DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam had money now. More than enough, in fact. After shaking down Black Mask for a fat stack, dropping a few bills into the Riddler's pocket had barely made a dent.

To Edward Nygma, it felt like a life-changing gesture. But to Adam, it was an investment—and a smart one.

Because he knew what Ed was capable of. The Riddler's mind was a labyrinth of logic and invention, with only the faintest hint of madness… for now. Winning his loyalty early, before the fall, was worth more than any coin Gotham's corrupt underbelly could offer.

In Adam's book, that was money well spent.

What wasn't worth his time? Charity for Gotham's so-called downtrodden. The city was a feeding frenzy of leeches and parasites, and Adam had no intention of wasting resources on anyone who couldn't give something back.

As Adam stepped out of the evidence room, still humming from his last victory, a colleague from the Arkham district nearly ran into him.

"Adam! Finally caught you!" the man beamed, pumping his hand like they were childhood friends. "Been looking all over the station!"

Adam blinked, wary. No one in Gotham was friendly without a motive.

"Uh-huh… and you are?"

"Oh, doesn't matter," the man waved it off. "Point is—I heard about your products. I've got eight theaters in my district, and folks are hungry for content. You in?"

"Wait, eight?" Adam raised a brow. "That's… a lot of screens."

Back in his day, a whole city might've had three or four theaters max. But Gotham? Gotham wasn't "his day." It was stuck in a grimy, neon-lit version of the 70s, where seedy theaters outnumbered churches, and some of them played content that would've made Roman emperors blush.

And now, Adam had just stumbled into a gold mine.

His business already had 82 motels, 65 video stores, and dozens of low-rent hotels moving his bootleg discs—despite the fact that half his profits went to greasing the palms of dirty cops.

It was worth it. Every dollar.

Because every month, the money kept rolling in.

But that didn't mean he could relax.

There were issues to address—two big ones.

First, production. Ever since Weaver started sniffing around, Adam knew the precinct warehouse wouldn't be safe much longer. He needed a new manufacturing base. Somewhere quiet. Untraceable.

Second, supply. His films were hot because they were unique. Rare. Forbidden. But he'd nearly bled the Gotham evidence vault dry. And when those master discs ran out, he'd need a new source.

Still, the future looked bright.

"Damn. A few weeks ago, I was scraping for credits," Adam muttered to himself as he parted ways with the Arkham officer, stepping into the blinding Gotham sunlight. "Now I've got so much going on, I'm losing sleep."

He stretched, cracked his neck, and smiled.

"…Haven't seen Deadshot in a while," he said. "Maybe it's time to check in."

He started down the street, whistling a tune.

What Adam didn't notice was the man watching him from behind the slatted blinds of the precinct office—James Gordon, his face swollen, a frozen gel pack pressed to his temple. His gaze lingered on the faint tea stains on Adam's shirt, his eyes dark with thought.

Meanwhile, in a grungy apartment across town, a different man was busy cleaning his rifle.

Floyd Lawton.

Deadshot.

After their first meeting at the Zeus Hotel, Adam had made sure to leave his contact info. A man like Deadshot wasn't just a killer—he was a precision-guided missile. A one-man army with no patience for chaos. No flair for theatrics. Just clean, professional lethality.

If Adam could recruit someone like him… he could sleep with both eyes shut in Gotham.

But Deadshot wasn't Nygma.

He wasn't going to melt at the sight of some folded bills and a pat on the back.

No. Floyd Lawton had seen too much for that.

War. Betrayal. A city that devoured its own.

He understood what most people didn't: no one does you favors for free. The more generous someone is, the more they plan to use you.

Deadshot was that kind of man. The kind who knew the weight of favors.

That's why, every time Adam invited him out—drinks, dinner, or even a VIP card to the Zeus Hotel, Deadshot declined. Politely, but firmly.

He didn't want to owe Adam anything.

Maybe he sensed something beneath the surface.

Maybe he just didn't trust cops, especially not the most notorious cop in Gotham.

Whatever the reason, Deadshot stayed away.

But Adam wasn't giving up.

He'd read history. He knew how men like this worked.

What Adam wanted, was loyalty forged through strategy.

That's what he needed from Deadshot.

So now, it was time to shift tactics. No more direct approaches. No more casual invites. If he wanted Deadshot on his side, he'd go through the back door.

Find his mother. His sister. Someone he loved.

Win them over first.

And when the time came, when Gotham turned blood red and everyone picked a side, Deadshot would stand behind him.

Because you don't turn your back on the man who protected your family.

You take the shot for him.

—

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