When people talk about Gotham's "four great families", it's never truly accurate. Gotham's wealth is as volatile as its streets—new families rise overnight, while old ones rot away like corpses in Crime Alley.
Take the Cobblepots. Once titans of high society, the family's empire collapsed generations ago. All that's left now is Oswald—"Penguin"—a wannabe kingpin clawing at the ghost of his ancestors' glory. Then there's the Kane family, which after Martha Kane's marriage to Thomas Wayne, has become little more than a shadow tied to the Wayne dynasty.
But among the few families still holding power, one name remains feared: Sionis.
Long before setting foot in Gotham, the Sionis clan ruled parts of Sicily like kings, their blood soaked in mafia tradition. But after the Mexican Solini regime purged the old underworld, the Sionis family shifted its empire to Gotham, thriving in the chaos that others couldn't survive.
Adam wasn't here for a history lesson.
He stood silently in the basement of the Sionis Tower, the strong scent of chemicals stinging his nose. Black Mask was busy at work, and Adam—despite himself—found the sight disturbing.
The room was the size of a basketball court, filled with equipment and men in white lab coats. Stainless steel tables were stacked with powders, vials, and scales. Under harsh white lights, Black Mask himself moved with precision, carefully spreading fine white powder into a tray with a patience that seemed alien to the man's usual brutality.
Like a farmer tending his crop, he hovered over his work with expectation, hope—almost reverence.
"Hey," Adam finally muttered, arms crossed, "you do realize I'm a cop, right? Kind of feels wrong to bring me into your little baking session."
Nobody around him reacted. The lab techs worked in silence, as if Adam didn't exist.
His unease grew. The drugs were piled like hills of flour, their pure-white gleam both beautiful and sickening. He could only imagine how much poison would hit Gotham's streets when all this left the lab.
"Bringing you here," a voice said smoothly, "means I trust you, Mr. Adam."
Adam turned to see Black Mask stepping out of the lab, drying his gloved hands with a towel. The gleaming black skull on his face glared like a shadow of death.
Adam forced a smirk. "Trust me? That's cute. But narcotics aren't my department. I'm street security, Arkham district. DEA's the one you want."
Black Mask's eyes darkened behind the mask. "You're quick to dodge responsibility," he said flatly. "Noted."
Before Adam could reply, Black Mask tilted his head. "Tell me, have you ever heard of San Pedro Sula?"
Adam frowned. "Sounds South American. Honduras? Maybe?"
Black Mask nodded slightly. "Close. A mountainous country in Latin America. Its poppy fields produce nearly half of the region's supply. Forty-three percent of global heroin can be traced there. Or rather—could."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Could?"
"The new military regime just declared war on the trade," Black Mask said, his voice dripping with venom. "Every field burned. Every farmer executed. Every associate of mine slaughtered."
Adam whistled softly. "That's bad news for a guy whose empire runs on powder."
The black skull twitched slightly as if cracking a grin. "The market's in chaos. Prices have jumped eighty percent since last week. Do you understand, detective? Eighty. Percent. And my reserves are bleeding out."
Adam narrowed his eyes. "So what does this have to do with me? Don't tell me you want me to fix your supply chain."
Black Mask stepped closer, his voice lowering. "You owe me, Adam. The last time you needed help, I gave it—without question. Now, I'm collecting."
Adam stiffened, saying nothing.
"The new general of San Pedro Sula has invited international observers to witness his 'drug eradication.' He wants Gotham to send a representative. A simple tour, a political gesture. You're clean, Adam—background spotless. You'll be approved in a heartbeat."
Adam's gut tightened. "You want me to join this so-called inspection team? In South America? That place is a warzone. I'm a detective, not a field spy."
"Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking," Black Mask snapped, his voice sharp as glass. "It's not just Gotham. The UN, human rights organizations, journalists—they're all sending observers. But they're screening everyone. No one with criminal ties will pass. You are my ticket in."
Adam laughed darkly. "Even if I get in, what then? I don't know the first thing about drug operations down there. You think I'm just going to stroll into a jungle with a clipboard and—what—smuggle your men in?"
"You won't have to," Black Mask replied smoothly. "Once you're inside, my people will 'join' your team as translators and aides. You're just the key to unlock the door."
Adam studied him carefully. "And what do I get out of this little suicide mission?"
Black Mask leaned forward, his voice a dark whisper:
"Help me, and every debt, every favor you owe me—erased. Gone. You'll be free."
That made Adam pause. Freedom from Black Mask's grip?
That was something you couldn't put a price on. Google seaʀᴄh ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt