American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 269 Carmine: Quack. Now that things have come to this, let's make peace.
Falcone Estate.

It's still that oak conference room, a symbol of the core of power.

The heavy velvet curtains were tightly drawn, shutting out everything from the outside world.

Only the flickering flames in the fireplace remain, casting distorted light and shadow onto the cold, austere oil portraits of Falco's ancestors on the wall, as if they were watching the family's shame with stern eyes.

Carmine Falcone.

The Romans.

At this moment, he was no longer the shrewd and calculating Mafia godfather, but a lion that had been thoroughly enraged and was on the verge of losing control.

He slammed the report detailing the 'Red Rose Night' tragedy onto the gleaming long table, making it creak under the weight.

"Trash! A bunch of trash!"

His roar echoed in the enclosed space, causing the crystal chandelier to tremble slightly. "My son! The heir of the Falcone family!"

"To be beaten and left there like a stray dog ​​on our own turf! What a disgrace! This is a disgrace the Falcone family has never experienced in nearly a century!"

His bloodshot eyes swept over the family elders who stood silently on either side of the long table.

Everyone lowered their heads, wishing they could shrink into their expensive Italian custom-made suits, trembling and not daring to meet the eyes of the furious Godfather.

Only a cold female voice rang out, like a viper's tongue:
“Father, please calm down. At least my brother is still alive, isn’t he?” Sofia Falcone, Carmine’s daughter, leaned back lazily in her chair, her hands, painted with scarlet nail polish, tapping lightly on the armrest. “My brother… perhaps he was just too eager to restore the family’s prestige.”

"After all, there have been some... not-so-good rumors circulating outside lately, saying that our Falcone is old and its teeth are dull, and it can't even handle a few mice wearing toy masks."

She tilted her head slightly, a strand of wine-red curly hair falling across her cheek, and her red lips curved into a half-smile.

"Although the result was not satisfactory, we should still...understand this 'courage' to defend the family's honor."

"Miss!"

A slightly hurried voice interrupted her.

Alberto stood up, his face flushed.

"How could you say that! Mario is our brother! He's fighting for his family!"

"He's in the hospital now. We should be thinking about revenge, not... fighting amongst ourselves and humiliating him!"

Sofia glanced at Alberto with disdain: "My dear Alberto, put away your ridiculous arguments."

"Revenge? By whom? By you?" She reached out her other hand and elegantly took out a slender women's cigarette. "Or by those 'elite' who were routed by a bunch of lunatics wearing toy masks at the White Rose Restaurant?"

She deliberately elongated the last two words, making it extremely sarcastic.

"you……!"

Alberto was so angry he was trembling.

"enough!!"

Carmine slammed his hand on the table.

His gaze first pierced Sophia, the coldness and warning in his eyes instantly freezing the smugness on Sophia's face, and she subconsciously sat up straight.

"Sophia!"

Carmine lowered his voice, "Stop your foolish thoughts! Now is not the time for you to play power games and covet positions!"

"Falcone is bleeding! Your brother is in the hospital!"

Sofia's face paled slightly, and the fingers holding the cigarette tightened slightly, but she quickly regained her nonchalant demeanor.

She lowered her eyes slightly and stopped speaking.

Carmine took a deep breath, trying to suppress the rage that threatened to burst from his chest, but his voice still trembled slightly with anger:
"The enemy has a knife to our throats! And you..." His gaze swept over Sophia, then over the silent elders, "...are still thinking about how to profit from this pool of blood?!"

On both sides of the long oak table.

The core elders had different expressions, looking at each other as if they were performing a silent play.

Old Luca.

The most senior member of the family, who controlled part of the gray market, lowered his eyelids. He had witnessed Falcone's rise and fall over the decades and knew what internal strife meant at this time.

His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something to ease the tension, but in the end it just turned into a barely audible sigh.

Sitting diagonally opposite him was Vittorio, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes.

He, who was usually in charge of liaison between the family and certain officials, was more active, clearing his throat and breaking the suffocating silence:

"Godfather, we share your anger."

Vittorio's voice remained steady, "What happened to young master Mario is a disgrace to all of Falcone, and it must be washed away with blood! But..."

He changed the subject, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

"We must face reality."

"Black Mask...and his bunch of lunatics, they don't play by the rules, they're not afraid to die. Our traditional methods might not be very effective against them."

Sofia immediately seized on his words, sneering as she replied, "Oh? Uncle Vittorio means that we in Falcone are going to bow down to that cowardly coward? Just because his men are 'not afraid to die'?"

“Miss Sofia, that’s not what I meant.” Vittorio maintained a facade of respect, but his tone hardened. “What I meant was, before we can reclaim our glory, we must first survive!”

“The Luther Group’s commercial offensive is getting increasingly aggressive, while our business is still going strong.” He held up his fingers, counting them one by one, “The docks, the casinos, those shady deals…”

"They need stability!"

"If we have to face Black Mask's relentless and insane attacks every day, we'll collapse on our own before he even comes to wipe us out!"

Another elder statesman in charge of finances, Fabio, also spoke up, sighing, "Vittorio's words make sense."

“Last week, three of our warehouses in the port area caught fire unexpectedly, resulting in heavy losses. Yesterday, two important smuggling routes were cut off by unidentified forces.”

"Cash flow is already...very tight."

"Continued conflict will only hasten our blood loss."

Seeing this, Alberto stepped forward again at the opportune moment, his tone full of worry: "Father, uncles, perhaps... perhaps we can consider a... temporary 'ceasefire'?"

"It's not about surrendering, but about buying time so we can regroup and find out more about the enemy."

"We could even... make feigned contact to test their strengths and weaknesses and their bottom line."

"Contact? Negotiate with that guy?!" Sofia jumped to her feet, her face filled with disbelief, anger, and humiliation. "Reconcile?! Are you kidding me?!"

Although she was happy to see Mario die, that doesn't mean she's a dove.

The conversation that was taking place made her temporarily forget her schadenfreude towards Mario.

"Sit down, Sophia!"

Carmine shouted, but his anger didn't seem as intense as before.

Instead, there is a deep sense of weariness and weighing of options.

He looked around at these hawkish elders who had once advocated for resolving everything with violence; now, they were beginning to lean towards conservatism.

Are they just getting old?
No.
Their fears are real.

The Luther Group's offensive, Vittorio's reality, Fabio's ledgers, Alberto's seemingly sound advice... all were pushing him in a direction he didn't want to face.

After a long silence.
Carmine Falcone, the once-arrogant Roman.

With extreme difficulty, he managed to utter a few words:
"...Find someone...to deliver a message."

He didn't specify what message he was conveying.
But everyone present understood.
This is a signal that they are seeking peace talks.

Although this signal may only be a stopgap measure, for the Falcone family, it is in itself a disgrace, like a crown falling to the ground.

iceberg.

A low beep came from the receiver, indicating that the encrypted communication had been cut off.

Then silence fell.

Dior casually placed the oddly shaped black communicator back on the table.

It collided with the unfolded Gotham City map, producing a dull thud.

Deep within his crimson eyes was reflected the area on the map representing the Falcone family, now being relentlessly eroded by darkness.

Rocman stepped forward quietly, stood with his hands at his sides, and awaited instructions.

Dio didn't look at him; his gaze remained fixed on the map, as if talking to himself, or perhaps posing a question that had been lingering in his mind to his most loyal subordinate:

"Rocoman, do you think... fear can truly breed loyalty?"

Without the slightest hesitation, based on past experience and understanding of human nature.

Rochman gave a pragmatic answer: "Your Majesty, fear ensures obedience."

"And sustained obedience, under enough time, might... cultivate a kind of inertia similar to loyalty."

Dior slowly shook his head, a very faint smile curving his lips.

"Do not."

He rejected the answer, his voice soft, "Fear only breeds hatred and preys on pretense. True loyalty..."

"...originating from hope given in despair, from order established on ruins, from binding one's own existence completely with a grander, more irresistible will."

"That's a kind of gravity."

"Attracting all lost souls, they rush headlong toward the center of that will."

Even if it's like a moth drawn to a flame, my heart still yearns for it.

However, before Roccoman could even register a look of sudden realization, Dio's gaze shifted from that philosophically lofty realm back to the realistic texture of the map.

His tone returned to its indifference, as if the brief moment of contemplation had never occurred.

"How's Cobblestone's toy business going lately? Has our penguin friend learned enough lessons from his unfortunate vision impairment?"

His gaze swept across the area on the map representing the traditional sphere of influence of Masked Grey and Falcone, his crimson eyes gleaming with calculation.

The peace talks between Falcone and Black Mask signify a potential restoration of the balance of power in Gotham.

This is not what arms dealers want to see.

Chaos is the best catalyst for profits.

"Let Cobblestone know about this."

Dior spoke, his voice as flat as a string, "But we can't be the ones to tell him."

He raised his eyelids and looked at Roccoman.

“You have to make him feel that he himself is ‘sharp’ enough, with the sense of smell of a hunting dog, to ‘accidentally’ capture this crucial information that could affect the course of his business from some inconspicuous, overlooked gap.”

Dior's tone held a hint of amusement: "We need to convince that suspicious 'penguin' that this is the result of his own investigative abilities."

A look of surprise crossed Rocman's face, but he quickly suppressed it and bowed his head deeply: "Yes, Your Majesty. I will... arrange a suitable 'gap'."

Dio nodded slightly, acknowledging Roccoman's comprehension ability.

Then, as if remembering something else, he ordered, "Bring 'Scandal' over."

Roccoman silently withdrew.

A moment later, Skandar Savage.

He then walked steadily and silently into the top-floor office.

She was still wearing that black combat suit that accentuated her perfect figure while also facilitating any extreme action, her eyes as indifferent as a frozen lake.

But she just stood there quietly.

Its very presence is like a deadly weapon drawn from its sheath.

Dior did not respond to her immediately.

At this moment, he was leaning over his desk, holding a rather old-fashioned quill pen, writing something on a piece of fine paper.

The pen tip glides across the paper, making a soft, rustling sound.

It was especially clear in the quiet room.

Skander did not make a sound to disturb them, but simply stood quietly in the center of the room.

Her gaze swept past Dior's focused writing figure, across the Gotham nightscape illuminated by neon lights and sin outside the floor-to-ceiling window, her eyes devoid of any emotional fluctuation, neither curiosity nor impatience.

As Dio finished writing the last stroke, he gently picked up the letter, blew on the still-wet ink, then folded it in half, and then in half again, forming a neat square.

After doing all this, he turned around and looked at Skandar.

There were no extra pleasantries, not even any explanations.

Dior then handed her the folded letter directly.

"Give this to me"

His voice remained calm, yet carried a sense of entrusting a heavy responsibility: "Hand it over to the people of those five great families, Ms. Scandal."

He deliberately used the title "madam," which made him seem enigmatic.

It was as if she were being awarded a knighthood, or perhaps it was an acknowledgment of her abilities?
Skander's face remained unchanged.

She stepped forward and steadily took the light letter from his hand.

"it is good."

She nodded simply and carefully placed the letter into her inner pocket.

Then, just as he had come, he silently turned around and left the top-floor office.

The figure blended into the shadows outside the door, as if it had never been there.

As he watched the direction she disappeared in, a smile curved the corners of Dior's lips.
The seeds have been sown
Next, we await the arrival of Gotham, this fertile ground of chaos.
What interesting fruits will be born from this?

(End of this chapter)