Chapter 7: Red Hood Rising

Diamond District – Evening

The meeting took place in the back room of an old cigar lounge in the Diamond District—Falcone’s territory.

The place smelled like it had been sealed for decades, the air choked with stale cigar smoke, spilled whiskey, and the faint odor of sweat from men who had done terrible things in expensive suits. The ceiling fans turned lazily, more for show than ventilation. On the paneled walls hung black-and-white photographs of Carmine Falcone shaking hands with judges, bishops, and politicians, each one smiling as though they had just won something precious and illegal.

At the center of the long, polished table sat Carmine Falcone himself—immaculate in his white suit, the fabric crisp and unwrinkled, as though even dust and ash feared to touch him. In his hand, he swirled a heavy-bottomed glass of amber liquor, the ice clinking softly. Around him stood five of his top men, hulking shadows with pistols tucked under their coats, each one silent but radiating the promise of sudden violence.

At the far end, slouched nervously in his seat, was Mayor Hamilton Hill. The man looked like he’d been sweating for days, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loose and damp. He dabbed at his glistening forehead with a silk handkerchief that looked more expensive than his nerves could afford.

“I’m just saying,” Hamilton muttered, his voice cracking slightly, “the city’s getting jumpy. This whole ‘Bat’ thing is hurting my numbers. The press keeps asking what I plan to do about it, and I—I don’t even know what it is! Is it a cop? A nutjob? A vigilante?”

Falcone didn’t answer. He just stared at the mayor over the rim of his glass, his eyes hard and unreadable. He took a slow sip, savoring the burn, then set the drink down without a sound.

And then, without warning, he rose from his chair and slapped Hamilton across the face.

The crack rang out like a gunshot.

Hamilton gasped and half-fell sideways in his seat, clutching his cheek in shock.

Falcone’s voice was low, almost calm, but there was steel in it.
“You’re in this seat because I put you in it. So maybe remember who keeps your poll numbers from turning into an obituary.”

“I—I didn’t mean any disrespect—” Hamilton stammered.

Falcone leaned in, so close the mayor could smell the cigar smoke on his breath.
“You’re a puppet, Hamilton. A nervous, expensive puppet. So sit still, smile for the cameras, and shut the fuck up, will ya?”

He straightened, his glare sweeping across the rest of the room.
“And speaking of things I should’ve handled myself...”

The glass in his hand suddenly arced through the air and smashed against the far wall, scattering shards across the hardwood.

“Jim Gordon,” Falcone spat, the name itself tasting bitter. “That smug little prick just got promoted to Commissioner. My Commissioner—Branden—was doing exactly what I paid him to do: look the other way. Keep the streets quiet. Keep Batman off my back.”

He paced, his shoes whispering over the carpet. “Now, because the Bat saved his sorry ass, Gordon’s out there talking to the press like he’s gonna ‘clean up Gotham.’”

Falcone sneered. “Clean it up of me!”

He bit down on his cigar, the ember flaring as he spoke through clenched teeth.
“This freak in a cape thinks he’s clever—picking off my dealers, putting Gordon on top, making a name for himself. But he’s not the only one who can wear a mask.”

From the shadows, one of his men spoke carefully. “So what’s the play?”

Falcone stopped pacing. His voice dropped into a dangerous purr.
“We give him a distraction. Something stupid. Loud. Bright. A gimmick.”

Another man frowned. “Like what?”

Falcone smirked, a wolf’s grin.
“The freak wants a circus? I say let’s give ‘em one. I’ve got an old prop from a failed nightclub job in the Narrows—red helmet, cape, tuxedo.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound low and mean.
“Let’s start a rumor. A criminal mastermind called the Red Hood. Different guy wearing the getup every week. Maybe they rob a store. Shoot up a casino. Scare a few rich folks. Nothing serious.”

Falcone sank back into his chair, lighting a fresh cigar as though the matter were settled.
“While Bat-boy chases a cartoon, we clean house where it really matters.”

Wayne Manor – Noon

The sublevel beneath Wayne Manor was dim and hushed, the kind of quiet that made every sound seem amplified. The air smelled faintly of fresh paint and newly cut steel—evidence of recent work. Shadows pooled along the walls, broken only by the faint, sterile glow of recessed lighting.

Lucius Fox, sharp in his tailored charcoal suit, led Bruce across the echoing floor. His polished shoes clicked against the concrete as he stopped before a towering, steel-reinforced sliding door. The man’s easy smile and calm, measured confidence contrasted with the imposing industrial setting around them.

With a low, mechanical groan, the door slid open to reveal a vaulted chamber of reinforced concrete and steel catwalks overhead. At the room’s center sat a hulking shape under a black tarp, its angular silhouette already hinting at something powerful.

Lucius stepped forward, gripping the tarp with both hands, and in one swift motion pulled it free.

“Meet the Batmobile.”

The machine beneath looked like a predator at rest—sleek, jet-black, armored from nose to tail. The body’s sharp contours flowed into an aerodynamic spine, while a turbine intake jutted like the snout of a jet fighter. Grappling ports were embedded in the wheel wells; a plated belly offered protection against explosives; glowing blue exhaust vents promised speed and fury.

“Reinforced titanium-alloy shell,” Lucius said, circling it like a proud craftsman. “EMP shielding. Jet-boosted afterburner. Front-mounted cannon pods—nonlethal, of course. And a GPS system routed through a secure defense satellite. All yours.”