Lure the Tiger to Devour the Wolf (Part 2)

"I knew it, I knew it. Hah, who do they think they are? The Godfather was old, so they thought they could do whatever they wanted? Then all I could say was that they were in too much of a hurry to die…"

In a bar in the East End, Big Beard held a cigar. He was the Coca Gang’s second-in-command. The bartender brought over a glass of watered whiskey. Big Beard took a sip, then a drag from his cigar. As he exhaled smoke, he said, "They hadn’t lived through that era. They didn’t understand…"

"The Godfather only wanted sincerity." He tapped the bar with a finger and emphasized, "He was telling us that if we wanted a piece of the pie here, we had to follow his orders."

"Just like he did many years ago. How did he bring together Gotham’s entire underworld and establish the Twelve Families? Those hotheaded idiots would never understand."

The man opposite him was thin, nowhere near as burly as Big Beard. His face was pale and gloomy. He ran this bar and was a member of the Comet Gang, one of Elizabeth Street’s Four Giants. Smoking a cigarette, he said, "I heard it from my boss. You know, our big boss was Elizabeth Street’s first kingpin. He used to work under the Godfather."

"Those bastards from Metropolis thought that because they provoked the Godfather and he hadn’t made a move right away, he was afraid of them. How naïve. The Godfather would never act personally…"

"He didn’t need to act personally," Big Beard said. "Gotham was long past the era when a major boss needed to personally get in the field and start shooting."

"He was telling these Mafia families that though he was old, as long as he was alive, he would always be Gotham’s King of Gotham’s Underworld," the thin man said.

"The attending doctor got injured, so the psychiatric hospital shut down? Only rookies fresh into the business would believe that ghost story. To hell with the attending doctor!"

"What did that place need an attending doctor for? To cure that rooster-haired idiot on the next street of his filthy habit of shaking all over whenever he saw an egg?"

The thin man and everyone around him burst into laughter. As the bartender polished a glass, he said, "Where couldn’t they find an attending doctor? I could do it too. All he did was balance accounts and write medical records. What patients were there to treat?"

"That was why I said it was all bullshit meant to fool ghosts. The Godfather deliberately cut off that business to let the Mafia families know that if they wanted to make money with him, they had to obediently help him clean up those enemies. Otherwise, they could forget about making a dime."

Big Beard took a sip of whiskey, bared his teeth, and continued, "Many years ago, the Godfather did the same thing. He used two poppy plantations to threaten the Mafia families in the downstream trade into dealing with the biggest thorn in his side back then, that… Anthony. It was a huge business. If anyone could get their hands on all the product from those two plantations, they’d make a fortune. You all know what happened. That Frenchman’s head was sitting on the Godfather’s desk the next day."

"They wouldn’t live much longer," the thin man said darkly. "Those pansies from Metropolis should crawl back to their own nest and stay out of Gotham’s business."

"Go back? They probably wouldn’t get the chance. They were dead for sure."

Elsewhere, Schiller held a phone in the hospital and said, "Yes, Thank you for your concern. I’m fine… Yes, I just need some rest. I really didn’t expect…"

Just after he put down the phone, a nurse entered carrying another huge bouquet. "It seemed to be from the Lauren family."

"Put it there, Thank you. Also, please take these bouquets away. They’re not very fresh anymore."

The nurse tidied the area beside the hospital bed, which was piled with flowers and gifts from Mafia families of every kind. She could not help recalling what they had chatted about in the hallway: even if the Godfather were sick, he might not receive such an extravagant display.

Schiller, however, was in an excellent mood. This was paid leave. In the past two days alone, he had received dozens of pounds of expensive wine and cigars. He had no idea which little genius had spread the word that he liked cigars. Now his manor held more than a million dollars’ worth of premium cigars.

The idea of pretending to be injured had actually come from a sudden flash of inspiration one morning.

No one needed to remind Schiller that the people from Metropolis had definitely come for him.

Deathstroke had previously taken an employer’s money to kill him, but Schiller had talked him out of it. The person behind it would not let the matter rest. Perhaps because Deathstroke had backed out, he had not hired another famous lone Assassin. Instead, he had found a gang of criminals from somewhere and intended to fight as a team.

Under normal circumstances, Schiller should have begun a battle of attack and defense with them. Given Gotham’s style, calling the police was probably wishful thinking. The enemy was hidden while he was exposed. All Schiller could do was spend a fortune on good bodyguards or hire people to protect him around the clock.

Even if he used Gray Mist to find their locations, Schiller would still have to be extremely cautious before picking off a few isolated men and killing them.

But that was far too stupid, Schiller thought. He had no intention of dragging himself down to the level of those thugs, only to be defeated by their greater experience.

Since the mastermind could afford to hire Deathstroke, the gang of criminals he had found would not be small fry either. They had to be capable, or they would not have killed the Godfather’s men the moment they arrived in Gotham.

Live in constant fear every day? Guard against an assassination that could come at any moment? Schiller would never do that.

So, after informing Falcone, Schiller was immediately "injured," and quite seriously at that.

Ask about it, and he needed a long period of recovery. Ask again, and he was in a bad mood and could not think straight.

His injury did not matter. But without an attending doctor, the psychiatric hospital had to shut down too. How could those Mafia bosses possibly sit still?

The psychiatric hospital had been operating for so long that the first few people to get in on it had already made fortunes. Those who joined later were working hard to establish their own businesses within the industry. They had spent enormous amounts of time and money on it, and just as they were about to reap the harvest, someone cut them off. How could they be willing to accept that?

Those already making money were even less willing. They did not need to risk bullets flying everywhere. They only needed to agree on a split with Schiller, then sit back and collect money. Who would not want that kind of deal? They had already made plenty, and they wanted to make more. If operations stopped now, would that not mean taking a loss?

On the first day the psychiatric hospital announced its closure, every phone line was ringing off the hook, including Bruce’s.

During the time Schiller had returned to Gotham University, Bruce had been managing the entire hospital in his place. Schiller had not discussed this plan with Bruce beforehand, but who was Batman? In less than a few seconds, he understood Schiller’s intentions.

So the world’s richest man immediately gave up on the spot. Every Mafia boss who called to probe for information received only Bruce’s idiotic triple response: didn’t know, wasn’t sure, couldn’t figure it out.

I was just an idle, empty-headed billionaire. What was the point of asking me? They would be better off asking Evans.

Evans had been doing well at the hospital too. After all, he was the Godfather’s son and naturally belonged to the same camp as those Mafia bosses. Thus, the bosses could only call Evans instead.

Evans also claimed to be in a difficult position. He could only tell the Mafia bosses that it was his father’s decision, one he could not interfere with.

Once he put it that way, the Mafia bosses all understood. What assassination injury? Wasn’t this just another one of the Godfather’s methods?

They were not idiots. They knew the Godfather was warning them. If the Godfather lost face, none of them would have an easy time either.

Those people from Metropolis dared to disregard Gotham’s rules so completely, while everyone else stood by and watched the show. Then nobody should expect to make money.

The Mafia bosses felt that this really was the Godfather warning them. If they still wanted to eat meat together, they needed to show sincerity. Wherever he pointed, that was where they had to strike.

After weighing it up, the Mafia bosses came around. What honored guests from faraway Metropolis? They were clearly scum from Metropolis! Find them immediately, and once they were found, chop them up on the spot. No need to see them alive; seeing their corpses would be enough.

To keep their profitable business at the psychiatric hospital going, the Mafia bosses were ready to dig three feet into the ground to root out the group from Metropolis.

There was no need to say more about how fierce Gotham’s gangs were. Especially when the matter threatened their real interests, everyone connected to it went madly searching for and attacking those outsiders.

Originally, this group had found their target, Schiller, only a few days after entering Metropolis. They had not acted then merely because they were confident in themselves and wanted to arrange everything perfectly before striking.

Schiller moved out of Gotham University, and they had nearly finished closing the net. Yet before they could act, Schiller was suddenly injured!

What? He had been attacked by outsiders from Metropolis? Outsiders from Metropolis? Wasn’t that us? We didn’t do it!

The criminals from Metropolis felt as though they had eaten shit. They had encountered all kinds of strange things over the years, but this was the first time someone had framed them by throwing himself down!

We hadn’t even acted yet!! He fell down by himself!! What did it have to do with us?!

But clearly, this was impossible to explain. Finding evidence to prove they had acted would be easy enough, but how were they supposed to prove that they had not acted? The man was already lying in the hospital. What could they possibly say?

Whoever the victim said had done it was the one who had done it.

Besides, even if they had not done it, if the Godfather said they had, then they had.

They had originally found a suitable place near Schiller’s manor to plant bombs and another good spot nearby to stake out, intending to lure Schiller over. But now every gang in Gotham was looking for them. Their original stakeout location had been discovered, and they could only relocate.

They had caught the Godfather off guard at first, but that had been a sneak attack. Over the past few days, they had witnessed firsthand how Gotham’s gangs fought each other with the firepower of a small war. What city in Metropolis had that kind of spectacle? Now these gangs were no longer fighting one another. They had united to fight them.

Look at those rows of machine guns on armored vehicles, rocket launchers in every man’s hands, and even several rocket artillery vehicles that some suicidal lunatic had acquired from who knew where. Who would not have their heart pounding at that sight? You would be numb too!

Thus, it was now the outsiders who were fleeing everywhere. Gotham’s gangs did not seem to want to capture them at all. Several places where they had previously hidden were found by the gangs and immediately bombarded with rocket launchers. They did not want prisoners. They only wanted corpses. Corpses that were not entirely intact would do too.

When it came to how utterly insane gangs could be, no city in the world could compare to Gotham. And when those insane gangs united to strike a single target, the misery of that target was easy to imagine.

The losses caused by constantly relocating were not merely minor troubles like being unable to replenish supplies or store daily necessities. More importantly, once their trail was caught and enemies came to their door, someone had to stay behind to cover the retreat. After several moves, they had already left behind several capable men. Their group had dwindled from more than a dozen people to only a few.

They wanted to abandon the mission and flee, but Gotham’s gangs would not give them that chance.

No one knew who had spread the word that whoever submitted this token of allegiance first would receive the biggest slice of the cake. With profit hanging in front of them, naturally everyone wanted to be first. The gangs had gone mad trying to seize them and claim credit for the reward.