American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 265 The War of Successors.

In the late autumn of Gotham, the bleak wind howled like the mournful cries of the dead.

It hovers around an abandoned Gothic chapel on the edge of the Upper East Side.

The stained glass has long since shattered, leaving only twisted lead frames that point like withered bones towards the gray sky.

The mottled stone wall was covered with withered vines.

The once towering spire has tilted slightly under the erosion of time, casting an ominous shadow.

The interior of the church was in a state of disrepair.

The decaying benches were leaning precariously, covered in a thick layer of dust.

The broken statue was blurry and indistinct, its empty eyes staring blankly down below.

Only a few dim rays of light, filtering through the broken dome, barely illuminated the empty space in front of the altar.

At the end of that beam of light stood a figure entirely in black.

The ebony skull mask seemed to emit a faint glow in the dim light.

In front of him, there were seven or eight men forming a loose semicircle.

Their attire varied, ranging from cheap leather jackets to ill-fitting expensive suits. The only thing they had in common was the mixture of ferocity, greed, and undisguised astonishment on their faces.

They were the last few small gang leaders who crawled out of the mountains of corpses and seas of blood after months of bloody fighting in the Upper East Side; they were survivors who had been repeatedly tempered by betrayal and violence.

"Hey! Masked man!"

A burly man with a scar on his face broke the silence, deliberately raising his voice, "You've called us all to this godforsaken place for a meeting; hopefully, it's something good!"

"that is!"

A tall, thin man next to him chimed in menacingly, “Our time is precious. Blood is being shed every day on Falcone’s territory. We don’t have time to play these kinds of silly tricks with you.”

“If we’re talking about the subsequent division of territory,” a portly leader wiped the fine sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, clearing his throat with feigned composure, “we can find a more respectable place to sit down and discuss this…”

Without warning, the man in black raised his head.

The empty eye sockets swept over everyone.

In an instant.
An invisible mental shock suddenly crashed into the minds of each leader!
"you……"

The obese leader who had tried to negotiate suddenly collapsed to his knees, his body heavy as he knelt on the ground.

The scarred, burly man instinctively reached for the pistol hidden behind his waist, but his arm froze in mid-air, trembling uncontrollably.

All arrogance and ferocity were utterly crushed before the very thought of resistance could even arise in the face of this ancient power originating from the amber-gold mask.

Their minds were blank, filled only with the most primal submission to absolute power.

Look at you all.

The voice of the man in the black mask echoed through the deathly silence of the church, like the tolling of a death knell for an old era.

"Rotten, dilapidated, chaotic..."

His voice echoed in the empty church, with a seductive rhythm, "This is the legacy Falcone left you, this is the entirety of Gotham's old order's bounty!"

"Fighting, plundering, scrambling for scraps like wild beasts."

His voice gradually rose, carrying a fanatical declaration:

"But it's okay, I'm here, kids."

Bury the past! Tear apart those hypocritical rules and loyalty!

"Put on the mask that symbolizes rebirth!"

"You will no longer be hyenas crawling in the shadow of the old world!"

"I am the Firebearer! I am the Cleaner! I will establish my own eternal order upon these ashes!"

"And all of you are the inheritors of my will!"

His words were like a spell, accompanied by an omnipresent mental pressure, forcibly breaking through the psychological defenses of these leaders, instilling in them a mixture of fanatical beliefs and fear.

The last remaining scattered resistance forces on the Upper East Side were completely integrated.
The core members of the Mask Company were formally formed here.

From that day onward, the focus shifted to the Falcone family's crumbling, marginalized businesses.
Those small nightclubs, underground casinos, and warehouses at the end of the smuggling chain.
What follows will no longer be chaotic looting.
Instead, there will be organized infiltration and takeover.

The mobs wearing uniform masks will devour the last vestiges of the old empire.
"Trash! A bunch of trash!"

The Falcone Estate, in the meeting room constructed of dark oak.

The air was so heavy it felt like you could wring water out of it.

This is the heart of the Falcone estate, and right now, that heart is convulsing violently.

Carmine Falcone, the godfather who ruled Gotham's underworld for decades.

He stood before a massive conference table, cigar smoke swirling around him, yet unable to soften the unfamiliar look on his face, made utterly humiliated by extreme anger.

His deep voice echoed in the room as he slammed his hand on the smooth tabletop, making the ashtray on it jump.

His gaze swept over the group of family elders and senior executives who stood silently at the table, their hands at their sides.

"A few stray dogs that appeared out of nowhere! Wearing ridiculous, comical masks, they dare to steal food from my plate!" His voice suddenly rose, filled with the fury of a desecrated divine authority. "They're robbing my casino! Cutting off my goods!"

"They dare to write their madness on my turf, using my blood!"

He slammed a report on the table, which listed several outposts lost again last night and a list of missing persons.

"This is a provocation! An ultimate provocation against the name Falcone, against our authority!"

“That bastard Luther is already giving me enough headaches!” His chest heaved, his eyes burning with the ferocity of a former tyrant. “And you…you bunch of good-for-nothings! You actually let a nouveau riche who dares not show his true face, a madman playing house, get to where he is today?!”

Obviously
At this moment, Falcone still stubbornly believed that this was just another fool who was too arrogant and would soon be crushed on the streets of Gotham like all the other challengers.

This time, however, the idiot's teeth were a little sharper.

As for the Godfather's thunderous rage, most of the elders and high-ranking officials below remained silent.

They lowered their heads, avoiding eye contact with Carmine.

Is that black mask really that simple?

They had heard stories of their men, who had miraculously crawled back from the bloody battlefield, describing incoherently the tremors that ran through their very souls when faced with that skull mask.

They tried to infiltrate, but the elite and loyal warriors either mysteriously disappeared or appeared in the enemy's camp the next day, wearing uniform masks and with empty eyes, as if their souls had been taken away.

That's not the kind of power that an ordinary nouveau riche could possess.

That mask...

It seemed to possess some kind of magic from hell.

It is worth noting that within just a few days, several casinos, smuggling docks, and underground banks that were originally firmly controlled by Falcone changed hands almost overnight.

"God knows... what that thing is..." an elder standing in the corner muttered in an almost inaudible voice, before being gently nudged by the elbow of the person next to him, and immediately shut his mouth.

"Is it magic? Maybe."

Mario Falcone, the heir to the family fortune, spoke.

He gave a soft snort, his gaze sweeping over the solemn-faced elders.

"But I'm more inclined to believe that something is wrong with the 'abilities' of certain individuals. Unable to defend their own territory, they can only blame it on the opponent having magic?"

"Mario!"

A cool female voice rang out, like a refreshing spring flowing into the scalding air.

Sofia Falcone, Carmine's eldest daughter.

She sat quietly in an armchair a little distance from the desk.

His calm demeanor contrasted sharply with the panic and anger that filled the room. "This is not the time for sarcasm. What we need are solutions, not finger-pointing."

“Father.” She looked at Carmine, her tone steady, “Father, this Black Mask acts unlike any enemy we have ever encountered.”

"He consolidated the scattered forces too quickly, and his methods were...extraordinary. I think we need to assess the situation more carefully. Perhaps we could utilize the supernatural powers of that iceberg king?" "Didn't Mario do that before?"

“Do you think I haven’t contacted Iceberg?” Mario interrupted Sofia, standing up and slamming his hands on the table, making even Carmine’s coffee cup shake. “They flatly rejected our request, clearly unwilling to move from the Diamond District and wade into our East District.”

"Sofia! You're too weak!"

"And I have already understood!"

“We are Falcone! We never fawn over outsiders! You are disgracing my father, disgracing the name of this family!”

"You're always like this, hiding behind the scenes, calculating gains and losses like an accountant. But the streets of Gotham don't recognize ledgers, they only recognize fists and blood!"

“That’s why we let that masked stray dog ​​ride roughshod over us!” He turned to Carmine, his voice indignant. “Father! We can’t wait any longer! Every hesitation weakens Falcone’s prestige! Those fence-sitters are watching!”

"Give me an elite force! I'll lead it myself!"

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand. "I'm going to wipe out their entire hideout, drag out that cowardly bastard, personally rip off his mask, and hang it in front of City Hall! Let all of Gotham see what happens when you challenge Falcone!"

"Father."

A worried male voice rang out. Alberto, who had seemed almost invisible throughout, said, "We don't even know their true strength yet. It's too dangerous to act rashly like this. That mask... is very unusual."

“Big brother… Sister Sophia is right. There are many terrible rumors circulating outside about that mask. Shouldn’t we… gather more information first…”

“Shut up, Alberto!” Mario snapped, not even bothering to look at him. “You have no right to speak here. Go back to your room and tend to your plants, or go to church and pray that I bring victory to the family at the White Rose Restaurant—that’s more suitable for you!”

"After all, by the time you've finished gathering intelligence, our territory will be completely taken over!"

Mario turned to Carmine again, "Father! Please give me this chance! Let me restore the family's honor!"

Upon hearing this, Alberto visibly flinched, like a frightened little animal, and immediately lowered his head.

Obviously
Our Mr. Holiday is doing his job perfectly, playing the role of a cowardly, indecisive younger brother.

“Mario, don’t scare him,” Sofia spoke again, her tone seemingly gentle, as if she were trying to help her brother. “Alberto is just… soft-hearted. He’s not like you, used to solving all problems with violence.”

Um.
This statement is like a stone coated with icing sugar; on the surface, it is meant to appease, but in reality, it subtly defines Mario as a simple-minded thug, while completely excluding Alberto from the core of power.

She was left alone, the only rational and capable heir.

Carmine remained silent.

His gaze swept over everyone in the study.

The bewildered elder, the calmly analyzing eldest daughter, the sarcastic eldest son—in the end, the focus shifts to the timid Alberto.

His gaze lingered on Alberto's face for a long time.

Its sharpness seemed to peel away his impulsive exterior to see if even the slightest hint of potential beneath lay the ability to shoulder great responsibilities.

However.
Nothing at all.

Carmine leaned back slightly in his high-backed chair, his voice low and unreadable:
"it is good."

"Mario, you're in charge now."

"Go and show your family."

“Bring that mask back to me.”

The hunting permit has been issued.

But perhaps the roles of prey and hunter were destined to be reversed from the very beginning.

"boom--!"

The heavy, carved wooden door slowly closed behind the last elder to leave.

The study fell silent once more.

All that remained was the occasional crackling sound of the wood burning in the fireplace.

Carmine remained in that position, leaning back in his chair.

Sofia is right.

She was always calmer and more far-sighted than her hot-headed brother.

However, she was ultimately too young.

She sees the gains and losses on the chessboard, but may not understand the soil beneath it, watered by blood and betrayal.

intelligence?

Carmine let out a silent, cold laugh in his heart.

If intelligence were so easy to obtain, his undercover agents would have already figured out the color of that black-masked man's underwear.

But in reality, the other party appeared like a ghost, expanded at an incredible speed, and every move precisely struck the Falcone family's weak points before disappearing without a trace like mercury spilling onto the ground.

This is definitely not luck.

This can only mean that there are corrupt elements within the family.

Moreover, he was a huge, high-ranking corrupt official who knew many core secrets!
He must take the initiative.

This is not only about reclaiming territory, but also about forcing out this, or rather these, venomous snakes lurking in the shadows.

Passive defense will only allow the venom to spread within the body until it completely decays.

It simply means sending the heir to the battlefield personally.
This is unprecedented in the history of the Falcone family.

The heir should be the one who holds the pieces, the brain, not the pawn that charges into battle.

That's too dangerous, and too... beneath me.

His gaze involuntarily drifted back to the empty corner where Alberto had just been sitting.

Since Elana's death
He had considered putting his timid youngest son in that position.

He observed him for a long time, tested him countless times, and even deliberately created some trivial tests for him.

But the results were always disappointing.

No matter from which aspect
Courage, decisiveness, skill, and even the most basic qualities.
The ability to remain calm under pressure.

But Alberto was clearly not up to the task.

He even seemed incapable of helping his older brother and sister.

His eyes always flickered with hesitation and fear, like a lamb that would never grow up.

if it is possible……

Carmine closed his eyes wearily, his mind filled with images of tranquil vineyards under the Tuscan sun.

He really wanted to send his youngest son to Italy, away from the bloody mess of Gotham, so he could live a peaceful life as an ordinary rich man.

That would be the best arrangement for this child.

but……

Carmine opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the cold reality.

How can someone who has already stepped into this murky water possibly extricate themselves?
From the day he agreed to take over the Falcone family business, on that rainy night, his fate was inextricably linked to the family's glory and sins.

Alternatively, you can struggle to climb out of this quagmire.
Either they and their families are completely swallowed up by this quagmire.

There is no third way.

He picked up the crystal glass on the table and downed the amber-colored whiskey in one gulp. The hot liquid slid down his throat, but it couldn't dispel the chill in his heart.

This time, he placed his bet on Mario.

He hoped his eldest son could dispel the fog before him, even if...

Gazing at the leaping flames in the fireplace, Falcone murmured to himself, his voice hoarse:

"May the Lord forgive my decision..."

(End of this chapter)