DC: Rise Of The Kryptonian Tyrant

"Your Excellency, this joke is not funny," Carmine said, setting down his sterling silver knife and fork with deliberate calm. His face remained neutral, but the subtle tension in his jaw betrayed the anger simmering beneath his composed exterior. He picked up a napkin, lightly dabbing at the corners of his mouth, a display of cultured restraint that masked the insult he felt.

Bardi's words had been beyond arrogant. The young man, barely in his twenties, had implied that Carmine, the ruler of Gotham's underworld, should one day bow to him. It was an insult Carmine couldn't easily ignore.

Who was Carmine Falcone? He wasn't just anyone. He was the godfather of Gotham's underworld, a man whose calculated moves had brought the fractured criminal networks of the city under his control. In less than half a year, Carmine had not only seized power but had the confidence and vision to consolidate it further, cementing his reign as unshakable.

He was not on par with Gotham's founding families—the Waynes, Elliotts, Kanes, or Cobblepots—who owned industries spanning every facet of the city. But the Falcone family had carved out its legacy in blood and shadow, and they were well on their way to becoming Gotham's fifth great house, one built on the gritty foundation of organized crime.

And yet, here sat Bardi, a young man with barely any footing in Gotham, daring to suggest that Carmine might one day serve under him. It was preposterous.

Carmine felt his anger spike, an unfamiliar heat flaring within him. But just as quickly as it came, it passed. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and exhaled slowly. The rage melted away as quickly as it had risen, leaving only the sharp clarity of a seasoned mind.

Carmine laughed softly, more at himself than at Bardi. How absurd it was that he, a man of his stature, had let the arrogant musings of a youth unsettle him, even if only for a moment.

Bardi, meanwhile, remained completely focused on his meal. More than 60% of the luxurious spread had already found its way onto his plate, and despite his pace, his movements remained elegant, his demeanor calm and composed.

For Bardi, two things in life were sacred: food and his convictions. Everything else was negotiable.

When he heard Carmine's self-deprecating laugh, Bardi's gaze flicked toward him briefly before returning to his steak. He smiled faintly, set down his knife and fork with measured care, and picked up his glass of brandy. After taking a small sip, he swirled the amber liquid in the glass, its rich color glinting in the light.

"I'm merely speaking about the future," Bardi said, his tone calm and assured. "One day, you'll be driven out of Gotham."

He paused, letting his words settle before continuing. "When that day comes, seek me out in Metropolis. I'll help you reclaim Gotham."

He raised his glass, smiling faintly as he drank.

The meaning behind his words was clear. When Carmine inevitably failed, he should turn to Bardi for guidance and servitude.

Carmine's face remained stoic, his expression betraying no emotion. He picked up his own glass, matching Bardi's gaze. A thin smile played at the corners of his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"If that day comes," Carmine said, his voice smooth but laced with subtle disdain, "then likewise, when you fail to hold your ground in Metropolis, you can come to me."

He raised his glass in a mocking toast, drinking deeply with a bold, almost defiant air.

Carmine's response was both a retort and a declaration of his confidence. In his mind, failure was not an option. He had money, power, influence, and an unshakable will. The thought of being driven out of Gotham was laughable.

His ambitions stretched far beyond merely controlling the underworld. Once unified, Gotham would become his kingdom, untouchable and eternal. The notion of someone forcing him out of power was a fantasy he refused to entertain.

He dismissed Bardi's words as the musings of an arrogant dreamer, though part of him remained cautious. If anything, he welcomed the day Bardi might crawl back to Gotham, seeking to serve under him. Having someone as formidable as Bardi on his side could only strengthen his hand.

Bardi, however, chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing. His confidence was unshaken.

"Gotham is a breeding ground for chaos," Bardi said after a moment. "The city will one day be teeming with... remarkable figures."

His gaze drifted for a moment as if envisioning the future. Penguin, Joker, Bane, Two-Face, Scarecrow, Riddler, Poison Ivy... Gotham will birth a legion of criminal geniuses. And yet, none of them will remain undefeated. Not one.

He leaned back slightly, his smile deepening. "Falcone, you'll be the first to fall. Driven out of Gotham, your empire will crumble. After that, the city will become nothing more than a chessboard for those who follow."

Bardi's words carried the weight of foreknowledge, though he spoke as though speculating.

"Forgive me," Bardi said, noticing Carmine's steady expression. "I don't mean to mock you. Let time reveal the truth."

He raised his glass once more. "If I fail to hold Metropolis, I'll come to you. And if you're driven out of Gotham, come to me."

Bardi stood, pouring another glass of brandy for himself and one for Carmine. Holding the glass aloft, he waited.

"Deal," Carmine finally said, standing to meet the toast. His voice was smooth, his confidence unwavering.

The two men clinked glasses, smiling faintly as they drank.

Bardi felt a deep sense of satisfaction. His time in Gotham had been productive. Not only had he gathered insights into the city's future, including the rise of villains like Poison Ivy and the eventual arrival of Batman.

Of course, if Bardi decided to deal with Bruce Wayne now, there would likely be no Batman in the future.

But he had no desire to wade into the messy waters of Gotham at this time. Even if Batman became his enemy down the line, Bardi wouldn't be bothered. By the time Bruce donned the cape and cowl, Bardi's plans would already be firmly in place.

Stopping him would require far more than defeating one or two of his subordinates. The scale of the system Bardi intended to build would be so massive that anyone standing in its way, hero or otherwise would be crushed under its weight. It wouldn't even require Bardi to intervene directly; the system itself would ensure resistance was snuffed out.

He had come early—earlier than anyone else. Gotham's iconic heroes and villains had yet to emerge in force, and the stage of "a hundred flowers blooming" was still a distant future. This gave him ample time to arrange everything to his advantage, ensuring he had all the pieces in place for when the chaos inevitably began.

Bardi placed his empty wine glass down on the table and walked over to the small balcony. He opened the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting in the cool autumn breeze that swirled through the room like a mischievous spirit, creating subtle ripples in the atmosphere.

Outside, the night was cloaked in darkness, with the city's countless lights flickering like distant flames. Gotham stretched out before him, its jagged skyline illuminated by the artificial glow. Standing on the balcony, Bardi seemed to tower over the city itself, his gaze sweeping across it as though he could see every shadow and secret it concealed.

A subtle glint passed through his eyes, and a faint, meaningful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He spoke softly, as though musing to himself, "Do you really want me to help you unify Gotham?"

Behind him, Carmine's voice answered firmly, cutting through the night air. "Gotham is already in my pocket."

…

Meanwhile, in a hidden lair beneath Alan Wayne's foundation, a different kind of meeting was taking place.

The room was brightly lit, with a long, dark red rosewood rectangular table occupying its center. Spread across the table were documents and photographs, including a portrait of Bardi that bore an uncanny resemblance to the man himself.

Seated around the table were individuals who exuded an air of aristocratic sophistication. The men wore tailored suits and polished shoes, their manners refined and deliberate. The women, draped in elegant evening gowns, carried themselves with the grace of nobility, the scents of expensive perfumes wafting faintly through the air.

But what made this gathering truly peculiar were the masks—white, owl-shaped masks that obscured their faces, giving the scene an eerie, surreal quality.

"Thomas Wayne is dead," one of them said, breaking the silence.

"Indeed. The plan went well," another replied, though a note of dissatisfaction crept into their voice. "But one of our Talons was killed. By a passerby, no less."

"The power he displayed was frightening," someone else murmured.

"Daring to provoke the Court of Owls in Gotham? Who does he think he is?"

"I'll admit, he doesn't look bad," a woman chimed in with a smirk. "I wonder if his strength matches his appearance."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," another voice snapped coldly. "Focus."

"Should we deal with him?" someone finally asked.

"No," came a measured reply. "Not right now."

"The death of Thomas Wayne is enough for now. We should stay hidden. Gotham is about to experience a period of great unrest, and it's best to remain in the shadows."

"Then let him live… for now."

…

Three days later, outside the Carmine Hotel.

Bardi and Mike emerged, the latter struggling under the weight of two large suitcases as they made their way toward their next destination: Metropolis.

"Boss, how did you know Falcone would give me three million dollars?" Mike asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

"It's an investment, a leash, and a show of mutual interest," Bardi replied casually. "Carmine is a smart man."

Mike nodded solemnly, though the intricacies of Bardi's relationship with Falcone were lost on him. All he knew was that his boss had somehow managed to walk away from a meal with Falcone, the head of Gotham's underworld, with three million dollars in hand. That, in Mike's eyes, was impressive.

"Boss, what are you going to do with three million dollars?" Mike asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Take care of women," Bardi said matter-of-factly, his expression unchanging.

Mike froze mid-step, his face contorting in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words. A moment later, he groaned, exasperated.

"That's my money!" he shouted internally, his frustration bubbling over silently.

***

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