Chapter 309: New Umbrella (Part 1)_1

"It was thirty years ago, in the afternoon, that I boarded a train bound for Santiago, intending to do business with the Mexicans. On that train, an Italian reached out to me, he said his name was Richie, hailing from Sicily. We chatted for a bit on the train..."

In the study room of Falcone Manor, the Godfather's voice was like an aged, faded record. Sunshine spilled into the room through the-heavy curtains, growing somewhat dim. Shiller wasn't sitting across him, but on a sofa off to the side, snipping his cigar.

The thick smoke from the cigar was like a layer upon layer of waves painted across the horizon at sunset, swirling and forming shapes that roamed free in the realm of imagination, reminiscent of the realist paintings of the past era.

Against the clatter of the train passing over the rails, and the drawn-out siren, a man with deep brown hair sat in the train compartment reading a newspaper.

With a "click," the compartment door was swung open, and another man, clad in a long coat, removed his hat and placed it over his chest. He bowed slightly to the gentleman inside the compartment and, in Italian, greeted, "Good day, Mr. Falcone, my name is Richie and I hail from Sicily."

A young Falcone set down the newspaper in his hand and regarded Richie, who had just entered the compartment. With the same Italian, Falcone retorted, "Hello Richie, have you come to seek me out?"

The Italian accent of Falcone was completely different from Richie. His words always ended with a descending tone, the only thing he took away from his hometown, Rome city. This gave his voice a certain coldness.

Richie, however, didn't seem to mind. He took a seat across Falcone and proceeded, "I heard you traveled from Gotham to California State. I took this train specifically to find you."

Richie had golden hair and brown eyes, his gaunt face clearly marking him a southern Italian. Casting a humble gaze, he spoke to Falcone in Italian, "Sir, I have come seeking your protection, the Richie family has nowhere to go anymore."

Falcone, silent, observed him. He ran his finger along the edge of the folded newspaper. Richie placed his hat on the table and began, "My family and I severly suffered from a dispute in Chicago. A Brit from the West Coast tricked us with two depleted mines, causing us to owe a hefty debt to Federico of Chicago."

Lifting his gaze, Richie looked at Falcone through his brown eyes, but he saw no emotion in the eyes of this young mob leader, which left him unsure of his subsequent words.

"The Richie family no longer has the ability to repay this debt, but we are not to blame. That cunning Brit has already left, but we have no way of explaining to Federico why we can't pay the money back..."

"Your Excellency Falcone, my family has heard of your great reputation on the East Coast. We have come to seek a way out from you. After all, Federico is just a lap dog of the Mafia boss in Chicago..."

"I beg you, Excellency, please save us. The Richie family is willing to pay any price for this..."

The young Falcone placed the newspaper beside his seat. He then leant back on the chair, gazing at the receding scenery from the window, spoke with a cold Italian tone, "Federico is indeed just a dog. He was merely a petty thug from Ragusa, and had it not been for his wife, he would probably still be at the dock, mixed up with those no-good individuals."

"But you, Richie... What makes you believe you are of any more value than Federico? Federico at least had a father-in-law willing to support him. But what about you? Isn't the Richie family of a similar background, finding their footing in the trade of smuggling?"

Resting an arm on the table, Falcone flexed his fingers, looking at Richie, "Most of the Sicilians that came to the East Coast with you have made a living for themselves in the city. Yet here you are, still but a stray dog in the East Coast..."

"We all know why you were deceived by the Brit. It's because you were in a rush to join Chicago and to find yourself a doghouse in the city. And when you were kicked out, you came to find me, wanting to join Gotham..."

Embarrassment flashed across Richie's face. Regardless of who it was, being stripped bare like this would result in a loss of face.

Yet, what Falcone said was the truth. The few families that came with Richie to the East Coast had developed quite well in the city. The Richie family, in contrast, after receiving several blows, didn't even have a peaceful place to settle. They could only hole up in an inn near the train station.

"Excellency, as I have said, I am willing to pay any price for your acceptance and the salvation of my family. I am at your command…" Richie humbly spoke, lowering his head.

From his pocket, Falcone pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He took one out, pinching it in his hand. Richie stood, leaned over and lighted it for him. The flame on the cigarette lit up, flickering like a candle in the dim compartment.

"Federico is a good dog, I hope that you are as well, Richie."

Richie lowered his head, kissing the back of the hand that Falcone did not smoke with. Then he said, "As you wish, your excellency."

Smoke billowed out from the cigarette, bearing likeness to the faint lines of incense rising in a temple, apart from the initial dense swirl that began to thin as it rose, wafting apart into a white veil.

The frame of the train window framed the profile of the two men into a painted image. With a "click", the door of the compartment closed. Nobody could hear the secret talks within. Nor did the old godfather wish to elaborate further, except to comment -

"Over the years, many came begging me for help. Many of them were quite unappealing, bringing a considerable sum of money to do business with me. But I'm not a businessman, and least of all a killer driven by greed."

"When Richie came to me for help, he had nothing, but that's okay. I liked his attitude, so we headed to Santiago together."

"I've already forgotten whether I actually negotiated a deal with those Mexicans, but on the return journey, Richie followed me back to Gotham..."

"At that time, there were no Twelve Families here yet, and I was just a noteworthy figure in the North District of Gotham, slightly famous..."

"Later on, I garnered increasing influence, gaining control over the North District, the East District, Central City, Financial Street... In Gotham, many people started to mention my name, and the number of followers I had also kept increasing..."

"Professor Rodriguez, human psychology is indeed a peculiar thing. When Richie pleaded with me to save his life, willing to pay any price and even downgrading his dignity and reputation."

"But after he ruled over all of Gotham with me, he forgot everything. He considered himself the creator of this enterprise, thinking that as one of the first few people who followed me, he should share all the glory and power with me..."

"At first, he looked down on the newcomers, despite how useful they proved to be, he still considered himself a veteran. He looked down on the Spense Family from England, he belittled the Lawerence Family who ran a salt and iron business, and he even despised the Greeks who only had a daughter..."

"Then, he started to organize ranks and orders for the Twelve Families, thinking that those who came first should inherently hold more privileges..."

"Lastly, he even believed that, as Evans's uncle, he had the power to intervene in his decisions and guide his actions..."

"Humans always love to have surplus." Schiller's voice and the quiet flick of his lighter resonated in unison as he lit his cigar and leisurely placed it in his mouth.

"Those who have lost everything once will thirst even more for power and control, and if they can't achieve it in reality, they can convince themselves psychologically that they have already surpassed many others, thus fulfilling themselves."

"Therefore, they develop an extreme meticulous personality, wanting to control everyone they see as beneath them or who they assume are beneath them, regardless of their position, age, lineage, or even height, body shape, appearance..."

"They derive mental pleasure from disrespecting and controlling others. Once they get used to this way of doing things, everything begins to deviate from its original course. They become extraordinarily arrogant, audacious, and will dare to do anything as long as it satisfies their obsession for control..."

"But he wasn't clever." The Godfather continued: "From the moment I first saw him, I knew that he wasn't clever."

"But at that time, I didn't care, because what I needed was just a dog, and the louder it barked the better, this would show the neighbours that I had picked a good dog..."

"But so many years later when he was aspiring to be the master, he chose to send his daughter to Evans's bed. That silly girl, thinking she could enamour the new godfather with beauty and love..."

"The one who should've been sleeping with her would be Alberto, right?" Schiller asked. "Evans doesn't particularly enjoy entertaining women."

"Exactly, Evans is more like his mother, stubborn, loyal, and sound of mind. As for Alberto... he's more like me, he doesn't care about such things."

Schiller shook his head and said, "Regardless, Richie made a terribly foolish move. Even if his daughter was extraordinarily beautiful, she couldn't shake Alberto. To be honest, even Evans wouldn't have fallen for such a ruse."

"Indeed, but I grew tired of his repeatedly foolish antics. To let him die at the hand of a mysterious serial killer was already the most dignified death I could give to a dog."

"I have to thank this serial killer. Otherwise, I would have had to summon everyone together, dredge up old stories, allow everyone to become annoyed at his stupidity yet again, then have a hired gun put a bullet in him. After that, I would have to listen to the wailing from his family and those silly girls, deal with the corpse, attend the funeral..."

The godfather exhaled a puff of smoke and said, "I don't have much time left, I don't want to waste anymore time mourning a dog."

"To tell you the truth, the mercenary killer you introduced me to, although he charges high prices, he is extremely efficient. In this day and age, such a professional killer is rare..."

"Actually, I'm a bit curious, Your Excellency, why did you not employ a mob killer, but instead insist on hiring an outsider mercenary?"

"The people in the mob, it'd have been fine if I had made them shoot, plant bomb explosives, or even poison him, but to have them mimic a serial killer and savage a body, they wouldn't be able to do such graphically violent work. After that, they'd definitely dive back into their holes like ostriches, claiming PTSD and I would have to pay them extra for medical expenditures..."

Falcone revealed a look of annoyance and said, "In the latter half of my life, my reputation for being benevolent and tolerant spread far and wide, to such an extent that it overlooked earlier deeds. This is usually a good thing, allowing me to enjoy my twilight years in peace, but there are always those fools who don't know how blessed they are..."

Schiller reclined in his chair, slowly exhaling a puff of smoke, and said, "Yesterday, the mercenary called me; he told me he received the final payment, and asked me to pass on to you his compliments on your timely payment. He said that if you need him in the future, to give him a call."

Falcone put out the nearly finished cigar on the piece of paper, his voice slightly pitchy, "Perhaps very soon, his business will prosper."