THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 31: THE WEIGHT OF SACRIFICE

Gotham itself is not sick. The sickness lies in its people. If the city is to be reborn, the cure is simple—replace them. It's a ruthless logic, but sometimes, to save something, you have to be willing to cut away the rot. The thought stirred a dull ache in Carmine Falcone's chest, though he masked it well behind an air of quiet contemplation. A strong man must be prepared to make painful sacrifices.

Seated in his dimly lit study, Falcone reached for the wine bottle on the mahogany table, but before he could pour himself a drink, his daughter, Sofia, intercepted him with a graceful ease. She took the bottle and refilled his glass, then did the same for the visibly agitated Commissioner Gordon.

"So many? Eight million? Eight million people?" Gordon's voice trembled with fury as he slammed his glass onto the table, the golden liquid splashing over the rim.

Sofia turned to her father with a coy smile. "Father, Chief Gordon seems unwell. Should I escort him to rest?"

There was something unsettling about her tone, something veiled beneath the surface of her gentle demeanor. As she spoke, a series of barely audible pops came from her body—joints shifting, stretching. The air in the room turned inexplicably colder. Even the white cat curled up on the carpet twitched awake, its fur bristling as it scanned the space for an unseen threat.

Falcone, ever composed, gave a small chuckle. "That won't be necessary, my dear." He retrieved a napkin from the table and began dabbing away the spilled wine, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Gordon has always been like this. Since the first day I met him, he's been ruled by emotion." Falcone's voice carried a hint of condescension, tempered only by the warmth of nostalgia. "But when this storm passes, he'll understand. When he sees the new Gotham, the city cleansed of its sickness, he'll know why this had to be done."

Falcone's gaze lifted from the table, settling on Sofia with a measured sternness. "And you—how many times must I remind you? Our family does not rule through fear alone. We uphold honor. We follow rules. We persuade with reason." He took a slow sip of his wine. "Do not let your temper shame the Falcone name."

Sofia bowed her head slightly, her expression softening. "Of course, Father. I will be more careful."

She reached down and scooped the cat into her lap, absentmindedly stroking its ears between her fingers. The feline let out a quiet purr, though its body remained tense, instinctively wary of the room's charged atmosphere.

Falcone gave his daughter an approving nod before turning back to Gordon, who looked like a man caught in a waking nightmare.

"I apologize for Sofia's behavior," Falcone said lightly, though his tone lacked sincerity. "She picked up a few tricks during her time in the East—she's still learning to temper herself."

Gordon barely heard him. His mind was racing, desperately piecing together fragments of the puzzle that had led him here. Then, like a blade through the fog, realization struck.

"Barbara." His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. Then louder: "Where is my daughter?"

The warm amusement on Falcone's face flickered, replaced by something colder. He hesitated, then spoke, his voice low and deliberate.

"Sofia. Turn on the television."

She moved without a word, setting the cat aside as she stepped past Gordon toward the sleek television mounted on the far wall. As she did, she made the slightest motion with her hand, so small it was almost imperceptible. Gordon felt it instantly. His legs gave out beneath him.

He collapsed back onto the couch with a heavy thud. A wave of numbness spread through his limbs, pinning him in place.

"What—what did you do to me?" His voice was ragged as he fought to move, his gaze snapping toward Falcone. "Where is she? Where's Barbara?"

Falcone exhaled slowly, as if burdened by the weight of the conversation. "It's not what we did to her, Jim. It's what others have done." He gestured toward the screen as the television flickered to life. "You made enemies, Gordon. Powerful ones. And now, they've made their move."

A distorted, mechanical voice crackled through the speakers, a voice Gordon knew too well.

"Good evening, Gotham."

The room fell into silence.

---

By the time Gordon's mind resurfaced from the abyss of grief, his face was slick with tears. His breathing came in short, broken gasps, his chest rising and falling like a man on the edge of drowning. In his mind, he could see it over and over—the masked assassin, the rain-soaked pavement, the way Barbara's body had crumpled when the shots rang out.

Why?

Why does it always happen this way?

He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. Every time. Every damn time, it's his family that suffers.

Falcone sat beside him, silently dabbing at the corners of his own eyes with a handkerchief, as if the tragedy had personally wounded him. Meanwhile, Sofia remained in her chair, idly stroking the white cat, utterly detached.

"My sincerest condolences, Gordon," Falcone murmured, handing him a fresh handkerchief. "This was never the plan. You and Barbara should have been here, safe with us, sharing a peaceful evening as family." He sighed heavily. "But Gotham has changed. My hold over this city is not what it once was. Someone invited Slade Wilson into our city—and I had no warning."

Gordon barely heard him. His own voice came out in a broken whisper.

"What did I do? Who did I cross?" He pressed his fists against his temples, his breath ragged. "Why does it always come back to them? Why is it never me?"

Falcone exchanged a glance with Sofia. She took the silent cue and pressed two fingers against Gordon's chest. Immediately, his muscles locked in place.

"Enough of that," Falcone said gently, almost like a father comforting a child. "You've done nothing wrong, Jim. You wanted to fix this city, just like I do. We are the same. We are good men."

Gordon let out a choked sob.

"We can avenge her," Falcone continued, leaning in slightly. "Slade Wilson is still here. And we have a chance."

Gordon did not answer. He was too deep in his grief, his entire world reduced to a single word that fell from his lips over and over again.

"Barbara... Barbara..."

His mind had fractured, shutting out everything else.

Falcone sighed and turned to Sofia.

"I can't work with him like this," he muttered. "We need to remove Wilson first. That will bring him back."

Sofia's expression darkened. She knew exactly where this was going.

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"Are you sure you can handle her?" Falcone asked.

Sofia's lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, something unreadable flickered behind her eyes—frustration, reluctance, maybe even fear. Finally, she let out a slow breath and leaned back against the couch.

"No, Father," she admitted. "I am not her opponent."

Falcone frowned. "Your master said you were a once-in-a-century talent."

Sofia gave a humorless chuckle. "Then she must have only told you half the truth. Because there are some people in this world that you should never fight. Slade Wilson is one of them."

Falcone studied her for a long moment.

"She's really that strong?"

Sofia nodded.

"She's a prodigy. A master of every weapon—blades, firearms, even things most people wouldn't consider weapons." A bitter smile tugged at her lips. "If you asked me to fight Batman, I could have him kneeling at your feet. But Slade Wilson?" She shook her head.

"My master always warned me: 'If you ever see Slade Wilson in battle, don't fight. Run.'"

Falcone fell silent, lost in thought.

The room returned to stillness, save for Gordon's broken murmurs.