The numbness faded quickly.
Selina pulled the needle out, and Vincent collapsed to the ground, holding his neck.
Hearing the noise, Oswald rushed into the alleyway holding a brick.
“Who the fuck are you?
Get away from him!” Oswald barked.
“Calm down, I don’t mean any harm.
I just wanted some of your friend’s blood,” Dr.
Strange said.
He took the vial from Selina and gently shook it.
Hearing the liquid move, he gave a cold, satisfied smile.
Having secured what he wanted, Dr.
Strange turned and vansihed.
Deep in the darkness, the heavy, mechanical footsteps of the Bio-Human gradually faded away.
Oswald still wanted to step forward to demand answers, but Vincent grabbed him tightly.
“Forget it.
We got the money.” Vincent handed him the stack of checks.
Selina’s looked away, losing her usual confidence.
“I’m sorry.
I should’ve told you, but I thought you wouldn’t agree.” Her actions had betrayed their partnership.
“It’s fine.
I would’ve done the same thing.” Vincent comforted her.
At first, he panicked, but thinking it through, if Selina really meant to betray him, she wouldn’t have come back to the sewers, let alone return the checks.
That thin stack was worth four and a half million dollars.
Strange was smart and very calculating, a dangerous bastard.
A skilled thief like Selina getting played by him was inevitable.
Fortunately, the doctor only took one vial of blood.
Although Vincent felt uneasy, his first priority was to return the money to Maroni and put an end to this mess.
Vincent spoke his mind, but Oswald refused.
“No.
I’m taking this to Mr.
Falcone.” Oswald had just come up with a bold plan to turn the Roman Empire’s two top bosses against each other.
Ever since the Joker incident, there had been tension between them.
Falcone had been waiting for a chance to replace the overly ambitious Maroni.
“I’ll tell Falcone that Maroni and Strange planned this from the beginning.
I’ll make that low-life mobster pay.” Oswald let out a cold laugh, his eyes wide and unnaturally bulging.
In the flashlight’s beam, his twisted face looked horrifying.
Vincent frowned and stayed silent.
Oswald had spent years under Maroni, so he assumed the man understood the internal affairs of the Roman Empire better than he did.
Oswald should have a more accurate judgment of whether this would work.
Yet, for some reason, Vincent felt the plan was completely absurd.
*This is insane.
A couple of street rats trying to play two mafia kings?* “What do you think?” Vincent asked Selina.
“I think it’s gonan work.
Dividing them will seriously weaken the Roman Empire.” Selina answered evasively.
It made sense.
Catwoman wanted to bring Falcone down.
Even if the chances of success were very low, she was willing to take the risk.
Besides, she was an outsider.
She didn’t have to do anything; she could just sit back and watch the fireworks.
*I shouldn’t have asked her.* Vincent instantly regretted it.
Selina’s words gave Oswald the confidence he needed.
“See?
I told you, Vin.
We can do this.
Let’s find Mr.
Falcone right now.
Once we help him take down Maroni, Mr.
Falcone won’t treat us badly.” Oswald reached out to pull Vincent along, completely impatient.
“Can we slow down?
I still think this whole thing is suspicious…” “What are you waiting for?
It’s past midnight.
Maroni’s hitmen could find us at any second…
Wait.
Maybe we should let them find us.
If we take a few hits, Falcone will think Maroni is trying to silence us.
He’ll believe us even more.” Vincent couldn’t outargue him and could only give in.
There was nothing he can do to stop him.
An Oswald consumed by hatred and ambition was completely deaf to reason.
Vincent’s suspicion was right, he just hadn’t figured everything out in time.
If they had been on bad terms for so long, why had Falcone kept Maroni around?
Could a few million dollars really be the last straw?
Following Selina’s directions, the two hot-wired a muscle car parked by the curb.
Oswald slid into the driver’s seat, ripped open the panel beneath the steering wheel, and connected the wires.
Vincent had just promised Gordon that he wouldn’t break the law, yet here he was, stealing a car.
He could only look out the window, pretending not to see what Oswald was doing.
But as he stared out, something caught his attention.
Two drunks who had been lying on the street corner suddenly stood straight up, staring at the car with dead, hollow expressions.
Then, they reached into their coats.
“Get down.
Drive, drive, drive!” He had barely finished speaking when a burst of bullets tore through the air.
The car windows shattered, spraying broken glass across the cabin.
Oswald shook the glass from his hair and slammed his foot onto the gas pedal.
The muscle car zigzagged wildly, its engine roaring like an angry bull as it sped into the darkness.
Maroni’s hitmen had started the excution.
The car sped through the midnight streets.
Gunfire flashed from the rooftops of nearby buildings.
Bullets slammed into the car, punching holes in the hood and ringing off the metal.
The dark rearview mirror suddenly lit up.
Vincent glanced back and saw over a dozen motorcycles chasing after them.
What kind of insane overkill was this?
Did killing two useless thugs really require an entire army?
Before Vincent could even curse, a motorcycle pulled up right beside his window.
An Uzi shoved through the shattered glass, aiming straight at Oswald’s head.
Oswald kicked the weapon away.
The gun went off wildly into the air, shredding the front windshield and shattering the glass storefronts along the street.
After losing his gun, the assassin pulled out a hidden blade from his wrist and stabbed at the artery in Vincent’s thigh.
Oswald grabbed the man’s wrist and gave it a hard pull, yanking him off his bike.
Thud.
The assassin’s helmet slammed into the car door.
With a sickening crunch, the car bounced violently as its rear wheels rolled over the man’s body.
“Can you drive?” Oswald shouted, picking up the fallen Uzi.
“Does Need for Speed count?” “Get ready to take the wheel.” Vincent froze.
He realized Oswald probably had no idea what that game was, but it was too late to explain.
Oswald scrambled into the backseat, forcing Vincent to grab the steering wheel.
With his hands free, Oswald went wild, his submachine gun spitting continuous fire.
Using the backseat as cover, he took out half the bikers within seconds.
Thrown into the fire, Vincent desperately tried to recall his gaming skills.
A sharp turn appeared ahead.
Shift gears, brake, turn the wheel.
He thought his execution was flawless, but the inner wheels lifted entirely off the road.
Real life definitely didn’t have video game physics.
“What the hell are you doing?” “Drifting!” “Why are you drifting?” “Every movie chase has a drift.” Before he could finish, the car lost all traction, flipped over the guardrail, and crashed straight into the icy Gotham river.
The remaining hitmen parked their bikes on the bridge, firing wildly into the rising air bubbles below.
Meanwhile, Vincent and Oswald held onto the bridge pillars, shaking in the freezing water.
Though Vincent had flipped the car, it wasn’t entirely a bad thing.
At least they got rid of Maroni’s men.
Once the hitmen left, the two dragged themselves onto the shore and collapsed on the weed-covered riverbank, trying to catch their breath.
After resting for a short time, Vincent checked that the checks were still safe.
Then they started the long walk to Falcone’s nightclub.
…
After handing over most of his illicit operations to Maroni, Falcone had rebranded himself as a legitimate, high-society Gotham businessman.
The only asset he retained was this nightclub.
Some people said he was past his prime.
They believed he had lost his ambition and was no longer the feared Roman Emperor.
Others believed he was simply waiting for the right moment to turn Gotham upside down.
But in reality, who could truly read the mind of an old lion?
Even a soaking wet Oswald, sitting across the dining table from Falcone, had no idea.
But Oswald figured he didn’t need to overthink it.
He just needed to give the five million dollars and blame it all on Maroni.
As Oswald opened his mouth to speak, Vincent cut him off.
“Mr.
Maroni ordered us to deliver this money to you.” Vincent wasn’t trying to sabotage the plan.
His gut told him that this white-haired old man, slowly chewing his steak with a napkin tucked into his collar, was dangerous.
Far more dangerous than Maroni.
Falcone never even looked at them directly.
A casual, passing glance gave Vincent the distinct, terrifying impression that he was being completely seen through.
*He knows everything.
If we lie, we die.* Vincent realized the danger.
But Oswald didn’t catch on, and he looked annoyed that Vincent had gone off the script.
“That’s not true.
Maroni stole this money.
We came to expose him, and his men hunted us across the city.” The moment the lie left Oswald’s mouth, Vincent buried his face in his hands in utter despair.
*We’re dead.* Sure enough, Falcone raised an eyebrow, gave a slight smirk, letting out a quiet snort through his nose.
Oswald remained completely unaware, gesturing wildly with his hands to make his story sound more convincing.
He only froze when Falcone quietly drew a gun, setting it flat on the table.
Oswald’s mouth hung open, his voice dying in his throat.
“I don’t care whose story is true.
Let God sort out the details.” Falcone loaded three bullets into the revolver’s cylinder and slid the heavy gun across the long dining table.
“Gentlemen, I only listen to the living.”