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Chapter 3 - Chapter 2: You Smoke Nephew?

I wake up in a sweat, chest heaving. A nightmare?

I don't know.

There's this feeling, like something huge just happened. Something that should have shaken the world. But no matter how hard I focus, I can't remember what it was. It's like trying to recall a dream with a gun to your head. The more I chase it, the faster it fades.

I sit there, still as stone, clinging to that invisible thread.

And then—gone. Just like that.

I open my eyes and sigh. Darkness greets me, silent and unfamiliar. The alarm clock glowing red on the desk reads 2:03 AM.

So… this is my new room. My new life. Still feels like a hallucination.

But I'm not crammed into a closet-sized room with five other orphans, fighting over the corner that doesn't leak. So yeah, guess it's real. A mob family boss, my uncle, showed up out of nowhere and decided I'm his new heir. No warning. No prep. Just bam, welcome to Gotham's underworld, kid.

When I asked for more details, he just smiled and said, "Long day. Tomorrow."

That's when he brought us "home."

Small place. Two bedrooms, one bath. Third floor of an old brick building in Little Italy. The kind of place with peeling wallpaper and creaky floors that never stop tattling on you. Not exactly what you'd expect from a Don.

I wanted to ask questions the second I saw it. What kind of mob family lives in an apartment complex? Maybe we own the whole building? Maybe the entire block? Doesn't feel like it.

I need air.

I kick the blanket off and tiptoe toward the door, moving like a ninja, or at least trying to. But the second I take one step outside—

CREEAAAK.

The floorboards scream like I just stepped on a cat.

I stare down at the floor in betrayal. Seriously? This is the loudest plank in the entire damn city.

Deep breath. Ignore it. Ignore the creaks. Go fast enough that they don't multiply, slow enough that you don't trip. Just keep moving.

I finally reach the front door, hand on the knob, holding my breath. I glance back down the hallway. No sound. No footsteps. No Tommy yelling.

Good.

I step outside.

Not into the Gotham streets though, I'm not that suicidal. Just onto the landing. The building has those metal stairs that zigzag down like fire escapes. From here, you can look out over the neighborhood.

Even at 2AM, Gotham doesn't sleep. Never has. Probably never will.

Neon lights flicker in puddles below. Somewhere far off, a siren wails, blending into the hum of the city like background music. I watch headlights slice through the dark, one by one, like lazy fireflies dragging tail lights behind them. Gotham's always alive but never warm.

What am I doing?

By now, I'm not even worried about Tommy harvesting my organs or anything. If he was going to off me, he's had plenty of chances. Still, I don't get it. Is he really my uncle? What does that even mean? And even if he is, why me?

I'm supposed to lead a crime family now. These guys are killers, smugglers, extortionists. Professionals.

Me? My greatest heist was swiping two bags of chips from a gas station while the clerk was in the back. I'm not a boss. I'm a barely-functioning teenager who doesn't even know how to tie a tie.

What if we traffic people? What if we move guns? What if I'm suddenly responsible for someone's murder because I said "yes" to something I didn't understand?

Am I in a gang of monsters?

And even if I am… what choice do I have?

Go back to the streets? Starve to death? Maybe get shanked for a coat? Return to the orphanage?

No. GCPD wouldn't help either. Gotham's cops are a punchline. May as well walk into Arkham and ask to room with a lunatic. At least there I'd get three meals and a bed.

I hang my head, thoughts swirling.

I'm screwed.

And that's when I hear it, the soft squeak of a door opening behind me.

Footsteps.

Light ones, but certain. Measured.

Tommy.

I don't even look up. I just wait. If he's gonna yell, let him. If he's mad I snuck out, whatever. I don't have the energy to care.

He doesn't say anything. Just walks over and lowers himself beside me on the stairs. There's a long silence, then the sharp click of a lighter, a glow, and a drag.

A moment later, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I glance up. He's holding a box of cigarettes toward me.

"You smoke, nephew?" he asks, casual as anything.

I blink at him. Is this real? Is he offering me a smoke like we're two tired old men watching the world go by?

"I'm sixteen," I say, one eyebrow raised.

He raises his right back at me like, Yeah? And?

He's hard to read. Everything about him is half-smile, half-shadow. Without the fedora, I can see his hairline's starting to recede, but there's still a healthy amount left. He's got that messy Italian hair that somehow looks better when it's unkempt. His eyes, our eyes, are brown, but there's this glint to them. Like someone lit an fire behind his pupils and forgot to put it out.

He looks tired. Not just lack-of-sleep tired. Soul tired.

I sigh. Fuck it.

I pull one from the box and hold it out. He doesn't hesitate—cups the end with his hand and lights it. The flame flickers between us.

I take a drag.

And immediately start coughing like I've been tear-gassed.

He laughs. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just... amused.

My face burns red, but I'm not letting this thing beat me. I take another puff, smaller this time, and this one I hold in without dying.

"Quick learner," he says. "As expected from my nephew."

We sit in silence for a bit. Just smoke and city noise.

Then he speaks again.

"So. What's on your mind, kid? Couldn't sleep?"

I hesitate. I don't want to say anything. But I need to.

"I know you said you'd answer my questions later, Uncle," I start, "but I can't hold out much longer. I need to know what we do. What I'm supposed to do. Why we live in a damn apartment if you were the Don before I came along. And why the hell you're okay handing the reins to a kid who's never even been in a fistfight."

He doesn't answer right away.

Just takes another long drag from his cigarette. His eyes scan the skyline, like the answers might be hiding out there in the windows and alleyways.

"You're not wrong to ask," he finally says. "And you're not wrong to doubt me."

He flicks ash over the edge of the railing.

"This building? It was the family's safehouse back in the old days. Before Falcone. Before Maroni. We had power once. Real power. But power makes you soft. Greedy. Predictable. So I stepped down. Took the family underground. Literally and figuratively. Safer that way."

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