American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 162 Dio: But I refuse! The Emperor said: You rotten wood, how dare you play chess with a true dragon?
The private room was tidy and orderly, with no unnecessary clutter.

Dior leaned back on a large single sofa, not even getting up to greet the approaching guest, but casually swirling the purplish-red liquid in his glass.

quickly
Mario Falcone was then led in by a waiter.

He was dressed in an expensive, custom-made suit, trying to maintain the air of a Falcone family heir, but his dark circles and the barely concealed anxiety in his eyes betrayed him.

As is customary, two burly, wary-looking bodyguards followed behind him.

Forcing a formulaic smile, Mario extended his hand. "Mr. King? I've heard so much about you. I am Mario Falcone."

However, Dio seemed too lazy to shake his hand, and didn't even turn his gaze to him, only glancing indifferently at the two bodyguards behind him.

He said in a calm, emotionless voice:
"Do members of the Falcone family need to bring two guard dogs when they enter? Or do you feel unsafe in my territory?"

This was undoubtedly a sharp warning.

Mario's smile froze on his face, and he awkwardly withdrew his hand.

He hesitated for a moment, then finally waved to the two bodyguards behind him, who retreated hesitantly into the hallway outside. He then took a deep breath and decided to cut to the chase:

“Mr. Dior. I am here on behalf of the Falcone family.”

"."

“Representative? A family being torn apart by both metropolitan financial giants and local hyenas—who can truly represent it now? You? Your father? Or your aunt in Chicago, who's watching with predatory eyes?”

What the hell is wrong with this guy?

Upon hearing this, Mario's face instantly turned ashen.

This is even more troublesome than Coppa Italia.
No wonder that guy made me contact his king directly; he just wanted to see me get humiliated.

But it must be said that Dior's words were indeed precise and direct. It was as if he were one of their own, knowing everything about his family's affairs.

Damn Copeport
Just how much intelligence did they secretly provide?!
“Alright, since that’s the case, I’ll get straight to the point.” Mario suppressed his anger, trying to regain the initiative. “Mr. Dior, I’m a businessman, and I like to be straightforward. You’re right, there are indeed some… dissenting voices within the family right now.”

“And outside there are those hyenas, Maroni, and others, even you, all waiting to devour us.”

He stepped forward, trying to show his sincerity:

“I know you’ve partnered with that freak Cobblepot. But what can he give you? A nightclub? Listen, we can give you much more. Real power, the underground throne of Gotham! As long as you… and the friend behind you are willing to stand with the Falcone family.”

“We can join forces and clear all obstacles. Once it’s done, the Iceberg Club? That’ll just be the most insignificant toy on your table.”

He painted an enticing picture.

This finally made Dior look up at him.

Although there was no emotion in those scarlet eyes, only a hint of mockery:
"Sounds interesting."

"Use my power to shed blood for your Falcone family's internal strife, to help you stabilize that sinking ship? And quite generously at that. Use your empire as a check to exchange for my power and resources to confront an enemy head-on..."

“Yes. It’s a win-win situation! We get stability, and you get…” Mario said somewhat eagerly.

But Dior shook the wine glass in his hand, interrupting him.

He then walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, casting a long shadow under the light, as if enveloping the entire room in his aura.

He looked down at the brightly lit night view of Gotham City below.

Looking at those flashing neon lights is like witnessing the city's undying desires pulsating.

"It looks tempting, Mr. Mario, but..."

He said softly, "I refuse."

Mario froze, instinctively loosening his tie, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

"……what?"

Dio put down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly, a simple movement that made Mario unconsciously take a half step back.

“I said, I refuse. The thing I hate most about Dio is being treated as a pawn on their chessboard, especially... a self-righteous piece of trash like you.”

"What do you mean by this?!" Mario's voice suddenly rose, but he quickly suppressed it, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists. "This is Falcone giving you an opportunity!"

"An opportunity? But Luther seems to be giving me one too."

Dior spoke casually and effortlessly.

"?!"

I heard those two words.

Mario's face turned deathly pale instantly. He managed to ask, "How did you know that Luther really contacted you?"

I know far more than you can imagine.

“I know that Lionel Luther’s venture capital arm is poaching the core of your family business with three times the salary.”

“I know his legal team is suing all your legitimate businesses under the guise of ‘antitrust’ and ‘commercial fraud’, keeping you busy dealing with court summons.”

"I also know that the batch of 'artworks' you tried to send to Southeast Asia was inexplicably detained by customs, and the deputy commissioner of Gotham Customs in charge of this matter was put in place by Luther."

Mario looked grim.
Dior was right.

These attacks from the Metropolitan were precise, ruthless, and perfectly legal, yet they were a million times more difficult to deal with than the Maroney family's gunmen.

They drained part of the Falcone family's bloodline.
Money and politics.

"That's why I've come to you! Mr. Dio! Cobblestone... We need friends! If only you could help us stabilize the situation, hold off Luther's offensive, and give us some breathing room within Gotham..."

"All you need to do is step in and solve this little problem for us."

He paused, then almost gritted his teeth as he added:

"Respected Mr. Golden Phantom."

"."

Who exactly spread this nickname?

Dior was somewhat annoyed, but his face remained expressionless. After a moment of silence, he spoke softly:
"A crumbling empire. And an enemy I currently have no interest in, who possesses virtually unlimited resources and unconventional methods..."

still is
My father's good friend.

Dio added in his mind, then said, "Do I need to say more about who to choose, Mr. Mario?"

"Why."

Mario took a deep breath, his tone no longer urgent, but filled with deep confusion:

"Are you just going to stand by and watch that madman devour everything? Once he's eaten us up, Cobblestone will be next, and then you will be next."

Upon hearing this, Dior sneered and slowly stood up.

His shadow stretched long in the dim light.

"madness."

"First, Lionel Luthor's goal has never been Gotham City. He wants to drain you dry to complete his more 'greater' plans. He has no interest in becoming the 'Godfather of Gotham'."

"Second, who do you think I am? A thug who guards your territory? You've got the order wrong, Mario."

“Now, it is your Falcone family that needs to buy the right to survive from me.”

He walked up to Mario, and the invisible pressure made the latter almost suffocate.

"As far as I know, your three properties in the Diamond District have been frozen due to Luther's lawsuit and will soon be auctioned off by the bank."

"I will have my people bid at the reserve price. This is not a negotiation, it's a notification."

“Your ‘priority berthing right’ at the port will be transferred to the Iceberg Club’s agent starting next week. We will take a 15% management fee.”

"Finally, you will choose a family member and immediately and unconditionally transfer her family shares and trust fund to my name. I will then act as her... 'trustee'."

“Send her to the iceberg again.”

These terms are more ruthless than robbery; they are like precisely carving the fattest flesh from the corpse of the Falcone family.

And
They want us, Falcone, to send people as hostages?!
Mario's eyes widened in fury; this was even more humiliating than killing him.

"This is impossible!"

“Possibly.” Dio’s tone was icy cold. “Because if you don’t accept, I guarantee Lionel Luther will receive an anonymous email within 24 hours containing a detailed list of all the secret accounts of some members of your family over the past three years, along with the keys to Switzerland.”

"Do you think his legal team acted faster, or the FBI?"

Mario was completely paralyzed.

He realized that the boy before him was even more terrifying than Lionel Luther.

Luther bombards the outside with the artillery of capital.

And this guy was already standing with a scalpel at their heart.

He not only knew the details of the external attack, but also possessed some secrets from the Falcone family.

damn it.
He even suspected that the other party might be one of his father's illegitimate sons, the Count of Monte Cristo, who had come specifically to seek revenge.

Back in his seat, Dior acted as if he had only completed a trivial transaction.

“Sign this asset transfer agreement, and you'll get my ‘neutrality.’ At the very least, I won’t touch you, and I can help you attack Maroney. As for how to deal with Luther… that’s your own business.”

“Remember, this is not an alliance. This is a tribute. It is the price you pay for buying a respite for yourself and your family.”

"The last one. No way."

Mario Falcone, the former prince, now seemed to have lost his backbone. He took a deep breath and said, "That's the family's dignity." "...Okay."

Dior was not surprised.

For him, this was just a casual request, a way to put pressure on Mario.

If the other party agrees, he will have to reassess the authenticity of the information he obtained.

Mario's hand trembled as he picked up the pen. The sound of the pen nib scraping across the paper was particularly jarring in the silence.
The terms of that agreement were like cold chains, binding the family's former glory.

Before leaving.

He glanced at the wine in Dior's hand.

That wasn't ordinary wine; it was a deep, purplish-red, as if drawn from the blood of their family.

He left dejectedly, coming and going in a hurry.

The sound of footsteps faded into the distance in the corridor.

Close the door.

Dior picked up the agreement and casually tossed it into the drawer.

He doesn't care whether these terms can be fully implemented; it's just a way of asserting sovereignty and exerting dominance.

The old regime in Gotham is bleeding.

He will be the most patient vulture, and the most ruthless new king.

He picked up his glass.

"Respect...Gotham."

The liquid in the glass was a purplish-red, like blood about to be spilled under the night sky of Gotham.

"Rocoman, come here."

"boom--"

The door opened, but the person who responded was not the respectful manager.

Instead, a lazy, amused voice came from the shadows by the door.

Accompanied by the soft tapping of high heels on the floor: "Oh? Are you calling me, Your Majesty?"

Dio looked up and saw Selena leaning against the doorframe, a sly smile on her face, as elegant and dangerous as a cat.

She was still wearing that tight-fitting black dress, the neckline adorned with tiny sequins, which complemented her green eyes.

But Dio frowned speechlessly, a hint of impatience flashing in his red eyes: "Where's Rocman?"

"I locked him inside."

Selena chuckled and glided into the room with a light step. "Stay with Clark so he doesn't disturb your 'important negotiations'."

She blinked, her tone teasing.

Dior ignored her, took another sip of grape juice, and turned his gaze back to the wine glass, as if savoring some kind of secret victory.

Upon seeing this, Selena covered her mouth and laughed, lowering her voice to a whisper of intimacy:

“That guy definitely didn’t know you were drinking grape juice. He probably thought it was some kind of fine red wine, squeezed from the Falcone family—oh wait, in a way, that’s not wrong either?”

She tilted her head, her green eyes flashing with amusement.

Dior gave her a disapproving look: "Stop talking nonsense. What's the situation?"

“Maroni’s men are stirring again. They’re like sharks smelling blood, probing around the dock area.” Selena leaned closer, her voice tinged with seriousness. “But are you really going to help Falcone deal with Maroni?”

"This isn't like you. Shouldn't you prefer watching dogs fight?"

"That's considered taking sides in the end!"

Dior swirled the wine in his glass, watching the grape juice form tiny swirls within.
“I’m not helping anyone. I’m just making things more chaotic so I can profit from it. Gotham needs a purge, and the collapse of the old regime will bring a new order—a more efficient and controllable one.” He paused, his tone calm. “Maroni is too greedy, Falcone is too corrupt. Let them wear each other down, and I’ll rebuild from the ruins.”

"And you will be the new king?"

Selena raised an eyebrow, her smile carrying a hint of probing.

“I always have,” Dio said calmly, “but right now I’m just making sure no one can threaten my territory. Any moves from Copport?”

"Have we planted our people inside?"

“Cobo? That little penguin is so scared he's retreated to his underground nest. I heard they've increased security overnight.” Selena shrugged. “But he did secretly send a message telling you not to test him.”

“We’ve always been the most reliable partners!” she said, beaming. “I never expected him to say that.”

Dior gave a soft hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

He then put down his wine glass and looked out the window.

The night view of Gotham resembles a black ribbon spread out, dotted with scattered lights.

Selena looked at his tall, straight back, a hint of barely concealed excitement flashing in her eyes.

She had to admit that watching Dior suppress the arrogant Falcone made her heart race, and even gave her a sense of vengeful pleasure.

After all, that's Falcone.
The Roman Empire that once shrouded Gotham, a symbol of its former invincibility, and perhaps even its own...

She subconsciously touched the cat-shaped necklace around her neck.

"Let's go see if my brother has finished eating."

Dior's voice broke the silence, still indifferent.
-
"Mr. Rochman."

“You said, Mr. Clark.”

After finishing most of the donut Rocman had served him and taking a big gulp of grape juice, Clark's gaze swept over the extremely luxurious yet secluded private room once again.

His exceptional hearing inevitably picked up some vague, excited murmurs and abnormally loud laughter coming from a private room downstairs, causing his brow, which had just relaxed slightly, to furrow again.

He put down his cup, turned to Rocman, his blue eyes filled with undisguised confusion and a hint of seriousness: "I have something else to ask."

"?"

"You say?"

"here……"

Clark lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly, as if discussing something serious, "...Is it 'poisonous'?"

His pronunciation was a little awkward, and he seemed unsure about the word.

But the worry in his eyes was genuine.

"It's that kind of thing that makes you lose yourself, that ruins your family and life. I saw on the news that these kinds of places sometimes..."

Which one are you talking about?

Rocman blinked, but said proudly:

"To use Mr. Dior's words, it would be—"

"Look at everything here, Roccoman. Crystal chandeliers, Persian carpets, Romanée-Conti from 1945, and those people outside who are willing to spend a fortune just to see me. What's needed here is style, prestige, unseen power, and the ability to launder all capital!"

"That kind of filth, more vulgar than frog pee, that only attracts cops and festering sores, only tarnishes my floor, lowers the entire club's standards, and is an insult to my taste and ability!" Rocman scoffed. "Only the lowest, most despicable junkyards would make money off that kind of stuff. And me, Dior, do I need it?"

"Even in the future, such a thing will not be allowed to exist in the entire Gotham City!"

Clark was somewhat bewildered by this long string of rebuttals, imbued with a strong Dior-esque arrogance, and he nodded blankly:

"Oh...so, no, right?"

He grasped the core answer, but clearly didn't quite understand Dior's long-winded discourse on "style" and "taste."

"Yes, not at all."

"."

"Then why did you say so much?"

"Ahem. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision."

"Okay, thank you, Mr. Rochman."

Clark got the answer he wanted, and although the process was a bit convoluted, he was much more relieved.

He didn't press the matter further.

He picked up the giant donut again and began to eat it earnestly, as if he had just checked the food safety of the place.

"Whoo~"

Relieved, Rocman turned around and reached for the grape juice.

but.
"Rocoman"

"You've imitated it quite well."

A voice said softly.

"Gudong."

Roccoman was drenched in sweat.

(End of this chapter)