THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 32: THE PRICE OF POWER

For a moment, the room fell into an eerie silence, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the grand fireplace. Then, unexpectedly, Falcone erupted into laughter. His voice was deep and full of mirth, resonating through the dimly lit study. His weathered face stretched into a wide grin, lines of experience creasing at the edges of his mouth.

"Unbelievable," he chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. "To think that someone like her exists in this world... If she had been around in our time, I have no doubt Maroni would have thrown every cent he had to hire her to take me out."

Across from him, Sophia sat lazily on a plush leather chair, legs crossed. She idly toyed with the ears of a white cat resting in her lap, twisting them into the shape of a rabbit. Her expression was one of mild amusement, but her eyes—sharp and calculating—betrayed her keen interest in the conversation.

"Uncle Maroni couldn't afford her," she replied dryly, barely glancing up. "Slade Wilson isn't just any mercenary. She doesn't come cheap. Her pricing model is precise—thirty percent of the target's total net worth. No more, no less. And guess what? I checked her quote for Batman. Not for his vigilante alter ego, but for Bruce Wayne himself. Care to guess the number?"

Falcone's interest was piqued. He leaned forward slightly, cradling a crystal glass of bourbon in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed gently as he swirled it.

"How much?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Sophia let go of the cat's ears and stretched out her fingers, doing a quick calculation in her head.

"Bruce Wayne owns eighty percent of Wayne Enterprises. If you factor in his real estate holdings, private investments, and the inflation over the years, his total net worth rounds out to about eighty billion dollars," she explained, her voice smooth and confident. "Slade Wilson's fee? Twenty-four billion. That's what it would take to make Batman disappear."

A choked sound escaped Falcone as he nearly spat out his drink. He coughed, dabbing his lips with a silk handkerchief before shooting his daughter an incredulous look.

"She... she actually dares to charge that much?" he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

From this perspective, Slade Wilson wasn't just a hired gun—she was a force of nature. She priced lives like luxury commodities, as if they were items neatly stacked on a supermarket shelf, waiting for the highest bidder. No money? No problem. The city was full of desperate street thugs willing to do the job for cheap. But for those who wanted guaranteed results? That was another matter entirely.

Sophia smirked, enjoying the shift in her father's expression.

"Based on her formula, even if she had been around back then, you would have been relatively safe," she mused. "Our family doesn't own corporate assets like the Waynes, but we do have revenue. Protection fees alone would've placed your value at over a hundred million. Uncle Maroni? He could only scrape together about forty million. If anything, he would have been the one living in fear every day."

Falcone grunted, his fingers tightening around the glass.

"So what you're saying is—I was poor compared to Bruce Wayne?" he grumbled.

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Sophia shrugged nonchalantly. "Not poor, father. Just... not in her price range."

Falcone exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

"I don't get it," he admitted. "The Wayne and Kane families have always been wealthy, but not this wealthy. How did Bruce do it?"

Sophia leaned back, folding her arms behind her head.

"He adapted," she said simply. "He caught up with the information age. Tech, security, medical advancements, digital markets—Wayne Enterprises is involved in all of it. He diversified and capitalized on the world's growing reliance on technology. That's why his wealth skyrocketed."

Falcone sighed. The world was changing, and he had to admit, he wasn't as well-versed in the modern economy as he once was. Still, one thing remained clear.

"With prices like that, does Slade Wilson even get any business?" he asked skeptically.

Sophia chuckled.

"Oh, business is booming," she assured him. "But high-profile targets like Bruce Wayne? Those cases are rare. The real money comes from everyday vendettas. Just like she said on television—her basic rate starts at two million."

She shifted slightly, her gaze drifting toward Commissioner Gordon. The man was lost in his own world, immersed in memories. Sophia refocused and continued.

"Say you're a small business owner," she elaborated. "You've got a rival who keeps sabotaging you. You call Slade Wilson, pay her two million, and by morning, that rival is gone—completely wiped off the map. No clues, no trails, no questions asked. And in the aftermath, your business flourishes. The investment practically pays for itself."

Falcone mulled this over, taking another slow sip from his glass.

"So... she charges billions for someone like Bruce Wayne, but two million for some nobody? That's an odd scale."

Sophia nodded.

"Slade Wilson doesn't care who she's eliminating," she explained. "She's in it for the business. The wealthier the target, the higher the price. That's all there is to it."

Falcone tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, his mind working through the implications. Then his gaze sharpened.

"But Barbara Gordon isn't some billionaire," he pointed out. "No one paid for her death. So why would Slade Wilson target her?"

Sophia hesitated.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I've heard rumors. They say Slade Wilson is... unpredictable. Sometimes she kills for free—if she's in the mood. Other times, she wipes out everyone in her path. Maybe Barbara was just unlucky."

Falcone exhaled sharply.

"Crazy. Another lunatic in this city," he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. He swirled his drink again before downing the rest. "Fine. Let her burn with the rest of old Gotham. No matter how good she is, she can't survive the venom rainstorm. That should at least bring Gordon some peace."

Sophia nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.

"There's still another group of guests who haven't arrived yet," she reminded him. "The storm might've delayed them."

Falcone scoffed.

"The League of Assassins? Delayed by rain?" He shook his head. "You underestimate them. They're never late. Especially when it comes to vengeance."

He turned to face her, his expression darkening.

"Activate the surveillance systems," he ordered. "I want every shadow that enters Gotham monitored. The second they step foot in my city, we trigger the venom dispersal. They'll never leave."

Sophia's lips curled into a small smile, her long black hair cascading over her shoulder as she tilted her head.

"But will Ra's al Ghul and Talia come?" she questioned.

Falcone leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes glinted with certainty.

"They will," he stated. "When they realize it was me behind this, they'll come. Because they know... their assassins are useless against me."

Sophia smirked, pleased with his confidence.

"Are you sure Gordon left them a clue?"

Falcone chuckled.

"He thought he was being subtle, engraving it on his glasses," Sophia revealed. "But at my level of training, I saw it instantly. I even verified the license plate number he etched. So yes—I made sure they'll find their way here."

Falcone grinned.

"Good. Let them come. And when they do... only Ra's and Talia leave alive. The rest? They die."

Sophia arched an eyebrow.

"Why spare them?"

Falcone leaned back, his smirk widening.

"Gotham needs enemies," he said simply. "Without them, you, Gordon, and Bruce would have no reason to unite."

And in the flickering light of the fire, he looked every bit the kingpin he had always been.