Mafia War

Carmine Falcone POV – The Day Before

This damned week started horribly. Someone had begun attacking my establishments and hijacking crucial shipments. While it was an irritation, it wasn't entirely unprecedented; every now and then, a thief gets too bold. What really soured my mood was the rats infesting my ranks. The name Falcone no longer inspired the same fear. It's time to remind Gotham who its true master is.

"Victor," I called one of my trusted men.

He entered the office silently—a tall man with a scarred face and a bald head. His eyes were like frozen steel, utterly devoid of emotion.

"Have you found out who's behind this? Did the police identify the attackers?" It was convenient that most of Gotham's police force was in my pocket.

"Yes. We've uncovered evidence pointing to Salvatore Maroni. He's orchestrating the attacks on our territories. Additionally, there's a third party involved in the theft of your shipments," Victor Zsasz reported in his usual emotionless tone.

"Maroni?" I growled. "He's forgotten his place lately. Bring me his head and track down those who dared steal from me," I ordered.

He nodded and left without another word. The perfect subordinate—he doesn't talk, he doesn't ask questions, he just gets things done.

To ease my tension, I lit a cigar. A cursed addiction, slowly killing me, yet I couldn't quit. A sudden fit of coughing reminded me of my age. Death creeps closer every day. Even the most powerful can't escape time. What will I leave behind? The Falcone empire. But who will rule it when I'm gone? My daughter? I don't believe a woman is capable of that.

My power is already beginning to wane, and some have started eyeing it greedily, sensing my growing weakness. But as long as I'm alive, the only thing they'll gain is death.

At the Docks

A man stood on the pier. His long coat concealed his entire figure, giving him an air of mystery and secrecy. A top hat perched on his head added a unique and distinctive touch to his appearance.

His hands rested on a cane, which seemed an inseparable part of his persona. The cane was a symbol of authority.

His gaze swept across the water's surface, as if he were lost in thought and memories, perhaps overcome by nostalgia. Yet, despite the introspection, a sinister smirk played on his lips.

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POV Oswald Cobblepot (The Penguin) – The Day Before

They tried to get rid of me like garbage, dumping me into the river while mocking me with that wretched nickname—Penguin. Falcone has overstayed his welcome on his throne, and Maroni will pay for his sins.

Gotham needs someone like me, someone destined to rule it. My plan is already unfolding. I managed to pit Falcone and Maroni against each other. It wasn't difficult; Maroni has been nursing a grudge against Falcone for a long time. All I had to do was hand him the whetstone, and he started baring his teeth. Many in this city are dissatisfied with the Falcone family's reign.

The club I acquired has become my base of operations. It's a haven for everyone who despises the current mob bosses, and their hatred works in my favor, bringing new allies under my banner. The stolen shipments have been successfully sold off, generating the funds I needed. That money now strengthens my arsenal and solidifies my position.

"Yes, let the era of the Penguin begin!" I shouted across the pier, now fully under my control. Skimming a cut off every shipment passing through had become a lucrative enterprise.

My laugh echoed over the docks, sharp and cruel. Those who heard it instinctively kept their distance, as though the sound itself carried danger.

Today

After the explosion, the young body of Brian lay motionless on the road. His limbs were grotesquely twisted, smeared with blood that trickled across his battered frame. Open fractures and a myriad of wounds and burns had left him unrecognizable. Nearby, the body of a man lay in a similar state of ruin.

Two lifeless forms rested amidst the wreckage and burning cars. In the distance, the wail of sirens and the sporadic crack of gunfire filled the air.

In a narrow alley, a woman stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the harrowing scene unfolding before her. She barely blinked, her face a mask of shock as she clutched an unconscious girl in her trembling arms.

Nearby, the wails of a small child broke through the chaos, snapping her from her daze. Her hands shaking, she fumbled for her phone, managed to dial a number, and pressed it to her ear. The dial tone echoed in her ears until a voice on the other end finally responded.

"Emergency services, what's your emergency?" asked the operator.

The woman opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her lips quivered as she struggled to form the words.

"This is emergency services. If you don't respond, this will be treated as a false call," the operator repeated.

"M-my ch-child… he's badly h-hurt…" she stammered, forcing the words out syllable by syllable.

"Please provide your name and location," the operator urged.

"I… don't know the a-address… My name is Elizabeth Vonson," she managed, her voice growing clearer by the end.

"Elizabeth, we cannot dispatch assistance without a location. Can you identify any nearby landmarks or businesses?" the operator pressed gently.

Elizabeth glanced around frantically, searching for any signs or landmarks. Finally, her eyes caught a neon sign above a diner: "Duratsky Donaly's."

"Duratsky Donaly's," she murmured into the phone.

"Help is already on the way to that location. Please stay put," the operator assured her before the line disconnected.

Elizabeth lowered the phone and clutched her child tighter. She sank to the asphalt, indifferent to the grime beneath her. Beside her, the younger child continued to cry, calling out for his father. Unable to ignore him any longer, she cradled him in her arms, gently rocking him to soothe his sobs. There she sat, holding both children, waiting for rescue.

That day, many people would not return home, and the cemeteries would gain new residents.

Two ambulances screeched to a halt nearby, and paramedics spilled out, rushing to assist the injured. Most of those they attended to had only minor injuries. Elizabeth spotted the arriving help, carefully set the children down, and ran toward the medics.

"Please! Save my son—help him!" she begged, grabbing one paramedic by the sleeve and pulling him toward Brian's still form on the pavement.

The medic, not resisting, allowed himself to be led to the two scorched bodies. Blood pooled around them, dark and ominous against the broken asphalt. As they approached, the medic slowed, shaking his head.

"They're dead. No one could survive injuries like this," he said, his voice heavy with fatigue.

"You're a doctor! You have to help him! He can't be gone!" Elizabeth shouted in desperation.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I can't do anything for the dead. The living need my help more urgently right now," he replied, his tone firm but regretful.

"Please, I'm begging you! Don't leave him like this!" Elizabeth dropped to her knees, her voice breaking with emotion.

The medic hesitated, torn between protocol and the raw anguish before him. Finally, he knelt by Brian's body and began examining the boy's wounds. Something strange caught his eye. Though several areas showed obvious fractures, there was no fresh blood leaking from them. Even more bizarre, many of the injuries seemed to be healing—albeit slowly—right before his eyes.

The medic pressed his fingers to Brian's neck, searching for a pulse. His eyes widened as he found it—weak, but undeniably present. The boy was still breathing.

Jumping to his feet, the medic shouted to his team.

"Stretcher! Now! This is critical!"

One of the paramedics rushed to the ambulance, retrieved a stretcher, and hurried back. Together, they carefully lifted Brian's fragile, battered form onto it, securing him before loading him into the ambulance. The sirens wailed again as the vehicle sped off toward Gotham General Hospital, leaving Elizabeth trembling on the pavement.

Inside the ambulance, the medics exchanged uneasy glances as they worked. One of them stared at Brian's body, noting the strange phenomenon unfolding before their eyes.

"I don't understand… The wounds are shrinking. How is this happening?" one paramedic murmured.

"I have no idea," replied the other. "It's like he's… regenerating."

"Do you think he's even human?" the first medic whispered, glancing nervously at his colleague.

"If he's not, he's doing a damn good job pretending. His anatomy looks human, and his blood's red," the second replied, though doubt laced his voice.

The first medic leaned closer, watching in shock as Brian's limbs seemed to shrink, the musculature deflating as if something was draining away inside him.

"What's happening to him? Why is he… collapsing?" the medic asked, his voice tinged with both awe and dread.

The two fell silent, watching as the boy's body continued to transform, their minds racing with questions they couldn't begin to answer.

"Maybe it's a reaction of his body. Look, the wounds are healing, but it seems like his body is burning through muscle and fat to do it," one paramedic observed. Brian's body now appeared gaunt, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, with his injuries creating a gruesome and surreal sight.

"So, what do we do?" asked the other, clearly unsure.

"Nothing beyond our job. We stabilize him and let others figure out the rest," the second paramedic replied, determined to focus on their immediate task. He dismissed the eerie phenomenon as a quirk of the boy's physiology.

The ambulance sped through Gotham's chaotic streets, passing fire engines racing to extinguish blazes and SWAT vans responding to violent skirmishes. The hospital came into view around the next corner—a beacon of controlled chaos. Crowds of injured people waited outside, while medics frantically triaged patients from arriving ambulances.

When they arrived, the doors burst open, and Brian's stretcher was carried toward the emergency room.

Nurses at the triage station quickly assessed the situation.

"A boy with multiple injuries—burns, fractures, and open wounds," one paramedic called out.

"Take him to Trauma Room Three," a nurse instructed, signaling for orderlies to take over the stretcher.

The paramedics, with no time to linger, rushed off to respond to another call. Brian's unconscious form was wheeled into the trauma room, where a surgical team awaited.

"Doctor, why are his wounds healing so rapidly?" the surgeon's assistant asked, peering at Brian's body in astonishment.

"In Gotham, you learn to expect the unexpected," the doctor said, scrutinizing the boy's injuries. "But even I've never seen anything like this."

Examining Brian, he noted the challenge ahead.

"We'll have to rebreak and align some bones to set them properly, but his body looks too weak to sustain such invasive work," a nurse pointed out.

"Then we give him what he needs. Start an IV drip with nutrient solutions immediately," the doctor instructed.

The nurse hurried off to retrieve the necessary supplies.

When she returned, the doctor outlined the plan:

"First, we'll stabilize one arm and run the IV there. If his condition worsens, switch to a central line in his clavicle. Got it?"

"Yes, doctor," she replied firmly.

The operation was unlike anything the team had experienced. Brian's body seemed to have a mind of its own, healing wounds closed almost as soon as they were created by surgical intervention. Yet, the process appeared to deplete his already dwindling reserves. The nutrient drip helped, slowing the self-destructive pace of regeneration and allowing the team to focus on the critical repairs.

As the operation progressed, the healing process shifted—focusing on mending the fractured bones. His shattered leg was painstakingly reconstructed with pins and braces, aided by the accelerated bone growth.

Hours later, the team finished, leaving Brian swathed in casts and stabilization devices to guide his skeletal recovery.

"That was the strangest surgery of my career," the surgeon remarked, exhaling heavily as he removed his gloves. "I felt more like an assistant, watching his body do most of the work."

"His physiology is a mystery," the assistant said, organizing the tools.

"Well, we're done with him for now. Let's move on; there's a line of patients waiting."

With a wry smile, the surgeon sat down for a brief moment of rest.

"Someday, I'm leaving this city for good," he grumbled.

"You've been saying that for ten years," the nurse replied, shaking her head as she headed out.

Brian was transferred to a shared recovery room, surrounded by others who had survived the day's chaos. A nurse set up a drip with medication and checked his vitals before leaving him to rest.

Though unconscious, Brian had endured a harrowing ordeal. He had survived—but not without a cost. His young body bore the scars of his choices, a harsh lesson that strength and determination sometimes come at a heavy price.

POV Carmine Falcone

I clenched my teeth hard, fury coursing through me. He acted as if this city belonged to him, openly waging war against me. When I get my hands on him, I'll strip the skin from his body, force him to eat it, and then feed him to the dogs.

Suddenly, I felt weak. My vision blurred, and I nearly collapsed, catching myself on the desk as I sank into a chair. My heart pounded erratically, and with trembling hands, I opened a drawer and retrieved a bottle of pills. I swallowed two of them and chased them down with a swig of cognac. Slowly, the pounding in my head subsided, and my breathing evened out. Weakness was a luxury I could not afford. I had to be strong—stronger than ever.

I needed Victor. Picking up the phone, I called my secretary.

"Luisa, bring Victor here," I ordered. Luisa, the daughter of my second cousin, was as loyal as blood itself. That's why the Falcone family will never fall. We are all bound by blood.

"Right away," Luisa responded promptly.

My hand instinctively reached for a cigar, but I stopped myself, pulling it back. I had to live long enough to solidify our family's status and prepare my daughter to take over. But a new war was inevitable; too many people refused to accept a woman at the pinnacle of power.

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. It opened, and my imposing bodyguard stepped in silently.

"Did you find where that rat is hiding?" I asked. Though little time had passed, I had faith in his skills.

"I've tracked him to an old factory. It seems he's fortified himself there and doesn't plan on leaving," Victor replied, concise and to the point.

"How long to storm it? And remember, bring him alive," I reminded him.

"With our full strength, thirty minutes. Using half the manpower, a bit longer," he stated, efficiently laying out the situation.

"Mobilize half the men. We can't leave our territories vulnerable. And have you found out who the third player is?" I inquired.

"No, but someone powerful is backing them. All trails vanish into thin air," Victor admitted.

"The high society meddles in my affairs again. Those damned elites think they're untouchable, but the moment they're cornered, they kneel and beg like everyone else." I scowled at the thought of their interference. "We'll deal with them later. For now, let's end this war."

Victor nodded and left the room. My hand went to my chest, the strain on my heart palpable. Once this is over, I'll see a doctor.

************

A convoy of vehicles moved through the dark streets toward the abandoned factory. Anyone who saw the procession scattered, afraid to cross its path. Though the streets were nearly empty at this hour, they seemed even more desolate as the cars passed.

The vehicles stopped a short distance from the factory. Armed men disembarked, equipped with automatic weapons, heavy artillery, and explosives. At the helm was Victor Zsasz, clad in tactical gear with pistols strapped to his sides.

He gestured silently, directing his men into position. The factory's guards spotted the intruders and opened fire immediately. The attackers responded with a barrage of gunfire.

The firefight escalated, gunshots echoing across the industrial zone. Grenades detonated, sending debris flying. But the Falcone forces held the upper hand—superior firepower and strategy overwhelmed the defenders. Victor moved with deadly precision, eliminating anyone who dared peek out from cover.

The battle raged for nearly an hour. Inside the factory, progress was slow, as the attackers meticulously cleared the labyrinthine interior, inch by inch. But the outcome became inevitable—victory for the Falcone family.

It was over. The body of Salvatore Maroni, beaten and battered, was dragged unceremoniously across the factory floor. His face was swollen and bloodied beyond recognition.

The war for Gotham's criminal underworld had ended. The Falcone family reasserted its dominance over the city, standing unchallenged—for now.