DC: I Became A Godfather

Black Mask's laughter had faded, and his tone had turned quiet—curious, even. It was an opening.

Adam took it.

He didn't respond immediately, though. Instead, he reached for a cigarette with casual fingers—more for composure than craving—and lit it with deliberate slowness. Anything to calm the churn in his gut after what he'd just done. The flick of the lighter masked the tremble in his hand. Once the smoke hit his lungs, he exhaled—then spoke.

"I've been running a few… ventures out of Arkham," he said, tone even, eyes alert. "They're doing alright. But I've hit a ceiling. To break through, I need expansion. And for that… I need partners. Investors."

He paused, eyes meeting Black Mask's behind that skull-shaped veneer.

"Let's start small. Fifteen thousand."

The number wasn't accidental. It was a message: I can pay back what I owe. I'm stable. I'm worth betting on.

Black Mask didn't answer immediately. But some of the suited shadows behind him moved. One leaned close to whisper in his ear—sharp, efficient, with clipped confidence. A summary of Adam's profile. Past. Habits. Recent moves.

When the whispering stopped, Black Mask looked amused.

"Oh? So you're not just paying off a debt," he said, cocking his head. "You're trying to borrow from me now?"

He stepped forward, voice casual, but every syllable carried the thrum of danger beneath the words.

"You know what's funny, Officer?" he went on. "When most people finish paying me back, they act like they just survived cancer. Like they've been cured of something. Especially after… what you just saw."

He smiled. Cold. Cruel.

"But you—you see that, and your next move is to ask for more? Either you're dumber than you look, or you've got balls bigger than your brain."

Adam had rehearsed for this. He had lines ready. But before he could deliver them, Black Mask waved a hand dismissively.

"Save it," he snapped. "You know, this business of mine—this isn't a damn bank. I'm not a spreadsheet. I don't lend money because of credit reports or collateral. I lend when I feel like lending. No rules. No guidelines."

His eyes gleamed behind the mask—dark whirlpools, drilling into Adam's composure.

"So let me ask you, straight—fifteen grand? With your street business and slim ops, you can scrape that together in a week if you hustle. What are you really here for, huh? Trouble? Pressure from your boss? Someone coming down on you, and now you're looking to buy your way out?"

The air seemed to pull tight.

Adam didn't flinch. But inside, he had to admit—damn, this guy's sharp.

Still, this wasn't unexpected.

He knew Black Mask. Knew his psychology. The man was arrogant. Impulsive. Obsessed with dominance. His ego was the size of Gotham Tower, and any slight—any—was taken personally. He constantly compared himself to Bruce Wayne, always thought he could've been more. He was smart, yes, but prone to tunnel vision.

So Adam had deliberately come in crooked, letting his story have holes. Luring the shark closer to the scent.

Now it was time to spring the hook.

Adam's shoulders sagged slightly, like a man exposed. He gave a dry, weary chuckle. Then, in a lowered voice, he said:

"You're right. I wasn't straight with you."

He let the words hang before continuing.

"My boss… doesn't like me. Word is, he's prepping a move. Maybe to take me out. Maybe just to freeze me out. Either way… I'm stuck. I can't grow while I'm under him. Can't stay a cop. But I don't want to be homeless either."

He glanced around the decrepit construction floor.

"I want to climb. Faster. Harder. And for that—I need more than pocket change."

Black Mask's head tilted, his gaze unreadable. Then, slowly… he nodded.

"Now that," he said, "is more honest."

He gestured with two fingers, idly pacing.

"Those busted bootlegs you're peddling? Trash. Just side revenue off a badge. You can't scale garbage like that. You want real power? You need leverage. You need territory. You need people who bleed for you."

He stopped pacing and looked Adam square in the eye.

"Even being a detective is too clean for this city."

Adam suppressed a smirk. His plan was working.

"So…" he asked, cautious. "Does that mean you'll lend me the money?"

There was a beat of silence.

Then—laughter.

But not the kind from earlier.

This was venomous.

Black Mask's voice turned razor-sharp.

"Lend it to you? Lend?" he repeated. "Mr. Adam, you're quite the schemer, aren't you?"

He took a step closer.

"You just gave me fifty grand. And now you want fifteen? I'm supposed to believe you're not just flipping someone else's payment into a triple-dip con? You think I don't see through that?"

Adam internally winced. He'd pushed too soon. But before he could adjust, Black Mask kept going.

"And don't insult me with more talk about DVDs and hotel rackets," he spat. "Those are flea-market scraps. Real money—real business—doesn't smell like VCDs and ashtrays."

With a flourish, he reached into his coat.

Pulled out a small bag.

White powder.

He tossed it in Adam's face—not violently, but disdainfully.

Insultingly.

Adam didn't react. But his fists clenched ever so slightly at his sides.

He didn't need to taste it to know what it was.

Product.

The old game. The real game.

Black Mask's game.

Inwardly, Adam curled with disgust. He knew the story. He'd studied how Hong Kong gangs funneled pirated tapes into China, built fortunes, and pivoted to arms and narcotics. The way the Arab world post-9/11 gobbled up contraband. It was ugly. It was global.

And now it was in his face.

"Is that a no?" Adam said quietly, voice flat, his eyes narrowing to a slit.

Black Mask shrugged, relaxed as ever.

"Oh, we can still talk," he said. "But the terms—they're going to change."

He stepped closer again, cigar smoldering at his lips, voice silky with menace.

"Fifteen thousand's not chump change, you know. And favors… favors don't come cheap."

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