Chapter 61

Leon and his crew stared at the gleaming Colt Python revolver in shock.

With… a gun?

This wasn't the outcome Leon had anticipated. This man wasn't playing by any rules Leon understood.

His face twisted into an ugly grimace as he glared at Bardi. He wasn't insane, there was no way he would take that revolver.

The Suicide Slum might be chaotic, filthy, and rife with violence, but even here, certain lines weren't crossed. Killing someone outright in broad daylight wasn't something you just did.

The few unwritten rules that existed allowed people to live here without total anarchy. Even the most desperate criminals in the ghetto understood that breaking those rules could lead to a spiral of retaliation, drawing police attention and upsetting the fragile balance of power.

Leon wasn't some big-shot gang leader who could shoot someone and walk away without consequences. If he pulled the trigger out of anger, he'd be a marked man, forced to flee and hide unless a powerful gang decided to take him in.

His face flushed with frustration, and he spat angrily on the ground beside him. His voice low but filled with resentment, he snapped, "Get lost."

Then, without giving Bardi another glance, he turned back to the drunkard and resumed beating him. After delivering a few more kicks to vent his frustration, Leon motioned for his crew to leave.

Before walking away, he loomed over the drunkard one last time and issued a warning, his tone sharp and venomous: "You either pay me back, return the goods, or I'll beat you every time I see you."

It was an empty show of bravado, the typical posturing of a small-time gangster asserting dominance.

As Leon walked off, his shoulders stiff with irritation, he threw one last venomous glance at Bardi. His anger flared at the thought of the man in the pristine white trench coat mocking him so blatantly. Leon let out a huff of frustration as he disappeared down the alley.

Bardi watched him leave, his expression calm but thoughtful. He admired Leon's restraint. The young man had the ability to read the situation and hold back his anger. He understood his place in the world and wasn't reckless, a quality that showed intelligence and survival instincts. Moreover, Leon had enough charisma to lead a group of followers, despite his lack of experience. It was just bad luck that his first attempt at hustling for money had been ruined by an old drunkard's schemes.

"Keep an eye on him," Bardi said casually, sliding the revolver back into Mike's waistband. "He might be a colleague of yours one day."

Mike watched the group of young men retreat with a scowl on his face. Another one? The boss was already favoring someone else?

Mike muttered internally, "This won't do. I need to make sure they know I'm the boss's first and only right-hand man. No way I'm letting someone else steal my spot. Not when the chance to become someone powerful is finally within reach!"

"Get up," Bardi said flatly, glancing down at the drunkard.

The drunkard groaned on the ground, bruised and battered. Despite how vicious the beating had seemed, the blows had been more for show than actual damage. These were experienced street kids, they knew where to hit to make it hurt without causing any real harm.

The drunkard, a veteran of this kind of life, knew how to take a beating. Lying still for a while, he caught his breath and slowly looked up through the messy strands of his hair. His murky eyes focused on Bardi's towering figure, which seemed to glow with an aura of power.

In an instant, the drunkard scrambled to his feet, swaying slightly but quick to recover. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and coughed a few times. His gaze sharpened with a mix of hope and excitement as he asked, "Are you with the family? Did the family send you to find me?"

Bardi remained silent for a moment, studying the man. He had no idea what "the family" referred to, but the drunkard reeked of cheap alcohol and desperation.

Once again, Bardi rubbed his right thumb against the palm of his left, his habitual motion when thinking. His voice was calm but firm. "Find a place where we can talk."

The drunkard's eyes lit up, his stooped posture straightening slightly. He was overjoyed, clearly interpreting Bardi's words as an important opportunity.

Looking around nervously, as though he were being watched, the drunkard whispered, "Come to my place. My place is safe."

He gestured for Bardi to follow, his movements jittery but determined. As they walked, the drunkard frequently glanced over his shoulder, making sure Bardi was still there. It was as if he feared Bardi might vanish if he looked away for too long.

With every step, he began recounting stories of his past glories, boasting loudly about his "achievements" and how he had once been someone important.

Only then did Bardi understand that the "family" the drunkard referred to was actually a gang, a criminal organization formed by Metropolis's upper-class elites for their own convenience. Through the chaos of power struggles among these elites, this organization had evolved into the "family" gang.

The drunkard's home, located deep in the Suicide Slum, was predictably dismal. It was a crumbling structure, with walls shedding layers of plaster and dust, exposing the bare masonry beneath. On what was left of the second floor, clothes were strung out to dry, faded and worn.

A small window with iron bars, resembling a prison cell, allowed a glimpse inside. Behind the bars sat a skinny boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, engrossed in a book.

Knowing the state of his home was far from presentable, the drunkard hesitated at the door. "Wait here," he said quickly, slipping inside to "tidy up."

Bardi waited at the door, his imposing figure radiating calm authority. His right thumb absently rubbed against the palm of his left hand, his habitual motion when in thought. His mind was already turning over a plan.

"Go find that young man, Leon," Bardi instructed Mike without looking at him. "Bring him to me. When I understand the dynamics here, I'll start controlling this place. I need people."

Mike nodded, though inwardly he cursed his misfortune. "Damn it, now I've gotta go invite someone else to compete with me for the boss's attention," he thought bitterly.

Still, Mike knew better than to protest. The consequences of showing incompetence in front of Bardi would be far worse than dealing with some punk. Grumbling inwardly, he turned and left to track down Leon and his group.

--

Inside the house, the drunkard wasn't tidying up.

The moment he saw his son sitting in the only decent chair, his face twisted with rage. Without a second's hesitation, he swung his beer bottle.

"Bang!"

The bottle struck the boy's head with a loud crack. Caught completely off guard, the boy dropped the yellowed book he'd been reading. Pain exploded across his scalp as he clutched at the growing lump on his head.

"Get off that chair!" the drunkard roared, his voice thick with fury.

Before the boy could react, the man kicked him to the ground. His small frame hit the floor hard, his hands and knees scraping against the rough surface. The rags he wore shifted, revealing bruises and scars that littered his skinny body, evidence of years of abuse.

Grabbing the boy by the collar, the drunkard hauled him up, his face twisted in rage. "I've fed you for over ten years, you ungrateful little bastard! And what do you do? Sit in my chair? Eat my food? Read your useless books?"

The boy's eyes filled with terror as his father's words grew harsher.

"Listen to me, you little shit!" the drunkard spat, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Get into that shed, close the door, and don't come out. You hear me? Don't you dare ruin this for me. And don't even think about complaining."

The boy froze, his breath hitching in shock and horror. His face turned pale, the pain from the lump on his head forgotten. Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled toward the small room next to the main area. Without even looking back, he climbed inside, shutting the creaky wooden door behind him.

The drunkard straightened his clothes, forcing a smile onto his face. When he stepped outside to invite Bardi in, his demeanor was entirely different—obsequious, almost friendly.

"Please, come in!" he said, bowing slightly as he gestured for Bardi to enter.

His only concern was the absence of the bodyguard who had been with Bardi earlier, but he quickly brushed it off.

--

Bardi entered the house and waited for the chair to cool down before sitting. His calm, composed demeanor contrasted sharply with the chaotic energy of the drunkard.

The man, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with impatience. "So… which family do you represent?" he asked eagerly, trying to gauge Bardi's intentions.

Bardi's expression remained neutral as he replied, "Not a family. I'm here to ask about Metropolis. If your answers are satisfactory, perhaps you'll have the chance to work under me. If your answers are mediocre, you'll still walk away with a few hundred dollars."

The drunkard stiffened, his mind racing.

He recognized the significance of this moment, someone new challenging the established order of the Suicide Slum. Bardi wasn't from around here; that much was clear. Perhaps he was from another city, looking to carve out his place in Metropolis.

The drunkard's heart pounded with excitement. Memories of his past failures surged to the forefront of his mind. This was his chance for redemption. If he played his cards right, he could rise to prominence under this new leader.

"I understand! I understand!" the drunkard said, his eyes gleaming with a newfound intensity.

Bardi nodded, his gaze drifting over the dismal surroundings. His eyes settled on the battered book lying on the ground. Its yellowed pages were creased and worn from frequent reading.

"Quantum Theory."

The title stood out against the grime of the room.

"I can help you," the drunkard blurted, eager to make an impression. "I used to work in the big city, you know. You've probably heard of me!"

He licked his lips nervously, hoping his name still carried some weight.

"My name is Lionel Luthor," he declared, his voice filled with pride.

Bardi's eyebrows lifted slightly, his attention shifting back to the man before him. His gaze sharpened, and he glanced toward the small, dimly lit room behind Lionel.

Through the narrow crack of the door, a pair of young, hate-filled eyes stared out.

The boy's gaze shifted from his father to Bardi, his expression filled with resentment and bitterness.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

The boy's pupils shrank in shock, and then, as if caught, he quickly pulled back into the darkness. The door closed with a soft "click."

Chapter 62

"Luthor."

The corners of Bardi's lips curled slightly upward. If he had been hesitant to accept the drunkard before, the mention of his son had made up his mind. Bardi now saw value in keeping the man around.

Lionel noticed Bardi's change in expression, mistaking it for recognition of his name. His face lit up with hope.

"What does the boss want to know?" Lionel asked, addressing Bardi directly as "boss."

Bardi's eyes lingered on the faded, cracked wooden door for a moment longer before returning to Lionel. "Let's start with the forces operating in the Suicide Slum," he said calmly.

Lionel straightened up, brushing back his messy hair and adopting a serious demeanor, as if this were a moment of great importance.

"Suicide Slum might look like chaos," Lionel began, "and it is—full of gangs, constant turf wars, people dying left and right. But there are rules, even here. Without those rules, civilians couldn't survive."

He leaned forward, his tone taking on a conspiratorial edge. "Every block has its own gang, from Suicide Street to Death Lane to Babel Avenue. Some are big, with hundreds of members. Others are just two or three punks pretending to be a gang, selling guns, drugs, or setting fires to make a name for themselves."

As Lionel spoke, Bardi mentally mapped out the chaos of the Suicide Slum. It was like a city's sewer system, a place where all the filth and corruption pooled and festered. Every vice imaginable could be found here.

The list of gang names alone was almost comical in its variety and absurdity: Brotherhood, Chopping Hand, Giant Gang, Mafia, Vietnam Gang, Jagged Banner Club, Angel Gang, Hell Club, Thirteen Covenants, Death Angel Gang, Hell's Angel Gang, Satan Hell, Rose Blood, First Blood, Jack Gang, Dark Chief, Secret Organization, Twenty-One Warriors, God's Light, Jerusalem, Hell's Wrath, Killer Peace, Hood Alliance…

Despite the absurdity of some of these gangs, Lionel explained that many of them were just fronts for larger, more dangerous organizations—killer networks, smuggling rings, and shadowy operations.

"The biggest players in the Suicide Slum," Lionel continued, "are five organizations. Four of them are tied directly to Metropolis's central city, while only one is homegrown."

He paused, pouring himself a glass of water from a grimy pitcher. Halfway through gulping it down, he remembered his guest and quickly poured a cleaner cup from his son's belongings for Bardi.

Bardi didn't touch the drink. "Keep going," he said. "Tell me about the central city's power structure."

Lionel nodded, setting his cup down and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"Metropolis's underworld is carved up by five major forces," he said. "Nobody else gets a piece. That's just how it is."

"The most untouchable is the 'Family,'" Lionel said, his voice dropping as if the mere mention of the name warranted caution. "It's not really a gang—it's an alliance of Metropolis's elite. Aristocrats, the ultra-wealthy, powerful figures. They formed it to protect themselves, their money, their lives. They use it to deal with threats they can't handle openly, and it's deeply connected to the city's politicians, police, and even the military."

He took another gulp of water. "The Family doesn't deal much with the underworld directly, but everyone knows not to mess with them. Their leader is Morgan Edge, from the Edge family of Galaxy Communications. They even use the Underground Trade Fair in the Suicide Slum to handle their dirty business."

"The second group is the international gang run by the Mannheim family. The City Hell gang you might've heard of here? That's one of their branches."

"Then there's the Hundred Whale Family's criminal syndicate. Locals call them the Hundred Organization, and the Ninety-Nine gang here in the Suicide Slum is their offshoot."

Lionel paused, shaking his head bitterly. "The Hundred and the Mannheim groups are always at each other's throats. It's chaos when their conflicts spill into the city."

"The fourth is the Gambino Mafia," Lionel said, his voice lowering even further. "They're infamous for being ruthless, violent, and unpredictable. They came from New York and have branches across the country. The Metropolis division is known as Division 27."

"And finally, there's the Scarlet Angels. They're a biker gang, originally from California. Been around since 1948, and now they're international. They run drugs, weapons, and strip clubs. You can tell them by their Harley bikes and the tattoos they all wear. They're one of the world's largest biker gangs."

Lionel finished, sitting back with a heavy exhale. "Those five groups? They're the big fish. Everyone else just scrambles for scraps."

Bardi processed the information. Metropolis was a different beast from Gotham. Gotham's criminal underworld was fiercely insular, with every faction united in driving out outsiders. In Gotham, even the smallest intrusion from an external force would provoke a brutal, coordinated response.

Metropolis, on the other hand, was more open. It accepted chaos, welcomed outsiders, and absorbed foreign influences. If Gotham was a fortress, Metropolis was a revolving door—open to all, but dangerous in its unpredictability.

To take over Metropolis's underworld, Bardi would need to deal with four primary obstacles: the international gang, the Hundred Organization, the Gambino Mafia, and the Scarlet Angels.

The Gambino Mafia and Scarlet Angels, despite their global reputations, posed the least threat in his eyes. They might retaliate from other branches, but by the time they reacted, he would already have consolidated power in the city.

It was the local forces, the Hundred and Mannheim families that would require more careful handling.

As for the Family? Bardi barely spared them a thought. They were a group of wealthy aristocrats, clinging to power through money and influence. Once Bardi began operating on their level, with resources and technology, their so-called dominance would crumble.

With his plans falling into place, Bardi stood up, his expression resolute.

"Lionel Luthor," he said, his voice commanding. "Gather some people you trust. Within a month, I want the Suicide Slum under my control. Follow my orders, and you'll rise with me."

...

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