DC: I Became A Godfather

"What? No money?"

Adam stood dead center in the cramped video store, eyes wide with disbelief. His sleeves were already rolled up, his fists clenched, and his tone could've turned vodka to ice.

"Boss, is this a joke to you? You think I'm some pushover? You wanted to add a little suspense to our professional relationship? A little thrill?"

He leaned forward, voice tightening like a garrote.

"Because if that's the case… I wouldn't mind demolishing this shabby excuse for a storefront right here and now."

Yeah, Adam was pissed.

He had just wrapped up patrol and personally hauled over the latest batch of burnt discs. Two hours of meticulous, frame-by-frame quality checks with the shop owner. Two hours. On a freezing Gotham street. All that effort just to be told now—now—that the guy couldn't pay?

"Boss, wait, wait—this isn't what you think!" The video store owner was already sweating buckets. "The batch you brought this time was huge! Too huge! We're talking hundreds of discs. It's not that we won't pay, we just need more time to process, weigh, and sell them! You know our price scale—tens of thousands for a load like this! Our shop just… can't eat it all at once!"

He forced out a nervous laugh, trying to stay on Adam's good side.

Because this wasn't just some shady cop bringing bootlegs—this was Adam. Arkham's finest. Holder of contraband that only certain badges had access to. Pissing him off wasn't a bad idea.

It was a death wish.

But Adam wasn't having it.

He had just upgraded his operation with new gear—thanks to Riddler's obsessive tinkering—and now, of all times, his buyer was flaking? With his debt to Black Mask looming like a guillotine?

It wasn't just inconvenient. It was catastrophic.

"You said any amount wouldn't be a problem," Adam snarled. "I thought you had balls. Turns out you've got noodles for a spine."

WHAM.

He slammed the counter hard, sending a tower of DVDs flying like frightened pigeons.

"Do I look like I'm joking with you?" he growled.

Just enough of his shoulder holster peeked out as he adjusted his jacket—just enough for the shopkeeper to see the polished revolver, complete with the official GCPD insignia etched into the handle.

It was a reminder.

He could ruin your life. Legally.

The shop owner went pale.

In Gotham, store owners had to deal with two nightmares: gangsters who taxed them weekly… and cops who came dressed as gentlemen, but robbed you blind with paperwork, seizures, and subtle threats.

Adam belonged to the latter.

The shopkeeper quickly fished out several rubber-banded wads of cash from a drawer, hands trembling.

"Here! I scrounged up ten thousand from some relatives. Please take this first, boss. Just give me a few days to pull the rest together, alright?"

Adam took the cash, flipping through it. Old bills, crinkled edges, even a few coins mixed in. Sloppy. But ten grand was ten grand, especially from a second-rate video rental shop.

Still, Adam didn't smile. Didn't say thank you. Instead, he turned and calmly started picking up the discs—leaving behind only what would've matched the cash value.

"Boss, what are you…?"

"Money and goods, one for one," Adam said flatly. "This is Gotham. If I start giving credit, everyone's gonna assume I'm broke. Then it's price cuts, delays, maybe a half-hearted blowjob just to keep the lights on."

The store owner opened his mouth again, but Adam raised one finger—not a word.

"You paid for this much," he said, pointing. "So this much is yours. The rest stays with me. Take it or leave it."

Then he turned on his heel and walked out without another word, leaving the door swinging behind him.

Out in the cold, Adam loaded the discs into the trunk of his unmarked police cruiser. He lit a cigarette and dragged in deep, letting the nicotine claw through his lungs, mixing with the bitterness in his gut before he exhaled it all into the night.

In his mind, the rule was simple: you give an inch, they'll take your soul.

He didn't threaten that video guy for the money. He did it to send a message—don't test him. Don't ever assume he's desperate.

Because the second they think you're running on empty, they start naming prices. They try to buy you cheap.

He took another drag, eyes narrowed.

"The real issue," he muttered, "is I've only got one channel for unloading this stuff. That's the mistake. Gotta open up some new ones. Spread the risk. But damn… I hate networking. I'm a shy guy…"

He snorted, amused by his own sarcasm.

Right then, his phone buzzed. A text.

From: Nymag (Riddler).

Adam groaned. "What now?"

He opened the message:

"Adam! Do you have time? I'm… I'm lovelorn 😭"

Adam blinked. Then squinted.

"…What?"

He stared at the screen. And then, slowly, started laughing. The kind of laugh that built up like steam in a pressure cooker.

"You're what now?"

He flicked his cigarette aside and shook his head, muttering to himself.

"Riddler's got a broken heart? What, did he design some cuckolded super-suit in a fit of grief? Jesus, what a mess."

He let the laughter linger for a moment longer, then sighed and looked down the road.

Tonight was far from over.

—

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