Ascendant in the Shadows

The Theory

The social mingling after the speech was as tiresome as always. Guests wearing smiles—some genuine, others artificial—clinked glasses, probing each other's boundaries over swirling drinks. It was a dance of alliances and negotiations, the subtle carving of interests.

Naturally, Bruce Wayne became the center of attention yet again. Richard Sappa and the other mob bosses stood to the side, watching coldly as Wayne and Lincoln March, the up-and-coming political prodigy, engaged in animated conversation.

“What do you think Gotham's 'Brightest Futures' are talking about over there?” murmured Yoneji Taga, the head of the Yakuza in Gotham.

The burly Russian mob boss scoffed. “What else? Old-money aristocrats and rising political stars joining forces to sweep away the city's entrenched interests—telling the stubborn fools clinging to their turf to pack up and leave.”

“And we,” Richard added coolly, setting down a king crab claw, “are the stubborn fools, aren’t we?”

He snapped his fingers, signaling a waiter to bring a bowl of water for cleaning his hands. “The mob is as much a part of Gotham's fabric as its skyscrapers and streets. No matter how these high-and-mighty tycoons and bureaucrats think of us, we’re builders of this city. Casinos, red-light districts, d**g dens, bars, nightclubs, banks—even airlines, movie studios, construction firms, and car manufacturers—wherever there are people, there is violence. And where there’s violence, there’s us.”

Richard removed his family-crest-engraved ring, dipped his hands into the bowl, and scrubbed at his fingers, his corpulent knuckles swelling grotesquely beneath the water.

“Parasites? Bloodsuckers living off the city's body? No. We've shaped this city as much as it has shaped us.”

Taga gave a distracted hum of agreement. “Like the bacteria in our guts?”

“Exactly. My grandson is a science buff—always reading about Copernicus and Newton. He told me there are over 500 types of bacteria in the human gut. Sure, some cause dysentery, skin infections, or pneumonia, but most are beneficial. They help you digest food and fend off disease. It's symbiosis.”

Richard inspected his nails for dirt, frowning. “Gotham gives us a warm, fertile environment to grow, and in return, we manage the filth and chaos. Imagine the city without all the nameless bodies sunk at the port. It would be a lawless, anarchic mess.”

He retrieved a towel from the waiter, drying his hands as he added, “We are the city's backbone—its unseen scaffolding. Essential, even if invisible.”

The towering African-American g**g leader, Bob, chuckled derisively. “Richard, you should pitch that to Lincoln March. The mob as Gotham’s backbone—what a theory! I’ll make sure to tell your mother, though probably in bed.”

The room echoed with laughter.

Richard’s expression darkened. Tossing the towel back to the waiter, he seized Bob’s golden tie, yanking him forward and slamming him onto the table with a resounding thud.

Thunk!

A razor-sharp steak knife grazed Bob’s face, embedding itself deep in the wooden tabletop. Its stainless steel handle quivered violently.

“Bob, Bob, Bob,” Richard crooned mockingly, his pudgy hand pressing Bob’s head firmly against the table. Despite his girth, Richard exuded a chilling aura of authority and violence.

“My great-grandfather came to Gotham on a smuggler’s ship, an Italian leather merchant who capitalized on Prohibition to seize the docks and make his fortune. And your great-grandfather? Probably shoveling cow dung on some Midwest farm. Or playing elevator boy at a hotel.”

Richard’s sharp glare swept across the room. The other mob bosses averted their eyes, staring down at the beige tablecloth.

“My family has been here for nearly a century,” Richard declared. “We’ve witnessed the mob’s golden age—when judges kissed my grandfather’s ring, the IRA begged for asylum, and even the Vatican sought our approval for appointing Gotham’s bishops.

“And now? A simple mayoral election has you quaking like scared little girls. I’m ashamed to share a table with you cowards.”

Richard placed his hand on the knife handle, twisting it slightly. The blade pressed against Bob’s lips, drawing a thin line of blood.

“But,” Richard continued, his tone softening as he leaned closer, “we’re all friends here, aren’t we, Bob?”

“Yes... yes, Richard.”

“What was that?”

The blade pushed deeper, crimson droplets staining the tablecloth and dripping onto the marble floor.

“I mean... Mr. Sappa.”

“Now that’s better.” Richard released his grip, letting Bob collapse back into his chair, panting heavily.

A young waiter nearby, holding a bowl of water, seemed paralyzed with fear. His trembling hands tipped the bowl, spilling greasy water and crab oil onto Richard's suit.

“Damn it! Do you even have eyes?”

“S-sorry, sir, I...” the waiter stammered—none other than Li Ang in disguise. “There’s a dry cleaner downstairs. Should I...”

“Forget it. Get out of my sight,” Richard snapped, dabbing at the stain with his napkin. “Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment.” He stood and made his way to the restroom.

The restroom was as opulent as the banquet hall—dark wood-grain marble walls, gold-trimmed brass faucets, and delicate red roses adorning the sinks.

Richard sighed, loosening his collar as he grabbed a few tissues to blot the stains on his chest.

The door creaked open behind him. It was the young waiter.

“Hey, get lost. I can clean myself up,” Richard growled.

“Actually, that’s not why I’m here, Mr. Sappa,” Li Ang replied, his tone casual as he removed his tie and snapped it taut, the sound sharp in the air. “I had a few questions about your theory regarding the mob.”

Richard’s expression hardened as he reached for his waistband, but it was too late.

Li Ang’s tie lashed out like a whip, coiling around Richard’s wrist. With a quick tug, the corpulent mob boss toppled to the floor, groaning in pain.

“Drifters, vagrants, thugs—call them what you will,” Li Ang murmured as he dragged Richard into a restroom stall, shoving his head into the toilet. “Dress it up however you like, but the mob is nothing more than scum feeding on the city’s marrow.”