American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 135 God said: I give you life.

A look of disappointment crossed Elana's eyes.

A barely perceptible hint of inquiry flashed in Dior's eyes.

Elana Falcone.

Miss Canary

She is undoubtedly beautiful.

This is a flawless beauty, meticulously nurtured by enormous wealth and top-tier resources.

Her fair skin was covered with delicate and expensive blush, and her lips were painted with the most popular berry color at the moment.

Her lips naturally curve slightly upwards, giving her a touch of languid charm even when she's not smiling.

Her chestnut-brown long hair was styled into elegant waves, with each strand obediently falling over her shoulders.

Her earlobes were adorned with small but priceless diamond stud earrings, and a delicate platinum pendant rested perfectly in the center of her exquisite collarbone.

It's gorgeous, exquisite, and expensive.

Can.
This meant nothing to Dior.

He had no interest in being anyone's savior or elopement partner, but the Falcone family seemed to be in trouble, and this news, delivered personally by the panicked yet still beautiful eldest daughter, was undoubtedly a piece of extremely valuable information.

"I sneaked out."

"We're out of time."

What exactly is this panic?
What could possibly make a pampered young lady like Falcone, who is used to a life of luxury and considers Gotham her own backyard, abandon everything and try to run away like a fugitive?
This may mean that the Falcone family is bound to be unstable, attracting a pack of wolves.

Did the family leader fall?
Or did a fierce internal power struggle erupt?

Even Elana, who was on the outermost edge and only knew how to enjoy herself, felt an imminent threat.

After all, even Cobblestone, that penguin, despite his wariness of Falcone's attitude, couldn't suppress his greed and was itching to pounce and get a share. That's why he was needed as a sharp and seemingly unrelated 'knife' to try and penetrate Falcone's heart through Elana's vulnerability.

He didn't push her away roughly.

Instead, Dior used her cold, trembling wrist as a guide, leading her, or rather controlling her, to the luxurious, soft leather sofa next to him and making her sit down.

Then, he poured her a glass of pure ice water and handed it to her.

The voice was calm, yet lacked coldness; it seemed to have been infused with a gentle warmth that made one feel secure.

"Calm down, Elana. Just saying you're going to Italy won't solve anything. Tell me, what really happened?"

His calmness seemed to have infected Elana.

The beautiful, wealthy woman held the glass of ice water tightly in both hands; the inexplicable cold seemed to clear her chaotic thoughts slightly. She remained silent for a moment, head bowed, struggling with whether to expose her most vulnerable side to this man.

But in the end, perhaps the desire to escape overwhelmed everything.

Elana took a deep breath, her voice tinged with bitterness, and slowly began to speak:
“I am Falcone’s youngest daughter.”

She stated this fact, which everyone in Gotham knew, but there was no glory in her tone, only a deep sense of shackles.

“But also the most insignificant one.” She looked up, her eyes filled with self-mockery. “From the moment I was born, I was ‘protectively’ isolated by my father from the family business. He gave me a comfortable life and the superficial prestige that the Falcone name brought, but he never let me touch anything at the core.”

"Perhaps in his eyes, my greatest value is that of a harmless vase."

Elana paused, her voice growing even more sorrowful:
"Even my marriage was arranged by him casually. A sickly man from a declining little family in Sicily who was about to die."

“My father’s goal was simple: that guy wouldn’t live much longer. Once he died, I could ‘legitimately’ go to Italy to inherit his pitiful fortune.”

"Then I'll stay there forever, with that little money, and live out the rest of my life peacefully in Italy. That's the life he planned for me."

"And now, the time is almost up."

Elana's voice trembled, fear gripping her:
"That good-for-nothing lying in the hospital bed. He's dying. My father's men are watching me even tighter. They've locked me in the house and won't let me go anywhere, like guarding a piece of cargo about to be shipped out!"

"I've had enough! I'm really fed up with this life of being told what to do! I want my life to have meaning!"

She grabbed Dio's arm suddenly, her eyes gleaming with urgency again: "So now! While Father seems to be in a lot of trouble lately, the family is in chaos, and my guards have let their guards off guard, I finally managed to escape!"

"Diego, you are different! You are unlike anyone I know! You are strong, calm, and fearless!"

She looked at Dior as if he were the only light in the darkness:

"Only you can help me! Take me away, away from Gotham, away from Falcone! We can start over! I have a way to get money, lots of money! Enough for us."

Dior listened quietly, his face remaining calm.

Okay, I guessed half right.

Elana wasn't fleeing to escape being chased.

She was simply yearning for freedom.

A kind of elusive freedom.

But the Falcone family did indeed encounter trouble, putting their head under pressure so much that he even had to hastily deal with some things, such as getting rid of this insignificant little daughter as soon as possible to avoid any further complications.

Looking at Elana, who was lost in sorrow, Dio showed not a trace of pity.

Instead, a cold, condescending expression flashed in his eyes, as if he were scrutinizing how much value could still be extracted from an object.

Dior chuckled, breaking the suffocating silence.

"escape?"

His voice carried undisguised sarcasm:
"You think your father's reach will be cut off once you've fled to sunny Tuscany, Madame Falcone?"

He strode up to her, his massive figure casting a shadow that almost completely enveloped her.
"Or do you think it's a name that betrays the family and flees in panic?"

"In the eyes of Italian bankers and the Mafia, can it still be as useful as Falcone was in the past, allowing you to easily withdraw the 'lots of money' you imagine?"

These words were like a cold dagger, piercing Elana's last shred of illusion.

This made the young lady's face even paler.

Dior walked past her and leisurely went to the ebony wine cabinet in the corner of the room, took out two crystal glasses, and poured two glasses of amber-colored whiskey.

"Qiang——!"

The ice cubes were picked up and dropped into the glass.

It produced a crisp, cold clanging sound, which was particularly clear in the silent room.

Dior turned around and handed her one of the glasses.

It wasn't out of concern, but rather more like a ritual.

This marks the end of the tedious wailing and the beginning of realistic negotiations.

Elana obediently put down the ice water and took the glass of strong liquor.

My fingers were still icy cold, and I would even flinch when I touched Dior's warm fingers.

She held the glass with both hands, not drinking immediately, but lowering her head, her gaze unfocused on the amber liquid swirling in the glass and the slowly melting ice.

Thick eyelashes drooped, casting a small, fragile shadow.

Then, it seemed as if she had finally made up her mind, or perhaps she was driven by some kind of emotion.

Suddenly, he raised his wrist, brought the rim of the cup close to his lips, and almost hastily gulped down a large mouthful.

"cough cough"

The burning sensation from drinking whiskey straight far exceeded Elana's expectations.

It made her cough uncontrollably, and tears welled up in her eyes instantly, even ruining her carefully applied eye makeup.

She turned her head away awkwardly, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, her slender shoulders trembling from coughing.

That sip of wine didn't seem to calm her down; instead, it was like a fire that burned away her last pretense, exposing her emotions more nakedly.

Look at yourself now.

"Fear, grief, and a longing for compassion."

Dior's voice was steady and devoid of any emotion:
“These are the most useless emotions in the world. They only make you stupid, pathetic.” His gaze swept over Elana’s haggard face. “...Ugly.”

These words were like a whip, lashing hard at Elana's already fragile nerves.

She suddenly looked up, her eyes filled with shock, humiliation, and a hint of confusion.

The throat, ravaged by alcohol and emotions, seemed to have lost its usual softness.

When she spoke again, her voice betrayed a soft, tearful tone tinged with a slight sob, a far cry from her usual deliberately affected, alluring, and languid manner.

"You...how could you..."

Her words came out in fits and starts, leaving only a soft, helpless tremor.

Dior didn't care about her reaction.

After all, what he needed was never this woman's emotions, but her value.

“You came here rashly, exposing your greatest weakness—panic and despair—to me without reservation.” Dio took a sip of his strong liquor, put down his glass, his voice unreadable. “However, considering our past relatively pleasant relationship, I’ll give you a piece of advice for free.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance.

His voice was low, carrying a deadly allure.

"Put away this pathetic state of yours. Go back to your gilded cage and play the role of the carefree, clueless Lady Falcone."

His words were like commands, clear and forceful:
"Look carefully with your eyes, listen carefully with your ears. Use all the resources at your disposal to find out what is really happening to your family."

"Who is your father's truly formidable enemy now? And within the family, who is secretly plotting, coveting your crumbling throne?"

“Then…” Dio paused deliberately, completely drawing Elana’s attention.

Then, looking into her involuntarily widened eyes, he slowly uttered his final words, as if the devil were whispering:

"Wait until you get something truly valuable that you can use as leverage."

"Come find me again."

“Perhaps by then,” Dio said, a faint smile playing on his lips, “we will find a more interesting and effective solution than the foolish ‘escape’.”

"It sets you free, excites you, and helps you find meaning in life."

"Don't you yearn to be a queen who breaks free from her shackles? I will give you the chance."

After saying that, Dior stopped looking at her.

He simply turned around, picked up his glass, and walked back to the window, leaving Gotham's dazzling yet sinister night view for her to ponder.

“I understand, Mr. Diego.”

Elana murmured, her voice tinged with a hint of daze.

They even unconsciously began using unprecedented honorifics.

"boom--"

The door opened gently and then closed again.

she left.

Dior was left standing alone by the window, exhaling a hot, spicy breath of alcohol, his handsome face furrowing almost imperceptibly.

Whoever invented this whisky, it tastes absolutely awful.

No wonder Elana coughed like that after just one breath.

but
He swirled the remaining amber liquid in his glass, the ice cubes making a soft, crackling sound.

At least things are going well.

He successfully got rid of the trouble at hand.

It also turned a desperate elopement proposal into a risky but potentially lucrative deal.

The initiative was firmly in his hands from beginning to end.

He merely casually bestowed upon the bewildered Falcone a 'mission' with a clear purpose.

Although it is a cold road leading to deeper darkness.

But for Elana, who had just realized how pale and helpless her fate truly was, this perilous path pointed out by his fingertips…

Perhaps it was the only 'way out' she could see.
-
The heavy oak door closed softly behind Elana Falcone with a muffled thud.

They remained dutifully stationed not far from the corridor.

While seemingly tidying up the wall decorations, Rocman, who was actually listening intently to what was happening in the VIP room, almost immediately turned her gaze to the young lady who had just come out.

Just one glance.

Rocman's experienced eyes, accustomed to the ups and downs of the world of romance, widened slightly.

When she entered, Miss Falcone looked flustered, but from head to toe she was exquisitely luxurious down to the last hair, like a bright and beautiful jewel just taken out of a safe.

And the one who came out now
Strands of hair clung to her slightly sweaty neck and cheeks, and her carefully applied eye makeup had smudged a bit from tears and previous wiping, leaving some ambiguous dark marks at the corners of her eyes.

The lip gloss had almost completely faded and worn away, revealing the pale skin underneath.

There was even a tiny tooth mark on her lower lip that she had unconsciously bitten herself into.

Everything about her made her look broken and disheveled.

However, what surprised Rocman the most was not his disheveled appearance.
It was her expression that was striking.

When she went in, she looked like a startled canary.

At this moment, the previous soft and helpless look in her slightly red and watery eyes had almost completely disappeared, replaced by a cold determination.

This made her no longer look like the princess who had just fled.

She didn't even glance at him.

He walked straight toward the exit, as if nothing around him mattered anymore.

Rocman also subconsciously bowed slightly, watching him leave, slightly surprised as to what had happened in just a few minutes.
Just then, the door to the VIP room behind me opened again.

Dior came out.

Rocman immediately turned around, adopting a professional and respectful expression.

But the next moment, he also keenly noticed the slight glint in Monsieur Dior's always flawless, handsome face, which held a hint of amusement.
At this moment, however, his brows were slightly furrowed, as if a trace of barely perceptible annoyance remained.

Moreover, as he approached...
A subtle, yet undeniably present, aroma of mellow whisky wafted out.

He gasped, realizing that everything had already been filled in in his mind.

The difficult heiress has an emotional breakdown, forcing the top male escort to drink with her.

This is clearly an immense ordeal!
He couldn't help but sigh inwardly, his face showing just the right amount of understanding, and he murmured with emotion:

"It's really kind of you, Mr. Diego."

Not only do they have to meet the various needs of their guests, but they also have to deal with such a thorny emotional storm, and even be forced to drink strong liquor.
Rocman felt that this job was not something an ordinary person could do.
Especially for discerning and tasteful people like Mr. Diego.

Dio glanced at him, clearly uninterested in deciphering his own interpretation, and simply gave a curt reply. He then walked off in another direction, seemingly trying to quickly dispel the smell of alcohol, or perhaps simply wanting to drink something else to wash away the unpleasant taste in his mouth.

But he had only taken a few steps toward the outside of the lounge.

Dior, however, seemed to have remembered something more important.

He stopped, turned to look at Rocman who was following closely behind, and calmly gave the order:

"Take me to the eighth floor."

"The eighth floor?"

Rocman was clearly taken aback.

The eighth floor is not a business area; usually, only Mr. Coppert's confidants and a very small number of people with special privileges can enter.

Oh ~
Now that Mr. Diego is a trusted confidant, everything is fine.

Rocman reacted very quickly; he immediately bowed and said:

"Okay, Mr. Diego. This way please."

He immediately led the way, while simultaneously making arrangements for the elevator in a low voice through the communicator under his collar.

Of course, we couldn't be idle on the way there.

Dior casually adjusted his cuffs and spoke offhand:

"Tell me about the Falcone family as you know them."

Rocman's heart skipped a beat, and he paused almost imperceptibly.

He carefully turned his head, trying to glean some clues from Dio's face, but the other's expression remained calm and unchanging.

这 是
Is this a test of my knowledge base as a future subordinate?
Rocman carefully chose his words and answered cautiously:

"The Falcone family is the 'roots' of Gotham."

"With its deep roots and influence, it permeates every aspect of the city, from the city hall to the dockworkers' union."

"It is said that even when our Iceberg Club was first established, we had to obtain some degree of 'tacit approval' from them."

He used very neutral descriptive words.

Dior listened quietly without interrupting.

Seeing this, Rocman cautiously added another sentence:
"I also know that there have been some rumors circulating recently that the Falcone family seems to have some friction with a certain force outside of Gotham."

"Ding--!"

The private elevator arrived, and the metal doors slid open silently.

Dior stepped into the elevator, and just before the doors closed, he casually uttered a sentence:
"interesting."

Then he said no more.

Only Rocman remained standing outside the elevator, watching the metal doors close.

The junior manager unconsciously let out a breath, his heart pounding wildly.

是 的
This is the real boss!

He was unconsciously screaming inside.

Ogilvy, that idiot who only knows how to bully his subordinates and fawn over his superiors, isn't even worthy of carrying Mr. Diego's shoes!

Mr. Diego is strong, calm, and a man of his word, and
They were even willing to help those low-level servants get back the money that had been withheld from them!

This combination of strength and fairness
To be honest, it instantly struck a chord with Roccoman's deepest, most primal awe and longing for power.

This is why he was determined to cling tightly to this new powerful ally.

Mr. Diego.
He is destined to be one of the club's future rulers!

(End of this chapter)