Godfather of Gotham

For a while, there's just silence between us. There's still more unanswered.

Every now and then, Tommy takes another long drag of his cigarette, the ember briefly flaring before fading into the darkness again. We sit there, watching the cars below cut across the street like fireflies that lost their way. It's oddly peaceful. For Gotham, anyway.

I start to think he's going to ignore my questions entirely.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he sends the half-finished cigarette sailing into the street below. He stands.

"I should've known better," he mutters. "Kids these days. No patience, I tell ya." He jerks his head toward the apartment. "Come on inside. This ain't the kind of talk we have out in the open."

No argument from me.

I scramble to my feet and trail after him, heart pounding for reasons I can't quite name. I expect him to stop in the living room, maybe sit at the table. Instead, we walk past it. Past the door to my room too, and stop in front of his.

He pushes it open without a word and steps aside, letting me in.

The first thing that hits me is the smell, stale smoke and old cologne. The second is the size. Definitely bigger than my room. There's a small bed in one corner, barely made, and a nightstand cluttered with coins, receipts, and a pair of old cufflinks. But what really stands out is the far corner: a battered metal desk, lamp buzzing softly, and a trio of tall filing cabinets looming like sentinels.

I whistle low. "Aren't I technically your boss? Why don't I have the bigger room?"

He snorts, gives me a half-smile without turning around.

"When you can pay the rent, Magnificent Don Leo, I'll give you the throne room. Until then, shut up and sit down."

He heads to the filing cabinets, yanks one open, and begins rifling through the contents with the speed of someone who knows exactly where everything is. Papers rustle. A few folders drop onto the desk. Finally, he finds what he's looking for and walks over with a small stack under his arm.

"Here," he says, slapping them onto the desk. "You had questions. Let's start with what we do."

I step closer and look down.

The first sheet has numbers. Lots of them. None of it means anything to me, just a sea of zeroes and scribbled margins. There's a grainy photo clipped to the next page: some guy in a pinstripe suit and a neck tattoo, frozen mid-laugh like a mugshot at a party. A few more papers—maps, maybe?—and then a page with names and dates scribbled in red ink.

I frown. "These are...?"

"Records. Ledgers. Faces you should start remembering. Some of those guys were sitting at the table back at the restaurant." He pulls a photo from the stack. "This one? Nicky Spats. Used to run smuggling out of the docks. This guy-" he flips to another, "Big Sal. Extortion, gambling, bit of arson when he was bored."

My stomach turns.

This is real. These aren't stories or rumors. This is a damn directory of criminals.

"So, what do we do?" Tommy repeats. He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. "Back in the day, when my old man ran things? We did everything. Protection rackets. Bookmaking. Running brothels. Drugs, guns, cars. The nasty stuff too. Kidnapping and black market organs. You name it, we had a hand in it."

I feel the blood drain from my face.

Of course I knew we were criminals…but hearing it laid out so plainly?

It hits different.

"But… you used to," I manage to say, voice a little shaky. "Why don't we anymore?"

Stupid. I hate how weak that sounded. I bite the inside of my cheek and try to stand straighter, bracing for a snide remark.

Tommy just looks at me.

Long enough to make me squirm.

"We're too weak," he says finally, his voice quiet now. No sarcasm. No edge. Just honesty. "Like I said, the Luciano family… we fell from grace."

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a worn photograph. Black and white. Old. Five men standing together in front of a building with a neon "Luigi's Pizza" sign glowing behind them. One of them is a teenager with eyes just like mine.

"That's your grandfather, Old Pop. Back then, we owned most of Little Italy. Not all of it, but enough to walk tall. We were small, sure, but we were respected. Feared, even."

He taps the photo.

"But then your father stepped up. Became Underboss. That's when things changed."