"Well, this is touching."
The voice came from directly above them, carrying the distinctive arrogance that only one person in Bruce's acquaintance could achieve. They looked up to see a familiar red and gold figure descending through the morning sky, repulsors providing perfect flight control as Tony Stark settled onto their makeshift observation deck.
"Stark," Bruce said, his tone flat with exhaustion and annoyance. "What are you doing here?"
"Heard there was a party in Gotham," Tony replied, his faceplate retracting to reveal features that looked like they'd seen their own share of recent violence. "Figured I should drop by, see if my favorite brooding billionaire needed backup." He paused, taking in their emotional scene with characteristic tact. "Though it looks like you had everything under control."
Before Bruce could respond, another figure appeared in the morning sky. This one didn't need mechanical assistance to fly, moving through the air with easy grace that spoke to abilities beyond human engineering. Superman touched down beside them with barely a sound, his cape settling around him as he took in the scene.
"Bruce," Clark said warmly, though his expression showed concern for his friend's obvious exhaustion. "I got here as soon as I could. I'm sorry I wasn't available earlier in the week."
"Let me guess," Bruce said, rubbing his temples as he felt a headache building. "You were dealing with your own crisis while I was fighting for my life against international assassins."
"Something like that," Tony confirmed, his suit's diagnostics apparently running scans on both Bruce and Dick. "Hammer tech, government conspiracies, a deranged Russian physicist with daddy issues and some very unpleasant whips. You know, typical Tuesday night in the superhero business."
"I was in Metropolis," Clark added, his explanation carrying a warmth that suggested personal rather than professional reasons. "Lois and I... well, we got engaged last night. I was planning to tell my parents this morning, help her tell her family..."
Dick's eyes went wide, his earlier awe at meeting these legendary figures overriding his emotional exhaustion. "You're Tony Stark," he said, staring at the armored figure with obvious fascination. "I saw the footage from Monaco. The fight with Whiplash at the race track was incredible."
"Kid's got good taste in superhero coverage," Tony observed, apparently pleased by the recognition. "Though I have to say, the media coverage really didn't capture how much that guy smelled like motor oil and bad life choices."
"And you're Superman," Dick continued, his voice carrying the reverence of someone meeting a living legend. "You actually exist. I mean, I knew you existed, but seeing you in person..."
"Just Clark," Superman said gently, extending a hand that Dick shook with obvious excitement. "And you must be Robin. I've heard good things about your work this week."
"You've heard about me?" Dick asked, clearly struggling to process that Superman knew who he was.
"The superhero community is smaller than you might think," Clark explained. "Word travels when someone new joins the ranks, especially someone as young as you."
Bruce stood up slowly, every muscle in his body protesting the movement as exhaustion and injury combined to remind him exactly how much punishment he'd absorbed over the past week. The sight of his colleagues, the casual way they'd appeared just as he was having the most important conversation of his personal life, triggered a frustration that had been building for days.
"You know what?" Bruce said, his voice carrying an edge that made both Tony and Clark take notice. "I really don't have time for this right now."
"Bruce..." Clark began, recognizing the warning signs of his friend's temper.
"No," Bruce cut him off, his control finally slipping after days of superhuman restraint. "I've spent the last week fighting for my life, protecting a traumatized child, dismantling a conspiracy that reached into the federal government, and dealing with the return of my homicidal ex-mentor and his equally dangerous daughter. I've been poisoned, beaten, shot at, and emotionally manipulated by some of the world's deadliest killers."
His voice rose with each word, eight days of accumulated stress finally finding an outlet. "I've had to watch Dick face his parents' killer, seen him choose mercy when every instinct screamed for revenge, and somehow managed to keep both of us alive through encounters with enhanced operatives who've been training to kill people since before either of us was born."
Tony and Clark exchanged glances, recognizing that their friend was reaching a breaking point that had been building for far longer than just the past week.
"And now," Bruce continued, "when I'm finally having a conversation about maybe, possibly, allowing myself to have something resembling a family again for the first time in eight years, you two show up like this is some kind of social call." He paused, running a hand through his hair, and when he spoke again his voice carried a dry edge that hadn't been there before. "So forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled about the timing. Though I suppose dramatic entrances during emotional moments are pretty much par for the course in our line of work."
The unexpected shift caught both Tony and Clark off guard. This wasn't the explosive anger they'd been bracing for, but something more controlled, tinged with what might have been actual humor.
"Did you just..." Tony started, his expression genuinely confused. "Did Batman just make a self-aware comment about superhero timing?"
"I'm capable of recognizing irony, Stark," Bruce replied, his tone still carrying that brooding quality they were familiar with, but underneath it was something lighter. "Eight years of this job teaches you to appreciate the absurd."
Clark was studying his friend with obvious fascination. "You seem... different. More relaxed, maybe?"
"Relaxed is a strong word," Bruce said dryly, gesturing to the construction site below where GCPD was still processing the aftermath of international assassin warfare. "But having someone to worry about who isn't actively trying to get himself killed does provide a certain... perspective."
Dick looked up at Bruce with a mixture of pride and amusement. "Are you calling me the responsible one in this relationship?"
"Don't push it, kid," Bruce replied, but there was unmistakable warmth in his voice. "You did throw yourself at Deathstroke with nothing but circus training and five days of instruction."
"Fair point," Dick conceded. "Though technically, it worked."
"Technically, you got lucky," Bruce corrected, though his expression suggested he was more impressed than critical. "There's a difference."
Tony was watching this exchange with growing fascination. "Okay, I have to ask. Did you get hit in the head at some point this week? Because this whole... paternal banter thing is not exactly your usual mode of operation."
Bruce considered this seriously. "Multiple head impacts, actually. Bane, Deathstroke, several explosions, at least one concrete wall. It's possible something got knocked loose." He paused, glancing at Dick. "Or maybe something got knocked back into place."
"That's..." Clark started, then stopped, a smile spreading across his face. "That's actually kind of profound. In a very Bruce way."
"I have my moments," Bruce said with what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Though don't expect me to start cracking jokes during interrogations. Some things are sacred."
"Please tell me you're not going to start doing the whole 'cool dad' thing," Tony said with mock horror. "Because I'm not sure Gotham's criminals are ready for a Batman with a sense of humor."
"The day I become a 'cool dad' is the day Gotham's underworld knows they've truly won," Bruce replied, his voice carrying that familiar gravitas. "But maybe... maybe I can be a present dad. Available dad. The kind who shows up to school plays and doesn't miss birthdays because he's too busy brooding in a cave."
Dick's expression softened at the implicit promise. "I'd like that."
"Good," Bruce said simply. "Because despite what my track record might suggest, I'm planning to stick around for the long haul."
Clark cleared his throat, clearly moved by the exchange. "Congratulations, by the way. On the engagement. To Lois, I mean."
Bruce's attention shifted to his friend, and for a moment the familiar calculating look returned to his eyes. "Thank you. Though I have to say, your timing is interesting. Proposing to an investigative journalist right when Gotham's dealing with federal conspiracy theories? She's going to want the full story."
"I'm hoping to keep her focused on local Metropolis corruption for a while," Clark admitted. "At least until things calm down here."
"Good luck with that," Bruce said with what was definitely a smirk now. "Lois Lane doesn't exactly 'focus locally' when there's a bigger story. Especially when that story involves her boyfriend's mysterious billionaire friend and his new sidekick taking down international assassin networks."
Tony laughed. "He's got you there, farm boy. Lane's going to be all over this."
"I'll think of something," Clark said, though he looked considerably less confident about his ability to manage his fiancée's investigative instincts.
"Here's a thought," Bruce said, his tone helpful in a way that somehow managed to sound vaguely threatening. "Maybe get her a really nice engagement ring. Something shiny enough to distract her from asking too many questions about what her future husband was doing while Gotham was under siege."
"Are you giving me relationship advice?" Clark asked, genuinely bewildered.
"I'm giving you practical advice," Bruce corrected. "There's a difference. Though speaking of gifts, I should probably send you something appropriate for the wedding. Maybe an air freshener for the apartment. You know, for those moments when you forget to control your heat vision around the good china."
Dick started laughing, the sound bright and genuine. "Did Bruce Wayne just make a superhero dad joke?"
"That wasn't a dad joke," Bruce protested, though his defensive tone suggested he knew exactly what it was. "That was practical household advice for someone dating a man who can accidentally melt appliances."
"It was totally a dad joke," Tony said with obvious delight. "The Dark Knight of Gotham just made a pun about heat vision and housewares. I'm never letting you live this down."
Bruce's expression returned to something more familiar, the brooding intensity reasserting itself. "You're welcome to try, Stark. Though I should mention that I've recently acquired detailed intelligence on several federal agencies, international criminal organizations, and at least one secret government super-soldier program. I'm sure there's something in there that would make for interesting tabloid reading."
"Are you threatening to leak classified information because I called out your dad joke?" Tony asked, though he sounded more amused than concerned.
"I'm suggesting that people in experimental armor shouldn't throw stones," Bruce replied coolly. "Especially when those people have a documented history of creating their own villains through questionable business practices."
"Okay, that's fair," Tony conceded. "But you have to admit, the transition from 'international conspiracy' to 'wedding gift humor' is pretty jarring coming from you."
Bruce was quiet for a moment, his gaze moving from his friends to Dick and then out over the city skyline. When he spoke again, his voice carried that familiar weight, but there was something new underneath it.
"Maybe that's the point," he said finally. "For eight years, everything has been about the mission. Every conversation, every relationship, every decision filtered through what Batman needed rather than what Bruce Wayne wanted." He looked at Dick again. "But having someone who depends on you, who needs you to be more than just the mission... it changes things. It has to."
"Good," Clark said softly. "You've been Batman for so long, I was starting to worry you'd forgotten how to be human."
"I haven't forgotten," Bruce replied, his tone carrying that brooding quality they recognized, but tempered with something warmer. "I just haven't had much reason to remember. Until now."
Dick was watching this exchange with obvious fascination, seeing yet another side of his new guardian that he hadn't known existed. "So this is what having superhero friends is like? Making fun of each other while discussing secret identities and relationship advice?"
"Pretty much," Tony confirmed. "Though usually Bruce is the one making everyone else uncomfortable with his intense staring and dramatic cape flourishes. This whole 'actual conversation' thing is new."
"I don't do cape flourishes," Bruce said automatically.
"You absolutely do cape flourishes," Clark and Tony said in unison.
Bruce considered this seriously. "Tactical intimidation requires proper presentation. The cape is functional."
"It's also dramatic," Clark pointed out. "Very swooshy."
"Swooshy?" Bruce repeated, raising an eyebrow. "The Man of Steel just described tactical equipment as 'swooshy'?"
"It swooshes when you turn dramatically," Clark explained without shame. "It's very effective. Good intimidation factor."
Dick was trying not to laugh at the surreal nature of watching three of the world's most powerful men discuss cape aerodynamics. "Are you guys always like this when there aren't any world-threatening crises happening?"
"No," Tony said. "Usually Bruce glares at us until we feel uncomfortable and change the subject. This is much more entertaining."
Bruce's expression grew thoughtful, some of the familiar intensity returning. "Speaking of world-threatening crises, both of you should know that things in Gotham are about to get significantly more complicated. Ra's al Ghul isn't planning to leave quietly, and Pierce's federal connections run deeper than I initially realized."
The shift back to serious topics was seamless, showing that beneath the unexpected humor and paternal warmth, Bruce was still very much Batman. Still calculating, still planning, still carrying the weight of responsibility that had defined him for eight years.
"We'll be ready," Clark assured him. "And we'll be here if you need backup."
"All of us," Tony added, his expression growing more serious despite the earlier banter. "The superhero community looks out for its own. Especially when that community includes kids in colorful costumes who can apparently talk international assassins out of murder sprees."
"He didn't talk him out of it," Bruce corrected, pride evident in his voice despite his matter-of-fact tone. "He chose to be better than his pain. That's not something you can teach someone. It has to come from who they are inside."
Dick flushed at the praise, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "I had good examples to follow. People who showed me there was a difference between justice and revenge."
"Your parents would be proud," Clark said gently. "Both sets of them."
Bruce felt his chest tighten with emotion at the casual acceptance of his new role, the way Clark had naturally included him in Dick's family structure. "Yeah," he said quietly, his voice carrying both the familiar gravel and something newer, warmer. "I think they would be."
They stood together as the sun climbed higher over Gotham, four people who'd chosen to use extraordinary abilities in service of others, each understanding the weight and isolation that such choices could bring. But for this moment, in the aftermath of crisis and the beginning of something new, none of them was alone.
"So," Tony said eventually, his tone lighter but still carrying genuine interest, "what's the plan now? Kid joins the family superhero business? Starts his own Instagram account documenting life with Batman?"
"Dick makes his own choices about his future," Bruce replied, his hand finding the boy's shoulder in a gesture that spoke to their new understanding. "But whatever he decides, he'll have support. Family. A home."
"And backup," Clark added firmly. "If something like this happens again, if Gotham faces threats this severe, you call us. No more going it alone."
"Agreed," Tony said. "Though next time, maybe we could arrange the crisis for a week when I'm not dealing with my own megalomaniacal arms dealers and government corruption."
Dick laughed, the sound bright and genuine despite everything they'd been through. "Is it always like this? The superhero business, I mean. International conspiracies and family drama and last-minute rescues?"
"Pretty much," Clark confirmed with a grin. "Though some weeks are worse than others."
"This was definitely a worse week," Bruce said dryly, but there was warmth in his voice that hadn't been there before. "But it ended well."
As the morning light continued to spread across Gotham's skyline, painting the city in shades of hope and possibility, Bruce Wayne found himself thinking about the future for the first time in years. Not just as Batman, fighting an endless war against crime and corruption, but as Bruce Wayne. As a father. As someone who had found family in the most unlikely circumstances and chosen to embrace it rather than push it away.
—
Gotham Harbor, Industrial District 2:17 AM
The night air hung heavy with the scent of brine and motor oil as Alberto Falcone stumbled between towering shipping containers, his breathing ragged from hours of running through Gotham's industrial underbelly. His expensive Italian leather shoes scraped against the weathered concrete, the sound echoing off the metal walls that surrounded him like a maze. His tailored suit, once pristine and perfectly pressed, now hung in tatters from his desperate flight through the city's most dangerous neighborhoods.
The night had begun with such promise. Seven of the world's deadliest assassins converging on Gotham to systematically eliminate every threat to his father's empire, with Batman himself as the ultimate prize. Alberto had envisioned himself stepping from the shadows to claim control of a city cleansed of its most persistent obstacles to organized criminal enterprise.
Instead, he was running for his life through rat-infested warehouses and abandoned loading docks, pursued by killers who had once been in his employ.
Alberto pressed himself against a rusted shipping container, trying to catch his breath while listening for signs of pursuit. The harbor was never truly quiet—the constant sound of water lapping against concrete, the distant hum of machinery, the occasional horn from ships navigating the shipping lanes—but tonight those familiar sounds felt ominous, each one potentially masking the approach of death.
His hands were shaking as he pulled out his phone, the expensive device's screen cracked from his earlier fall when Winter Soldier had nearly cornered him outside the construction site. Most of his contacts would be useless now—what good were corrupt judges and bought politicians when enhanced government operatives were hunting you with federal authority?
But there was one number that might still matter. One man who understood the rules of Gotham's underworld better than anyone, who had maintained his position through decades of careful neutrality and calculated alliances.
Alberto dialed Oswald Cobblepot's private line.
"Oz," he said when the call connected, not bothering with pleasantries. "I need help. I need extraction from the harbor district. Pier 47."
There was a pause on the other end, long enough for Alberto to hear his own heartbeat over the connection. When Cobblepot finally spoke, his voice carried that distinctive Gotham working-class accent, but there was something different in his tone. Something cold.
"Alberto fucking Falcone," Oz said slowly, each word carrying weight. "You got some brass calling me after the week you've put me through."
"Oz, listen, I know tonight got complicated, but we can work this out," Alberto said quickly, desperation creeping into his voice. "The Iceberg Lounge can be rebuilt, better than before. I'll personally oversee the reconstruction, spare no expense—"
"Spare no expense?" Oz's laugh was harsh, bitter. "Kid, do you have any idea what you've cost me? Twenty-three years I spent building that place. Twenty-three years of careful negotiations, delicate balances, maintaining neutrality while every other criminal enterprise in this city tried to drag me into their wars."
Alberto could hear something in the background—the sound of a car engine, tires on pavement. Oz was already on his way to the harbor.
"I'm coming to get you," Oz continued, his voice carrying what Alberto desperately wanted to interpret as reassurance. "Pier 47, you said? Yeah, I know it. Used to do business there back in the day, before I went legitimate. Well, as legitimate as anyone gets in our line of work."
"Thank you," Alberto breathed, relief flooding through him. "I knew I could count on you. The Falcone family remembers its friends, Oz. When this is all over, when my father gets out and we rebuild—"
"Yeah, about that," Oz interrupted. "We'll talk when I get there. Face to face. The way these things should be handled."
The line went dead, leaving Alberto alone with the harbor's ambient noise and his own racing thoughts. Help was coming. Oswald Cobblepot might be many things—violent, crude, occasionally unpredictable—but he was also pragmatic. He understood that tonight's chaos was an aberration, that the smart move was to maintain relationships with established power structures rather than burning bridges with the Falcone family.
Alberto checked his watch: 2:23 AM. The worst of it was over. Batman and his kid sidekick were dealing with Deathstroke at the construction site, the other assassins were either captured or eliminated, and Pierce's cleanup operation was proceeding according to plan. Once Oz extracted him from the harbor, Alberto could disappear for a few weeks, let the heat die down, then return to claim his rightful place in Gotham's hierarchy.
The sound of approaching footsteps on concrete drew his attention. Heavy boots, moving with military precision through the maze of shipping containers. Alberto's blood ran cold as he recognized the distinctive gait—Winter Soldier, the enhanced operative who had been systematically eliminating loose ends all evening.
Alberto pressed himself deeper into the shadows between containers, praying that the darkness and the industrial clutter would provide sufficient concealment. His expensive suit wasn't exactly camouflage, but maybe the poor lighting would be enough.
The footsteps stopped.
"Target acquired."
The voice was mechanical, emotionless, carrying the same inflection that had announced the deaths of three other conspirators earlier in the evening. Alberto could see him now—a figure in black tactical gear, metal arm gleaming with oil and harbor lights, moving through the shipping containers with predatory patience.
Alberto ran.
His expensive shoes provided no traction on the concrete, sending him sliding around corners and nearly toppling into the harbor's black water. Behind him, Winter Soldier's pursuit was relentless, mechanical, the enhanced operative covering ground with inhuman efficiency despite the treacherous terrain.
A shipping container exploded as Alberto dove past it, Winter Soldier's metal fist punching through reinforced steel like it was cardboard. Alberto scrambled on hands and knees through the gap, tearing his suit jacket on twisted metal, leaving pieces of expensive fabric behind as he fought his way through the industrial maze.
Another container. Another thunderous impact as Winter Soldier simply created his own path through obstacles that would have stopped normal pursuit. The Asset wasn't just hunting—he was demonstrating the futility of resistance, showing Alberto exactly how hopeless his situation had become.
Alberto emerged from the container maze onto Pier 47's main loading area, a concrete platform that extended into Gotham Harbor like a finger pointing toward the city's heart. Massive cranes towered overhead, their skeletal forms creating abstract patterns against the cloudy sky. This was where Oz would meet him, where salvation would arrive in the form of the Penguin's distinctive limousine.
Headlights cut through the darkness, and Alberto felt his knees weaken with relief. A black sedan was approaching the pier, moving with the steady confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going. Not Oz's usual vehicle, but maybe he'd chosen something more discrete for tonight's extraction.
The car stopped thirty feet away, engine idling as the driver's door opened. But instead of Oswald Cobblepot's familiar bulk, a much smaller figure emerged. Even in the poor lighting, Alberto recognized the man's careful movements, the way he favored his left arm, the distinctive scar pattern across his face.
Bullseye.
The assassin moved with obvious discomfort, his left arm still in an improvised sling from his encounter with Batman at the charity gala. His trademark accuracy might have been compromised by his injuries, but the cold professionalism in his approach suggested he remained extremely dangerous.
"Alberto fucking Falcone," Bullseye called across the concrete, his voice carrying clearly despite the ambient harbor noise. "You've been a hard man to find tonight."
"You don't understand," Alberto said desperately, backing toward the pier's edge as Bullseye approached. "The contract is void. Carmine's in federal custody, the money is frozen, there's no point in continuing this."
"Oh, but there is a point," Bullseye replied, his undamaged hand moving to the weapons concealed beneath his jacket. "See, your daddy put a contract on you, kid. Wanted his disappointing son eliminated before he could embarrass the family name any further. Twenty-five million for your head."
Bullseye's smile was cold, professional. "Now, I may not be able to throw with my usual precision thanks to your friend Batman, but at this range, with these weapons... I don't need to be particularly accurate."
Alberto was still backing away when another set of headlights appeared at the mouth of the pier. This time, it was the vehicle he'd been expecting—Oz Cobblepot's distinctive black limousine, moving through the darkness with ponderous dignity. The sight filled Alberto with renewed hope despite Bullseye's presence.
"Oz!" Alberto called out as the limousine approached. "Thank God you're here. This maniac is trying to collect on a bounty that doesn't exist anymore."
The limousine stopped between Alberto and Bullseye, its engine purring with expensive efficiency. The rear door opened, and Oswald Cobblepot emerged, his distinctive umbrella already in hand despite the clear night.
"Evening, gentlemen," Oz said, his voice carrying that deceptive courtesy that had served him well in Gotham's criminal hierarchy. His scarred face was difficult to read in the lighting from the pier's industrial fixtures, but his gold tooth caught what illumination was available as he surveyed the scene.
"Oz, thank Christ," Alberto said, moving toward the crime boss with obvious relief. "I knew you'd come through. The Falcone family doesn't forget its friends."
"Friends," Oz repeated, the word carrying an odd inflection. "Yeah, about that, Alberto. See, I've been doing some thinking tonight. About friendship. About loyalty. About what happens when someone's friendship costs you everything you've spent decades building."
Something in his tone made Alberto pause, confusion replacing relief as he studied Oz's expression more carefully. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Oz said, his umbrella shifting slightly to reveal the modified shotgun concealed within its frame, "that your friendship has been the most expensive relationship of my entire fucking career."
The pieces began falling into place with horrifying clarity. Oz wasn't here to rescue him. Oz was here to settle accounts.
"Twenty-three years," Oz continued, his voice growing harder with each word. "Twenty-three years I spent building the Iceberg Lounge into something special. The one place in Gotham where criminals could conduct business without bloodshed, where deals could be made without violence, where even the most psychotic killers respected the neutrality."
He took a step closer to Alberto, the shotgun now clearly visible despite the umbrella's concealment. "And in one week—one fucking week—your brilliant scheme brought international assassins, government super soldiers, ninja death cults, and the goddamn Batman crashing through my establishment like it was some two-bit dive in the Narrows."
"Oz, please," Alberto said, his voice cracking with desperation. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that. The plan was surgical, precise. We never intended—"
"You never intended," Oz cut him off, his Gotham accent thickening with rage. "You never intended for there to be consequences. You never intended for anyone but your enemies to pay the price for your ambitions."
Alberto looked around desperately, seeking escape routes or allies. Bullseye remained where he was, apparently content to watch the confrontation unfold. Winter Soldier was nowhere to be seen, but Alberto could feel the enhanced operative's presence like a weight in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to conclude his mission.
"I can make this right," Alberto said quickly. "The insurance on the Iceberg will cover reconstruction costs. The Falcone family has resources, connections. I can compensate you for everything you've lost."
"Compensate me?" Oz's laugh was harsh, bitter. "Kid, you can't compensate someone for their life's work. You can't write a check that brings back twenty-three years of careful reputation building."
His expression grew uglier, more dangerous. "But you know what? Maybe this is an opportunity. Maybe it's time for Gotham to have new leadership. Fresh blood. Someone who understands that real power comes from being smart rather than just being born with the right last name."
The implication was clear, and Alberto felt cold terror settle in his stomach. "You're talking about overthrowing my father. Challenging the Falcone family's position."
"I'm talking about evolution," Oz replied. "Your old man built a hell of an empire, I'll give him that. But he's under house arrest awaiting trial on federal charges that'll keep him locked up for the rest of his natural life if he's convicted. His organization is in chaos, his lieutenants are scrambling for position, and his heir apparent..." He gestured toward Alberto with obvious disdain. "His heir apparent is a fuck-up who brought the entire federal government down on the family's head."
Oz's voice grew conversational, almost friendly, which somehow made his words more terrifying. "See, nature abhors a vacuum, Alberto. When the top predator gets taken out, something else moves in to fill that ecological niche. And I've been patient long enough."
"You can't," Alberto said desperately. "The other families won't accept it. Maroni, Bertinelli, the Russians—they'll never recognize your authority."
"Won't they?" Oz asked, genuine amusement in his voice. "Kid, I've been doing business with every criminal organization in this city for over two decades. I know where the bodies are buried, literally and figuratively. I know which judges are bought, which cops are dirty, which federal agents have gambling debts."
He tapped his temple with his free hand. "Twenty-three years of maintaining neutrality means twenty-three years of accumulating leverage on everyone who matters. You think your daddy kept detailed records? My files could bring down half of Gotham's power structure."
Alberto was backing toward the pier's edge again, the black water of Gotham Harbor lapping at the concrete behind him. The night air carried the scent of brine and industrial oil, ensuring that whatever happened here would disappear into the city's endless capacity for violence.
"The Commission will never—"
"The Commission will accept reality," Oz interrupted. "Especially when that reality comes with financial incentives and detailed documentation of their own criminal activities."
That's when Winter Soldier finally revealed himself, emerging from the shadows between shipping containers with mechanical precision. His metal arm caught what little light was available from the pier's industrial fixtures, and his tactical gear made him nearly invisible against the night sky.
"Target confirmed," Winter Soldier stated, his voice carrying across the concrete with emotionless clarity. "Alberto Falcone. Mission parameters: eliminate loose ends, ensure operational security."
The three men—Bullseye, Oz, and Winter Soldier—formed a rough triangle around Alberto, each representing different aspects of the conspiracy that had consumed his life. Professional killer, criminal opportunist, and government asset, all converging on the pier where Gotham's newest power struggle would be decided.
"Well, this is interesting," Bullseye observed, his damaged arm preventing him from drawing weapons but his positioning still tactical. "Looks like everyone wants a piece of the Falcone heir. Question is, who gets to collect?"
"I was hired first," Oz pointed out, his shotgun now openly displayed. "Professional courtesy should count for something."
"Federal authority supersedes private contracts," Winter Soldier replied with mechanical logic. "Mission parameters are clear."
Alberto looked between them, understanding that his death had become inevitable. The only question was who would have the honor of pulling the trigger.
"Please," he said, his voice breaking as the full weight of his situation settled over him. "I'll disappear. Leave Gotham, never come back. You'll never see me again."
"Kid," Oz said, almost gently, "you don't get it. This isn't about you anymore. This is about what comes next. About who runs this city when the dust settles."
Winter Soldier's comm device crackled to life, Pierce's voice cutting through the harbor's ambient noise with federal authority. "Asset, report status."
"Target located," Winter Soldier replied. "Three additional actors present. Recommend immediate elimination of primary target."
"Negative," Pierce's voice carried clearly across the pier. "Mission parameters have changed. Local assets have resolved the primary threat. Deathstroke is in custody, Batman is no longer a factor. Stand down and await extraction."
Winter Soldier's head tilted slightly, processing the new information. "Understood. Mission complete."
Without another word, the enhanced operative turned and walked away, disappearing into the maze of shipping containers as silently as he'd appeared. Alberto felt a moment of desperate hope—maybe Pierce's intervention meant he would survive after all.
"Well," Bullseye said conversationally, "looks like it's just the three of us now."
"Two of us," Oz corrected, his shotgun swinging toward Bullseye with practiced ease. "Unless you're planning to walk away from twenty-five million dollars."
Bullseye's expression showed genuine surprise at being targeted. "Hey, we both want the same thing here. Dead Falcone heir, divided payment. I'm reasonable."
"Yeah, but see, here's the thing," Oz replied, his voice carrying the patient tone of someone explaining basic economics. "I don't just want Alberto dead. I want to be the one who kills him. I want his old man to know that Oswald Cobblepot put a bullet in his precious son's head."
The psychological warfare was deliberate, calculated. Oz understood that in Gotham's criminal hierarchy, respect came not just from successful violence but from the willingness to personally handle necessary business rather than delegating it to subordinates.
"You're talking about starting a war," Bullseye pointed out. "Killing a made guy's son isn't just business—it's personal. Blood feud shit."
"Carmine's under house arrest at the family mansion, awaiting trial on federal charges," Oz replied pragmatically. "What's he gonna do, break his ankle monitor to come after me? Besides, by the time his trial's over—if he's not convicted—I'll control every criminal organization in Gotham. Who's gonna collect on his behalf?"
Alberto realized that his death was just the opening move in a larger game, the first step in Oz's plan to seize control of Gotham's entire criminal underworld. His murder wouldn't just eliminate a loose end—it would serve as a declaration of war against the established order.
"Twenty-five million," Bullseye said finally. "That's what Carmine promised for the kid's head. You want to be the trigger man, fine. But I want my payment."
"Done," Oz agreed immediately. "Consider it a signing bonus for your next contract. I'm gonna need experienced professionals in my organization."
Bullseye nodded, stepping back to give Oz clear field of fire. "Business is business."
Alberto looked between them, understanding that his fate had been decided with the casual efficiency of a real estate transaction. "You can't do this," he said desperately. "I'm Carmine Falcone's son. I'm a made guy. There are rules—"
"Rules?" Oz's laugh was genuinely amused. "Kid, you spent the last week breaking every rule that matters. You brought federal attention to family business. You violated neutrality. You put every criminal organization in Gotham at risk with your half-assed conspiracy."
His expression grew uglier again. "Besides, the rules say you don't move against made guys without Commission approval. But they also say you don't endanger the entire community with reckless operations. So which rule matters more?"
Alberto was pressed against the pier's edge now, Gotham Harbor's black water lapping at the concrete behind him. The night air was still and heavy, ensuring that whatever happened here would disappear into the city's endless capacity for violence.
"Please," Alberto said one final time, his voice barely audible over the harbor's ambient noise. "I'll give you anything. Money, information, territory. I'll acknowledge your authority, publicly step aside. Just let me live."
Oz considered this for a moment, his scarred face thoughtful in the poor lighting. "You know what, kid? That's almost tempting. Having Carmine Falcone's son publicly submit to my authority would definitely send a message to the other families."
Hope flickered in Alberto's eyes.
"But then again," Oz continued, his tone growing conversational, "there's something to be said for sending a different kind of message. The kind that says Oswald Cobblepot doesn't just accept submission—he takes what he wants through superior force."
The shotgun's blast echoed across Gotham Harbor, the sound mixing with water and machinery to create a symphony of urban violence that the city had heard ten thousand times before. Alberto Falcone's body collapsed onto the concrete, expensive suit soaking up harbor water and blood in equal measure.
Oz stood over the corpse for a moment, studying his handiwork with professional satisfaction. Then he knelt beside Alberto's body, searching through the dead man's pockets until he found what he was looking for—the Falcone family ring, a massive gold signet that had been passed down through three generations of Gotham's premier crime family.
"Twenty-three years," Oz said quietly, slipping the ring onto his own finger. "Twenty-three years of playing second fiddle to families that inherited their power instead of earning it."
He stood, brushing dust from his expensive suit, and turned to Bullseye. "Your payment will be transferred by morning. Clean account, offshore bank, all the usual protections."
"Pleasure doing business with you," Bullseye replied, apparently unbothered by the casual execution he'd just witnessed. "Though I gotta ask—you really think you can hold Gotham against the other families?"
"Kid," Oz said, his gold tooth glinting as he smiled, "I've been preparing for this opportunity my entire life. Let the Maronis and Bertinellis come. Let them try to take what I've built through superior planning and accumulated leverage."
He gestured toward Alberto's corpse with his umbrella. "This is just the beginning. By the time I'm done, every criminal organization in Gotham will answer to the Penguin."
As if summoned by his words, a pair of headlights appeared at the mouth of the pier. Marcus Webb emerged from the driver's seat of an unmarked van, moving with the professional efficiency that had made him Oz's most trusted lieutenant.
"Boss," Webb said, taking in the scene without apparent surprise. "Transport's ready."
"Good," Oz replied. "But change of plans. I want the body discovered this afternoon, right around the time Carmine's trial begins. Make it public, make it messy. Leave him where the media will find him first."
"And when they find him?" Webb asked.
"Make sure the ring finger is missing," Oz instructed. "I want Carmine to see the news reports, to know his son is dead and wonder what happened to the family signet. I want him to realize his legacy is over before he even steps into that courtroom."
Webb nodded, understanding the psychological warfare involved. "The timing will send a message to the other families too. Show them what happens to old guard leadership."
"Exactly," Oz confirmed. "While Carmine's sitting in court defending his life's work, every crime boss in Gotham will be learning that his heir is dead and his family ring is missing. They'll understand that the old order died with Alberto."
As Webb and his team began processing Alberto's corpse with the mechanical efficiency of experienced professionals, Oz turned back toward his limousine. The night's work was largely complete, but the real business was just beginning.
"Make sure the discovery happens around noon," Oz added. "Right when the news crews will be covering the trial. I want maximum media exposure, maximum impact. Let the whole city see what happens when someone threatens what I've built."
Gotham's criminal underworld would wake up tomorrow to discover that the established order had been shattered, that new leadership had emerged from the chaos, and that the rules they'd lived by for decades were no longer in effect. But more importantly, Carmine Falcone would learn of his son's death at the worst possible moment—when he was already fighting for his freedom and his life's work in federal court.
Oswald Cobblepot had spent twenty-three years learning how the game was played. Now it was time to teach everyone else that the Penguin played by his own rules.
The clear night air carried Alberto Falcone's blood into the black water where it would mix with decades of the city's violence, adding one more name to the endless list of those who'd underestimated the true nature of power in Gotham's unforgiving streets.
In the distance, sirens wailed as GCPD units responded to reports of gunfire in the harbor district. But by the time they arrived, they would find nothing but concrete and the harbor's eternal indifference to human violence.
The new order had begun with a single gunshot, and in a few hours, when Carmine Falcone sat in a federal courtroom defending his empire, he would learn that his son was dead and his legacy was already being claimed by someone who understood that real power came not from inheritance, but from the willingness to take what you wanted through superior force and perfect timing.