Of course, expecting all of Gotham to fall in line under the Don was impossible.
The city never lacked hotheads.
And right now, the worst of them was Sal Maroni.
Maroni wasn't just ambitious—his ego wore a last name.
In Gotham, not every gang gets to be "The Maroni."
Only the Falcones did it first. Then the Twelve Families. Everyone else? They get nicknames: The Ravens, The Hyenas, The Loco Crew.
But if you name your outfit after yourself?
That's not branding.
It's a declaration of war.
And Maroni had been at war since day one.
After swallowing the Red Ravens whole—and crushing a rival crew for good measure—he stood unchallenged on his stretch of East Side.
Naturally, he wanted more.
Especially now.
Falcone was aging. Evans, the heir, was smart—but soft. No fangs. No instinct for blood.
The two bartenders killed by the Metropolis crew? They worked at bars.
Evans was trying to "clean up." Reform. Modernize.
Maroni smelled weakness.
Young Falcone wanted stability without ruthlessness. He wanted change, but didn't know how to break bones to get it.
Perfect moment to strike.
He figured the Don wouldn't go all-out chasing the outsiders. Losing face stung, sure. But succession was coming. Split your focus now, and the whole empire cracks.
Falcone wouldn't risk it.
So Maroni planned to stir the pot. Maybe even fake an attack on another Falcone operation—make it look like the Metropolis crew was escalating. Shake the foundation.
Then Schiller "got injured."
And suddenly, every gang in Gotham went full bloodhound.
Maroni froze.
He'd counted on distraction—not total mobilization.
If he moved now, would the Don turn on him like a cornered wolf?
He wanted to nibble at the edges.
Not to fight a war.
But if he didn't move?
He'd already made moves.
Hidden alliances.
Quiet takeovers.
If the storm passed and he hadn't locked anything down, the Don would come for him with receipts.
He was stuck.
Then—out of nowhere—the leader of the Metropolis crew showed up at his door.
They were desperate.
Mercenaries. Terrorists. Whatever you called them, they'd spent years as a kill-for-hire unit in the Middle East. Came to the East Coast for one job—then took another from Metropolis.
Paid well. Worked hard.
But Gotham?
Even Satan checks his weapons at the border.
They'd been hunted block by block. Beaten bloody.
Docks locked. No escape.
So they did the only thing left.
Find the enemy of their enemy.
Even Gordon knew Maroni was testing the Don.
These guys weren't stupid.
They offered a deal:
Get us out.
Before we leave, we'll solve a problem for you.
Maroni hesitated.
Then thought:
Anyone who's survived this long in a citywide manhunt has skills.
And skills could be useful.
He wouldn't send them after the Don.
Stupid. Pointless.
They wouldn't do it anyway.
No.
He aimed lower.
At the police.
Falcone's new system was printing money.
Cops arrest. Judges convict. Arkham houses. Profit rolls in.
Break that chain, and the whole machine stalls.
Schiller was protected because he couldn't fight back.
But the cops?
Armed to the teeth.
Tough.
Self-sufficient.
Falcone ignored them.
Big mistake.
Maroni picked his target.
James Gordon.
He'd helped Gordon rise.
Pushed him into Victor's chair.
Didn't care why.
Gotham cops all had strings.
Even the guy who brought coffee had a crew behind him.
So Maroni figured:
I put you here.
I can pull you over.
Flip him.
Or make him flip.
With a mercenary team waiting in the wings, persuasion came in two flavors:
Talk.
Or trauma.
—
Meanwhile, Gordon was happy.
Barbara was finally in Gotham.
They'd met in Chicago—a trainee cop and law intern. Worked a case together. Fell in love. Got engaged.
Then he moved.
She stayed.
Years of calls. Missed birthdays. Promises to try again someday.
Now?
Money was good.
They could start.
That night, Gordon came home.
The smell of lamb ribs filled the hall.
Barbara stepped out, wiping her hands.
"What are you making?" he asked, shrugging off his coat. "Smells amazing."
"My favorite," she said. "Yours too."
He kissed her cheek. Followed her to the table.
"I talked to the landlord in Pelican Estates," he said. "We'll see the place tomorrow. If it's good, we move in two weeks."
"That's wonderful," Barbara said. "I've never lived somewhere nice. Does it have a nursery? I want a daughter. My little princess."
"Me too," Gordon said.
He smiled.
"I want her to learn dance. You always wanted that."
"If I had," he teased, "you might never have met me."
"She should do what she wants," Barbara said. "Dance. Paint. Be a lawyer."
"Oh, please," she added. "Law is exhausting. I don't want that for her. I want her life to be easy."
"Dance isn't easy," Gordon said. "You only want it because you never did it. I've seen those Gotham University dancers—stretching till they cry. It's a young person's game. One injury, and it's over."
"You're stressing me out," Barbara said softly. "What if she struggles? What do we do?"
"Have faith," he said. "And let her choose."
"Even if she wants to be a cop? Like you?"
Gordon looked down.
"Don't say it like that."
"I know why you do it," she said. "Chicago. A cop saved your mom. You wanted to be that kind of hero."
"But this job… It's dangerous. We could go back home. Live quietly. Be safe."
He sighed.
She was right.
With what he made now, they could buy a house in Arizona.
He could be a town deputy.
She could consult.
Peace. Quiet. Sun.
But even knowing Gotham was hell…
He couldn't leave.
Because if the police won't stand where it's most dangerous,
What's the point?
📝 FOOTNOTE
The Gotham Real Estate Board has issued a new disclosure form: "All listings must now include: 'May contain gunfire, rooftop chases, or spontaneous mob wars. Nursery not guaranteed.' Also, no open houses on Tuesdays—too many funerals." :
Somewhere in Themyscira, Diana Prince reads a classified ad from Pelican Estates.
She tilts her head.
Then writes in the margin:
"'Safe neighborhood'? In Gotham? Even Hades has better zoning laws."
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