Starting from scratch, Batman crushed my dream of getting rich

Chapter 147 The Death of Alberto Falcone

The next day, Harvey and Falcone had agreed to meet in the building.

"dong dong"

There was a dull knock on the door, and after only two knocks, the door was knocked open.

A man wearing a black trench coat and a felt hat appeared outside the door. Under the coat was a suit and tie, with a long white scarf draped around his neck. The stand-up collar covered the lower half of his face, and sunglasses obscured his eyes.

This outfit is very handsome and imposing. In fact, after the Romans became the real powerful figures in this city, there were many more people dressed like this in the whole city, and they might take out a submachine gun from under their coats at any time.

This is typical mafia attire.

"Please come in."

The person inside the door whispered, welcomed the man in, and then closed the door, isolating himself from the outside world.

"Mr. Falcone, do you have to stick to the gangster style even in your disguise?"

The Roman did not answer the question from Harvey who was leading the way. He took off his sunglasses. He had not worn this Italian gangster outfit for a long time and felt a little uncomfortable at this moment - black suit, white shirt, bow tie and a red rose in his pocket, this was his usual attire, elegant, classy and majestic.

"Where's my son, Prosecutor Harvey?"

"Come with me."

Harvey led him inside and finally opened a door, which was the door to the basement.

Falcone narrowed his eyes slightly. He was very unhappy. Places like the basement were usually used to hold prisoners, but his own Alberto was placed in such a place.

"Prosecutor Harvey, I want to remind you that if anything happens to me or my son, the Falcone family will burn all of Gotham to ashes."

"Mr. Falcone, your son is dangerous. We can't just leave him anywhere, not even in the police station. The basement is the best place for him."

"Dangerous person?"

Falcone frowned tightly. He had never expected to receive such an answer. "What nonsense are you talking about?"

At this time, the two had walked down the long stairs and arrived in the basement. A voice sounded and answered him.

"Yes, a dangerous man, Mr. Falcone. Your son was an amazing marksman, brutal and cold-blooded. He killed four gangsters in a car, then bombed the car at Maroni's restaurant, massacred a large number of the Maroni family, and a gunsmith in Chinatown. Finally, he shot the Maroni father and son."

Sheriff Gordon from the basement came over, handed over a copy of the confession, and put it in the Godfather's hands.

"Your son, Alberto, is a serial killer. He is—"

"Festival Killer."

Falcone looked at Sheriff Gordon, listening to every word he uttered, his expression a little dull. The huge amount of information almost overwhelmed him completely, making his brain almost stop working.

"My son, Alberto, the festival killer?"

He opened the confession in his hand in disbelief, and the contents were shocking.

That was Alberto's own account. He confessed to all the crimes, except for Johnny Vitti's death and the destruction of the Irish gang. He confessed to all of them. He told me how he chose holiday gifts, how he ordered a .22 pistol from the gunsmith who had been silenced, how he tampered with the shooting range data, how he got information about Maroni from his family, how he faked his own death on the New Year's Eve cruise ship and how he was caught red-handed attacking Maroni and his father.
Perhaps, in his view, these are his medals rather than crimes. If he hides them and refuses to admit them, it would be like walking in the night in fine clothes.

The Roman could see that the signature at the end was the handwriting of his youngest son. That was why he found it so unbelievable. In his impression, his youngest son had always been a good boy. He was obedient, sensible, loyal, and stayed away from the family's troubles, which made him worry-free.

The Falcone Import Company was originally the first step to whitewash himself, so that in the future, the white industry could be left to the white Alberto. This was the reason why he insisted on keeping his youngest son away from the family business, but now, this idea was shattered.

At this time, Sheriff Gordon took him to a door, which was a small compartment in the basement.

"Alberto is inside. You can talk to him in person, Mr. Falcone."

So the Roman suppressed his emotions and pushed open the door.

The furnishings inside the door were simple. Under the dim light, there was only a table, a chair, a handcuffed man, and his little son whom he missed day and night.

"Alberto, my Alberto"

Seeing his father, Alberto's face finally showed some expression. He smiled at Falcone with a hint of guilt in his smile.

"Father, you are here."

"Alberto, why do you want to know if what they say is true?"

"It's true, Father. I'm sorry."

"Alberto, listen to me. I can get you out of here if you don't tell me you're some kind of festival killer. Just say you attacked Maroni and Luigi. Just admit to this—"

“Father,” Alberto interrupted him suddenly, “you don’t understand why I’m doing this, do you?”

"I"

"You don't know when my birthday is, do you? Even though you love me so much, you have business to attend to every year - a reminder that my birthday is also a holiday."

"Alberto, I thought you would understand me."

"I understand you, Father, but you don't understand me."

Alberto sighed, "My birthday is on Valentine's Day."

Alberto was wrong; his father knew his birthday and on Valentine's Day, his godfather laid a bouquet of flowers on his grave.

"I wanted to help, I wanted to intervene and make changes; but you disagreed. You wanted me to stay away from the family business. But you didn't realize that Gotham City has changed, and times have changed. If you don't agree, I have to do it myself. Otherwise, the law-abiding gangs are like a precision-operated machine. If some unruly lunatic breaks one gear, the rest will stop working."

"If there's anything in this world that makes me happy, Dad, it's the dream on St. Patrick's Day. I pretended to be someone in a dream, and you pretended to be someone who couldn't wake up. There was no family, no fighting, just my father and me. I was very happy that day."

"You love me very much, and that's why, father." He sighed deeply, "I want to help you get rid of the Maroni family, in my own way."

"Gotham doesn't need any more gangsters, and I'm proof of that. Look at me, Father, as the Festival Killer I'm more powerful than all of them combined."

“That’s why the Alberto of the past died, and I of the present am the festival killer.”

(End of this chapter)