Chapter 14 : The Night of Knives
The first gunshot came from two blocks away.
We froze in the alley shadows, listening. More shots. Distant sirens spinning up. Radio chatter crackling from somewhere.
"That's Alberto's boys," Terry whispered. "Maroni's warehouse."
Right on schedule.
I checked my watch: 11:47 PM. The distraction was working. Now came the hard part.
Marco's new headquarters was a four-story apartment building on the Narrows border—close enough to Maroni territory for protection, far enough to maintain deniability. Four guards outside, two at each entrance. Third floor, apartment 3C, according to Terry's contact.
"Remember the plan," I said quietly. "Pat, Julio—back entrance. Wait for our signal. Non-lethal if possible, but don't die for it."
Big Pat nodded, his bulk somehow becoming less visible as he prepared to move. Julio's hands were steady for once—fear had given way to focus.
"Terry, you're with me. Front door."
We split up. The night swallowed my people.
The front entrance was a loading dock converted into apartments. Two guards slouched against the wall, attention divided between cigarettes and the radio chatter about the Maroni warehouse attack.
"—they hit the whole shipment, burned it—"
"—boss is going to lose his mind—"
I approached from the darkness, footsteps silent on wet pavement. Terry flanked left.
The first guard turned just as I reached him. My hand covered his mouth, arm wrapping around his throat. He struggled, then went limp. Not dead—just unconscious. Terry's taser dropped the second one with a muffled crackle.
We zip-tied their hands and moved inside.
The stairwell smelled like mold and cooking grease. Third floor. Apartment 3C. Every step felt like it took an hour.
"The last time I faced Marco, he was bleeding on a warehouse floor. That felt like a lifetime ago."
We reached the third floor. Terry checked the hallway—clear. 3A, 3B, 3C. The door was closed, light visible underneath.
I nodded to Terry. He nodded back.
I kicked.
The door exploded inward. Marco Santini stood in the middle of the room, stuffing cash into a duffel bag. His face went through surprise, recognition, and terror in the space of a heartbeat.
He had a gun.
Time slowed. Marco's arm came up. The barrel pointed at my chest. His finger found the trigger.
I was already moving—diving left as the gun roared. The bullet passed close enough that I felt the air displacement. My ears rang. Plaster exploded from the wall behind where I'd been standing.
Terry returned fire. Once, twice. The second shot caught Marco's shoulder. He spun, screamed, dropped the weapon.
I was on him before he hit the ground.
My knee found his chest. My hand found his throat. Marco stared up at me, bleeding and pale, eyes wide with the particular terror of a man who had run out of options.
"I told you to leave," I said. My voice sounded strange in my ringing ears. "I told you to never come back."
"Please—" His voice cracked. "Please, I'll go, I swear—"
"You swore last time."
The gun was on the floor, two feet away. It would be easy. One bullet. No more Marco Santini, ever.
"I could kill him. End this permanently."
My hand tightened on his throat. Marco's face went red, then purple.
"But dead men can't carry messages. And I need Maroni to hear this."
I released. Marco gasped, choking, tears streaming down his face.
"Terry. Get the Maroni soldier downstairs. The one who's still conscious."
Two minutes later, the soldier was standing in the doorway, zip-tied hands shaking.
"You're going to take Marco back to your boss," I said. "You're going to tell him that the Narrows isn't worth the trouble. Tell him the Broker sends his regards."
The soldier's eyes darted between me and Marco's bleeding form.
"You understand?"
"Y-yes."
"Then go."
They stumbled out. I listened to their footsteps fade down the stairwell.
"Boss?" Terry's voice was careful. "You okay?"
My hands were shaking. The adrenaline was crashing, leaving nothing but tremors and the smell of gunpowder. That bullet had been close—inches. I could still feel where the air had moved.
I gripped the doorframe until my knuckles went white. Breathed. Counted to four. Let it out.
"I'm fine." The shaking slowed. Didn't stop, but slowed. "Secure the room. Take anything useful."
Terry hesitated, then nodded and started going through Marco's belongings.
"Six weeks ago, I threw up after fighting two thugs with a bottle. Now I'm holding a man at gunpoint and deciding whether he lives or dies."
I didn't know if that was progress or something else.
We found Marco's ledger—names, dates, protection payments. Useful intelligence. We found three thousand dollars in cash, which would cover the weapons cost and then some. We found a list of Maroni contacts that Alberto would want to see.
Dawn was breaking by the time we got back to the warehouse. The sky was pink and gold over Gotham's eastern towers.
I stood on the roof again—the same spot where Selina had found me last night. The city spread below, unchanged and indifferent to the violence that had just reshaped its underworld.
"My territory just doubled. Marco is neutralized. Maroni got the message."
The system pulsed.
[OPERATION: SUCCESS]
[Marco Santini: Eliminated as threat]
[Territory: Expanded]
[Fear Index: +100]
[Level: 8]
Somewhere out there, a woman in black was probably watching.
Somewhere out there, Alberto Falcone was celebrating a successful strike.
Somewhere out there, Maroni was licking his wounds and reconsidering his options.
I let myself breathe. Just for a moment.
Then I went back inside. There was work to do.
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