Departing from Gotham’s Lower District, the rust-streaked light rail ground over the bridge, crossing the muddy Gotham River as it sped toward the city center.
Inside the empty fifth carriage, seven or eight of the Roman’s men, dressed in suits, occupied an entire row of seats.
Oswald finished distributing food from a paper bag and sat down next to Vincent, handing over the last hot dog.
“You look distracted.” Vincent shook his head without a word.
He took the burning hot dog wrapped in old newspaper, blew on it, and took a bite.
“I was just as lost as you when I first started in this business, but every time I saw Mr.
Maroni, I would be filled with drive…” In Oswald’s description, Maroni was elegant and charming, leaning on his cane like Michael Corleone stepping straight out of The Godfather.
“When I take Mr.
Maroni’s place, I’m definitely going to get a cane as beautiful as that.” Vincent nodded.
*For some reason, hearing these declarations from Oswald feels entirely natural.
It is as if the owner of that name is inherently destined to build an empire of his own.* The light rail pulled into a station.
The passengers saw the group of suited thugs and rushed into other carriages as if they had seen the plague.
Only a lone, old man chose to sit directly across from them.
The old man’s hair was white and thinning, and his crumpled coat gave off a sour stench.
He held a paper bag tightly in his hands.
Seemingly hungry, he kept staring at the half-eaten hot dog in Vincent’s hand.
“Do you want it?” Vincent held the food out.
He had little appetite anyway.
The old man nodded, mumbling something as he took the hot dog and began wolfing it down.
“Are you satisfied?
If you are, then beat it!” Oswald, who had been watching coldly, finally spoke.
He sneered as he pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his inner pocket in a silent threat, scaring the old man into a corner of the carriage.
“The Romans aren’t a charitable foundation.
We have to maintain a hard line with outsiders, otherwise, everyone will think they can walk all over us.” Putting away the brass knuckles, Oswald explained his actions.
“I don’t want to see this happen again.” Vincent could only nod in agreement.
But it wasn’t over yet.
As the old man sat gorging himself on the hot dog, a hand suddenly reached out from the side to snatch the paper bag in his arms.
The old man instinctively shielded the bag.
The moment he looked up, he caught a sharp slap across the face.
Three young troublemakers had wandered over from another carriage, reeking of stale booze.
Violence occurred every day in Gotham.
The talking Romans glanced over with indifference.
None had any intention of interfering.
The old man refused to let go of the paper bag and was dragged to the floor by the three youths, who began kicking and punching him.
Vincent’s fists clenched tighter and tighter.
But just as he moved to stand, Oswald held him down.
“Did you forget what I just said?” Oswald frowned, his eyes turning cold.
The old man’s screams echoed through the quiet carriage.
“It’s a bit noisy.
I want to remind them to keep it down.” “Thats a novel excuse.
If you truly feel that way, then go.
The glory of the Romans will stand behind you.” “Boss, are you really letting Vincent go?
Those guys stink of booze,” a companion in the next seat reminded Oswald.
*Drunks have no reason.* “It’s his first time out,” Oswald replied.
“Let him witness the hospitality of Gotham’s citizens.” …
The three youths were enjoying themselves and didn’t notice anyone approaching until Vincent grabbed one by the collar and slammed him against the carriage window.
The remaining two quickly pulled out knives.
“You’re with the Romans?
We didn’t mess with you!” “You idiots are too loud!” Vincent looked them over with contempt, tilting his head and twitching the corner of his mouth.
*Over the past three months of collecting protection money, I haven’t fought much.
But I have mastered about eighty percent of a gang member’s arrogant facial expressions.* Falcone’s name carried weight in Gotham.
The youths eyes moved around, their backs hunched as if ready to run at any moment.
“We get it, we’ll keep it down,” one of them offered, raising his hands.
“Just let him go, man.” Their submissive posture caused Vincent to lower his guard, entirely unaware that the youth he was holding had already slipped a knife from his pocket.
Violence spread through the carriage.
As the light rail approached a station and slowed down, the youth suddenly swung an elbow into Vincent’s face, then gripped his knife in a reverse hold and lunged at the stumbling Vincent.
Just as the blade was about to sink into Vincent’s stomach, a dark shadow lunged from the side.
A flying kick was followed by a scream.
The youth was knocked to the floor, and the knife flew from his hand, spinning through the air before landing in Oswald’s hand.
“Tell me, how many cuts do I need to carve into those pretty faces before you learn some justice and humility?” The moment he spoke, the Romans stood up from their seats in unison.
These men were battle-hardened.
Some had blood on their hands.
The heavy pressure they radiated was not something a greenhorn like Vincent could compare to.
The youths tried to run, but the aisle was blocked by the crowd.
The arrogant punks were quickly restrained.
“Morrie, open the door.” “You got it, Boss!” The lackey named Morrie jammed a dagger into the gap between the train doors.
Following a shrill alarm, a rush of cold air flooded into the stale carriage.
The gangway between cars was already packed with the crowd.
Everyone knew what fate awaited these three bastards, but no one tried to stop it.
Not even a word was spoken.
The youths cried and begged for mercy.
One even wet his pants in terror.
They were thrown from the train.
The area beneath the bridge suddenly grew lively with the sound of heavy impacts and screeching brakes, but those sounds were soon left behind by the speeding train.
Silence returned to the carriage, as if nothing had ever happened.
The paper bag in the old man’s pocket had been torn during the struggle.
With blood at the corner of his mouth, he crawled on the floor, gathering the scattered cake crumbs.
It was supposed to be a cake for his wife.
The words “For my dear Jenny” had become distorted along with the collapsed cream, looking like maggots writhing on a corpse.
“The excuse was fine,” Oswald noted, stepping up beside Vincent as he watched the old man.
“But you need to learn to drop that useless pity.” The train stopped in the city center.
Stepping onto the platform, Vincent was immediately surrounded by skyscrapers on all sides.
Glass curtain walls reflected a dazzling radiance.
Luxury cars raced down the streets, and well-dressed pedestrians held their heads high, their steps steady and confident.
*Though only separated by a single river, it feels as though I have crossed the barrier between heaven and hell.* “Stand proudly, my friend.
We represent the Romans; we cannot let people look down on us.” Straightening Vincent’s collar, Oswald gave a mysterious wink.
…
In a rental room in Gotham’s North Port, the old man pushed open the unlocked door.
“Jenny, I’m home.” The house was silent.
“I have some bad news.
The cake I got for you was ruined.
But I also have some good news” I met an interesting young man.” Clearing his throat, the old man’s tone was no longer raspy and muddy.
He walked into the bathroom, and a rustling sound echoed from within.
From the back, it looked as though the old man was pulling at his hair in front of the mirror.
A human skin mask appeared in his hand.
“He helped me.
He gave me half a hot dog and even taught three punks a lesson.
How can there still be people like that in Gotham?
It’s truly hilarious.” The house remained silent.
A pair of shiny, pointed leather shoes kicked through the drifting dust as he stepped into the living room.
“Jenny, so you are home!
But why aren’t you saying anything?” The shoes walked to the side of the sofa, and he took the hand of a mummified corpse.
His pale face stared directly into the hollow eye sockets, as if trying to dig something out of them.
After a silent exchange, he slowly inserted two fingers into the corpse’s mouth, working to pull the dried, wrinkled lips into the shape he wanted.
“Please, sweetheart, smile.
Why so serious?”