DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam narrowed his eyes, silently calculating the shift in the air.

Something was wrong.

He's raising the price, Adam thought. He knows I'm desperate. He's testing how far I'm willing to go.

Black Mask's tone wasn't volatile this time—it was smooth, cold, measured. Which made it worse.

"Boss," Adam said evenly, "the rate you gave me was already steep. Twenty-five percent interest. One week. That's no small cut. And now you're saying there's more?"

He gave a small, sharp smile, and then added pointedly, "Sionis Enterprises has a brand, doesn't it? Raising the price like this—well, it starts to look like extortion, not business."

He deliberately used the company name.

For all his brutality, Roman Sionis—Black Mask—cared about his image. He was a madman, yes, but a vain one. Adam hoped the jab might rattle him.

But instead, Black Mask just chuckled and waved a dismissive hand.

"No, no," he said, "this isn't about money. I'm not raising the rate."

He turned, letting his words hang as he paced slowly back toward the shadows.

"I want something different. Not cash. A promise."

Adam blinked. For a moment, he was genuinely confused.

A promise?

He stared at Black Mask's back. His brain short-circuited, flashing through every possible meaning. Was this some kind of criminal initiation? A blood pact? Was this finally the "lucky break" fantasy where villains handed you power for a few empty words?

He nearly laughed.

But Black Mask didn't give him the time.

"I'll front the fifteen. No interest. No time limit. But from now on…" He paused, then turned. "Only my product moves through the District."

Adam stiffened.

There it is.

The deal wasn't about him. It was about territory. Black Mask wanted a monopoly—and Adam as the local face to enforce it.

Adam didn't respond immediately. He needed time. The offer was calculated, layered. Sionis wasn't just expanding—he was consolidating. Pushing out the smaller dealers, the native independents. Turning the neighborhood into his personal lab, with Adam as his enforcer in a borrowed uniform.

And if Adam said yes…

Black Mask gave a knowing smile, as if reading the pause correctly.

"You don't have to worry about enforcement. I'll handle the cleanup. Drive out the old crowd. Keep the heat down. All I need from you… is yes or no."

The tone was casual, like a merchant closing a sale.

But to Adam, it felt like a treaty signing—with blood already on the ink.

He smiled slowly, stepped forward, and said something that made every single man in the room go quiet.

…

…

Now.

Back in the present.

Jason Todd leaned forward impatiently, brow furrowed. "Well? Then what? What'd you say to him? Did you accept?"

Adam didn't answer. He simply lit a cigarette, watching Jason through a haze of smoke.

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Come on, man. You're my teacher. If I screw this up, Black Mask is gonna skin me alive and sell me to some psycho in Metropolis."

Adam smirked faintly, took another drag, and replied, "Then maybe now's a good time to walk away."

"No chance," Jason said firmly, fists clenched. "If things are this dangerous, I need to learn from you. I want all of it. Everything. Even if it kills me."

Adam gave a half-laugh, equal parts amused and weary. He didn't know what to say. So instead, he reached into his coat and dropped a heavy bag onto the table.

Jason flinched. Then leaned in.

It was cash. Thick stacks. Mostly small bills, worn and damp, carrying a faint metallic tang.

"Ten thousand," Adam said, exhaling smoke like it was poison. "From the poor bastard who bled out earlier. Black Mask took his due, then tossed me the scraps. Says it's my seed money."

Jason blinked. "So… you didn't accept the terms? Not fully?"

Adam didn't reply right away. He leaned back, eyes unreadable, and said softly:

"How could I share a bed with a man who snores?"

Jason furrowed his brow. "What does that even mean?"

Adam didn't explain. He didn't have to. It was a proverb. A warning.

But Jason—young, reckless, still green—couldn't understand the layers. All he knew was that Adam had said yes without saying yes, taken money without taking a side, and walked away with his face intact.

What Jason did understand, though, was that he could never have done what Adam had done.

He couldn't have caved in a man's skull, dead or not. Couldn't have stared down a crime lord with a smile and a lie in his pocket. Couldn't have taken blood money and still walked out clean.

But Adam had.

And that's what terrified him—and thrilled him—most.

…

…

Elsewhere, in a glass office above the Arkham skyline, Chief Weaver sipped his wine with a smug smile. The file on his desk detailed the next raid—video stores, hotels, all flagged for pirated discs. A full sweep, punitive and public. A direct hit on Adam's network.

"Tomorrow," he whispered to himself. "That bastard's empire crumbles tomorrow."

He took a sip, already picturing Adam's face—broken, humiliated, begging.

But across town, in a dimly lit room filled with smoke and tension, Adam sat at the head of a long table.

Around him: twelve members of the task force. Men who'd once answered to Weaver, now leaning in, hanging on Adam's every word.

"So," Adam said, voice low and deliberate, "you've all made up your minds?"

They nodded. One stood, a little too eager.

"Sir, I've got 23 hotels and 8 rental shops under my belt. If we funnel all the supply through you, we're looking at over three hundred a month—easy."

He held up a sheet of notes, already listing outlets ready to move product.

Others chimed in, animated now, full of hope. Money had a way of making believers out of desperate men.

Adam listened. Nodded. Smiled faintly.

Then raised a hand.

"You're misunderstanding something," he said calmly. "Three hundred? That's just the floor. If you work hard, I double your cut. You make money, I make money. That's the only rule I have."

The room erupted into applause and chatter.

But Adam wasn't laughing.

He leaned back, slipped into a quiet corner, and lit another cigarette.

Then, to no one in particular, he whispered:

"I wonder what Weaver's face looks like right now."

A thin smile crept across his lips.

Probably like he was crying.

—

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