DC: I Became A Godfather

Weaver shoved his chair back and darted to the window, his nerves on edge. He peered out, scanning the dim alleyway outside the diner—but saw nothing.

No shadow.

Just cracked pavement and flickering neon lights.

"Weird… I swear I saw a kid outside. Slipping around like a damn ghost. Didn't even blink…" he muttered, his voice low and uneasy as he sat back down and poured himself another shot of whiskey.

"Maybe I need more sleep… I'm starting to see things."

Across from him, Captain Irons gave a dismissive snort.

"Come on, Chief. This is Gotham. Of course you saw a kid. Street urchins are everywhere. Half of 'em are pickpockets, the other half just wanna shine shoes or scout rooms for their gang. You'd be surprised—some of the best thieves I've chased were little girls in pigtails."

He took a swig, then added with a sigh:

"Anyway, sir, I get we're going after Adam, but manpower's thin lately. Patrol units are stretched, the streets are chaos, and now we're assigning cops to hunt pirated discs in motels? Guys'll grumble."

Weaver's eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn't the type to miss subtext. Irons wasn't really complaining—he was angling for a bonus.

A bribe.

Weaver reached into his coat, pulled out a slim envelope, and casually slid it across the table.

"The boys work hard. Wind, rain, blood on the boots. I get it. Here—snack money. Pass it around. Stick with me, Irons, and you'll all get your cut."

Irons grinned, pocketing the cash with the kind of subtle motion only veteran cops mastered. The envelope was thin—fifteen hundred, tops—but it was enough to buy loyalty for now.

"Cheap bastard," he thought, smiling all the same. "Sitting on the whole Arkham gambling circuit and still counting pennies."

But Weaver was gritting his own teeth. That envelope stung. He'd only paid Loeb two grand to keep Adam out of his hair—this bonus was nearly the same. If he didn't loathe Adam so much, he'd never have opened his wallet.

The Next Morning – Arkham Precinct

By sunrise, Irons had gathered nearly two dozen officers in the precinct's largest briefing room. A "mandatory meeting," he called it. But everyone in the room knew the real reason.

Adam.

The name had turned into a curse in Arkham's halls—an upstart who hadn't paid his dues, hadn't kissed the right rings, and was making money faster than the precinct bosses could count.

As Irons spoke—rallying them against this "yellow-skinned punk"—he slid fifty-dollar bills to each officer. No one refused. Some even stood up to puff their chests.

"Captain! You don't even need to pay me," one officer barked. "I've had it with that smug bastard. He's not even from around here!"

(But the money still vanished into his coat.)

"I joined the force a decade ago and still haven't made detective," growled another. "But this kid strolls in from God knows where and suddenly he's Loeb's golden boy?"

The room filled with jeers and bitter laughter. If someone had walked by, they might've mistaken it for a lynch mob warming up.

Irons stood at the head, arms crossed, smug. The plan was working. Weaver would be pleased.

And then—

BANG!

The conference room door slammed open.

Everyone turned, startled. The room went dead quiet.

In walked Adam.

No uniform. Just street clothes, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, and a smirk like a man who'd caught every single one of them with their pants down.

"Wow," Adam said as he strolled in, pulling out a chair like he belonged at the head of the table. "Whole precinct packed in here. What is this, a secret Mahjong tournament?"

He sat.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even move aggressively.

But his eyes—dark, sharp, unblinking—cut across the room like twin scalpels.

The same men who had, seconds earlier, been denouncing him with fiery hatred… now sat frozen. Ashamed. Nervous. Pretending to check their boots. Avoiding his gaze like guilty schoolboys.

Adam leaned forward.

"Since you're all gathered here, I figured I'd swing by. Got something for you."

Irons stiffened. He knew this wasn't going to end well. The guy had that too-calm look—the kind that meant someone was about to get their balls stepped on.

But Adam didn't start shouting.

He reached into the travel bag and tossed it onto the table. The zipper was half open. A few stacks of green bills spilled out like a magician's trick.

The room went silent.

"I've been doing a little side business in Arkham," Adam said smoothly. "Discs. Not a fortune per unit, just a few cents. But the volume adds up, y'know? And since I know this precinct's all about community—"

He smiled, "—I figured I'd come here and share the profits. Keep things… friendly."

Irons' jaw dropped.

"He brought a bag of money? Just like that?"

It wasn't just the cash—it was the confidence. The audacity.

He'd walked into a room full of men plotting against him and handed them tribute like he was the godfather.

Adam's lips curled into a quiet smirk as he glanced at the hungry, hyena-eyed officers surrounding him.

They didn't even try to hide it anymore—the lust for cash had already pried open their jaws.

"Fifty bucks won't buy loyalty," he thought coldly. "But five hundred? That buys silence. Respect. Even fear

A few younger officers had already stood up and begun rifling through the bag. Greedy hands counted bills. Hungry eyes sparkled.

This was Gotham, and here, you follow the money.

Irons felt his grip slipping. If he told them to reject the cash now, they'd laugh in his face. Adam had just flipped the power dynamic in one move.

And he knew it.

He flicked out a cigarette, lit it with a slow drag, then casually spoke over the smoke:

"The money's nothing special. Just a small token. Five hundred bucks each."

He exhaled, letting the smoke snake across the room.

"Go get a drink. Take a warm bath. Blow it on whatever sad little vice gets you through the night."

Silence.

They weren't calm—not like him. Five hundred dollars?

Each?

Eyes widened.

Minds whirred.

That was ten times what Weaver had offered. A man known for gripping his wallet like it owed him a kidney.

A captain finally cleared his throat, stunned.

"Adam... Are you serious? There's… what, twenty of us here? You're handing out ten grand like pocket change?"

Adam turned, his tone light but his meaning cold:

"Not quite equal. I know how hard you work, Captain. Rain or shine, always grinding. So your cut's a thousand."

He smirked.

"And if we stay friends? The drinks I buy each month won't taste worse than today's. I promise you that."

The captain blinked, stunned.

Weaver had to scrape together $1,500—and Adam just handed him two-thirds of that for breakfast.

And then hinted he'd do it monthly?

That alone was enough to flip any loyalist.

"Just remember," he said, voice calm but cold. "I don't mind sharing. I play fair. But if anyone here thinks they can cut me out, step on my toes, or feed me to the wolves?"

He looked around the room again—this time, nobody flinched.

"Well… let's just say I'm not as easy to get rid of as you think."

—

If you want to read 20+ chapters, visit my Pt.t.t.n.

pt.t.t.n.com/MiniMine352