia: "…You. All you've done is buy me time."
Her voice carried no anger, no hatred. Just resignation.
Lucia: "You killed him. My husband. Didn't you?"
Alistair: "I did. Nothing personal. Just work."
She stepped closer. And slapped him. Hard.
Alistair didn't flinch. No anger. No remorse. Just a slight tilt of the head… and a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Lucia: "You've signed my death warrant."
Alistair: "Loyal to a man you hated. Gave birth to children you despise even more. Children you barely recognize."
Lucia: "…Yes. I hated him. But he trusted my silence. And now? Either Black Mask kills me to tie up loose ends… or my own sons slit my throat believing I betrayed their father. I have no one. No one I can trust."
Alistair: "…Can't say I don't know the feeling."
Lucia: "And I can tell you—I don't trust you."
He rose from the chair, slow and deliberate, like a cat circling prey. Step by step, he closed the distance. She backed away, step for step, until her shoulders brushed against the vanity mirror.
Alistair: "Your instincts are sharp. If that's what they're telling you… you'd be wise to listen."
Lucia: "You've upset the balance of this city. A war will come."
Alistair: "War is good for business, my dear. I learned that a long time ago."
Lucia: "If you don't leave now… we die together."
Alistair: "That would almost be a welcome surprise—if I were capable of dying."
His hands braced the mirror, caging her in, his face just inches from hers.
Alistair: "Besides… there are worse ways to go."
Lucia: "…Then you are truly insane, Mister—"
Alistair: "Alistair. Alistair Grimm."
Her lips parted, her eyes searching his.
Lucia (whispering): "…This man."
Her arms slid around his neck.
Lucia: "If you only knew the power he wields—the things Black Mask is capable of—you wouldn't work for him."
She turned, pressing his back against the mirror.
Alistair: "I've killed far more powerful men than Mask. People you wouldn't even believe existed."
His hands traced her back, unzipping her dress with careful slowness.
Lucia kissed him—deep, desperate. But Alistair spun her, pressing her back to the mirror once more, his lips crushing against hers.
Lucia (breathless): "My husband was obsessed with Falcone. Taking his seat, his empire. He barely gave me attention."
Alistair (smirking): "Then your husband was a fool."
His lips pressed firmly against hers again as her hands moved across his chest, undoing his shirt, pulling him closer.
Dressed once more, Alistair sat on the edge of the bed, hair tied back, glasses in place. The faint glow of a lamp lit the room in soft gold. Lucia lay sprawled across the sheets, her clothes scattered carelessly across the floor like the aftermath of a storm.
Lucia (low, half-amused, half-bitter): "O sei pazzo o sei stupido."
(Either you're crazy, or you're stupid.)
Alistair (smirking faintly): "Live long enough, you realize there's barely a line between the two."
She propped herself on one elbow, eyes tracing him, sharp and calculating even in exhaustion.
Lucia: "If you leave me now… I'll die. You know that."
Alistair: "You won't."
He reached into his coat, pulled out a burner phone, and tossed it gently onto the bed beside her.
Alistair: "Call the number inside. Tell him Alistair sent you. A friend will come. Someone who actually knows how to keep you alive."
Lucia studied the phone, then him.
Lucia: "…Why help me?"
Alistair leaned forward slightly, voice dropping low, Italian rolling off his tongue smooth as silk.
Alistair: "Sarebbe un peccato se una rosa delicata come te appassisse."
(It would be a shame if a delicate rose such as you were to wilt away.)
She laughed softly, though there was no humor in it.
Lucia: "I am older than you, Grimm."
Alistair (grinning): "Women are like wine—they only taste better with age. Besides…" he leaned closer, gaze sharp behind the red lenses, "…you should be more concerned with the fact you just shared a bed with your husband's killer."
Lucia scoffed, shaking her head, though the faintest ghost of a smile tugged her lips.
Alistair (genuinely, almost softly): "I do hope you make it out of this, Miss Scirara. The world is as cruel as you said… but sometimes cruel men still hold a little mercy."
He opened the window and vaulted out, hitting the ground with a cat's grace. No stumble. No sound.
The Lincoln waited for him, patient and sleek. Alistair slid inside, the door closing with a muted thunk. The engine purred to life, headlights cutting through Gotham's endless shadows. He traded his lollipop for a cigarette, smoke curling like a ghost around his face as he drove.
No destination. Just the city and the road.
Eventually, he pulled up near a corner store that had seen better days. He left his coat in the car, tie hanging loose, shirt untucked, glasses tucked into the vest pocket. His hair fell free. He looked less like a hitman and more like someone's careless ex walking home after a long night.
The streets here reeked of piss, oil, and desperation. He cut through an alley. That's where they appeared. Two in front. Two behind. Cheap leather, cheaper guns, the kind of men who lived and died without names in this city.
Man 1 (grinning, flashing steel): "Keys. Wallet. Now."
Alistair (deadpan): "Come on, fellas. Right now?"
Man 2: "You heard him. Keys. Wallet."
Alistair sighed, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.
Alistair: "Nah. Think I'll keep my keys. And my wallet."
Man 3 (pulling a pistol): "Then you just kept your pride. Not your life."
The shot cracked, echoing against brick. Alistair dropped like dead weight, cigarette hitting the pavement beside him. The muggers closed in, one crouching to check his pockets.
That's when his lips curled. Eyes opened.
Alistair (whispering with a smirk): "Boo."
They stumbled back, curses flying. Guns raised again.
Too late.
Alistair surged up, hand snatching the croucher's wrist. The gun turned sideways—bang—the first thug dropped with a hole between his eyes before he even realized what happened. Alistair pivoted, dragging the corpse as a shield, two more shots thudding into dead flesh.
He shoved the body into the second man, knocking him off balance. A blade flicked free—clean, fast, almost elegant. One slash across the throat, arterial spray painting the wall.
The last two panicked, firing wildly. Alistair rolled, scooped the cigarette from the ground with two fingers, lit ember still alive. He put it between his lips like nothing had happened, drew his gun with the other hand, and squeezed. Pop. Pop. Two headshots. Both collapsed, bodies twitching on the wet concrete.
Alistair exhaled smoke, stepping over them without even glancing down.
Alistair (murmuring to himself): "Should've picked an easier mark, boys."
He walked out of the alley as casually as he'd entered it, smoke trailing behind him, like death itself had decided to take a midnight stroll.
His cape hung heavy around him, swallowing his form until he was little more than a living shadow. He moved silently through Maroni Manor's halls, every step deliberate, every breath measured.
The copper tang of blood clung to the air. Underneath it—something else. Sweet. Sickly. Wrong.
Bodies littered the staircase. He stepped over them without breaking stride, cowl lenses flickering as the Batcomputer cross-analyzed the carnage. Same as before: no casings, no bullets recovered. Victims torn apart by clean blades or gutted with impossible precision. Some cut in half. One arm was draped over the railing like a grotesque ornament.
Batman (internal): "Pattern's consistent. Same killer. Same message. Efficient. Personal."
The library door creaked open. He wasn't surprised by what he saw—two men sitting as though they had expected him. Glasses of whiskey in hand, suits crumpled, eyes red.
Pino and Umberto Maroni.
Pino (snapping): "If it ain't the Bat. My family's grieving. You and your posse have already done enough damage. Leave."
Umberto (smoother, though strained): "Excuse my brother. He's… upset. As you can see."
The room was chaos. Books scattered across the floor, a chair overturned. Violence had touched this place, but the brothers held themselves like caged dogs, restless and eager to bite.
Batman (low, flat): "I'm here."
Umberto (leaning forward): "For our father's murderer. Yeah. Well, tough luck. This bastard's ours. I'll kill him with my own two hands."
Batman (stepping deeper into the room): "I don't need vengeance. I need information."
Umberto (snarling): "And I told you—"
Batman (cutting him off, voice sharp as a blade): "Your father is dead. The Maroni family is fractured. It only takes one man to finish the job… Falcone. He'd kill you both before sunrise."
Pino shot to his feet, anger boiling over.
Pino: "Bullshit! You don't kill."
Batman's shadow fell across the table as he advanced, catching Pino's glass mid-throw without flinching. He set it down carefully on the wood, never breaking eye contact.
Batman (quiet, dangerous): "I don't kill. Can't say the same for Carmine."
Umberto's bravado faltered. His jaw worked, words forced out through clenched teeth.
Umberto: "…The boys said he had white hair. Red eyes. That's all I know."
Batman (internal): "Red eyes. Not Slade. Something else."
Pino (snapping): "You ask for help, then shit on it? That's all we got!"
Umberto (grudgingly): "He carried two swords. And a gun. Moved like a ghost."
Batman's silence was answer enough. His mind was already dissecting the details.
Umberto (after a beat): "And… he was black. A black guy."
Pino slammed his fist into the table, face twisted with hate.
Pino: "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch."
Umberto turned to him, voice lower, colder.
Umberto: "We find Ma first. Then we pay him a visit."
Batman said nothing. He simply studied the brothers—posture, microexpressions, fear masked by bravado. They were more useful alive than dead, though only barely.
Then his cape folded around him, and in a blink, the Bat was gone.
On the roof, he pressed a button on his gauntlet.
Batman: "Alfred."
Alfred (comm crackling): "Sir."
Batman: "I won't be home tonight. I need you to access the city's
surveillance grid. Facial recognition.
Run a match—white hair, red eyes. Black male. Age range unknown."
Alfred: "Red eyes and white hair… rather limiting, I'd imagine. You'll stand out in most crowds with that particular look."
Batman (flat): "Exactly."
Alfred: "Running the query now."
The Batwing descended silently, cloaking systems shimmering as it cut through the storm. Batman fired his grapnel, lifted effortlessly, and disappeared into the cockpit. The craft roared skyward, away from the Maroni estate.
Alfred (after a pause): "…That's odd."
Batman: "Problem?"
Alfred: "No match, sir. None at all."
Batman (grim): "Of course. That would've been too easy. There's a pattern here, Alfred. Assassinations, escalating. Someone's cleaning Gotham house."
Alfred: "If I may, it might be time to call on our old friend Roman Sionis. Black Mask has a reputation for… aggressively resolving disputes."
Batman: "Not likely he'll talk. Not without leverage."
Alfred (lightly): "He's not exactly known for tea and conversation, no."
Data flickered across the Batwing's HUD.
Alfred: "Something else. There's a new name in the mayoral race—Ethan Whitaker. Clean record. Too clean. Ah… except for a buried sexual assault charge and a rather reckless gambling debt."
Batman: "Black Mask's currency."
Alfred: "So you believe Sionis is clearing the field?"
Batman: "If he can't buy Whitaker, he'll break him. Public humiliation first… assassination second."
The Batwing cut across the stormy skyline, lightning painting the clouds around it.
Batman (under his breath): "This city's balance is shifting. Someone's forcing it."