DC: Rise Of The Kryptonian Tyrant

Carmine Hotel, seventh floor.

The Victorian-style hall was filled with vibrant colors and clearly defined decor. It was luxurious yet artistic, blending opulence with refined taste.

On the dining table were premium delicacies: top-grade caviar from Caviar House Prunier in the UK, Italian black truffles, French foie gras, and the world-renowned Polmard beef steak. A single steak alone, priced at $3,600. There were also an array of fine seafood, lobster, and cheese pasta.

The meal was extravagantly indulgent, costing over $50,000. While such decadence wasn't entirely unheard of in this era, it was far from ordinary.

The enticing aroma of the food filled the air, making one's mouth water involuntarily.

At the dining table sat Bardi and Carmine, only a few steps apart.

Behind them stood a butler holding a white napkin and a wine bottle, ready to pour as needed.

However, the scene was marred slightly by Mike, the burly Russian man, who knelt nearby with a pitiful expression, somewhat spoiling the elegance of the banquet.

"Cheers," Bardi said, lifting his glass slightly and clinking it with Carmine's. The sound of crystal meeting crystal rang out, crisp and clear.

"For friendship," Carmine said with a smile, raising his glass.

Bardi returned the smile and downed the brandy in his goblet.

It was his first time meeting Carmine Falcone, the head of the Falcone family, the man who controlled most of Gotham's underworld. Carmine's demeanor exuded charm, ambition, and capability.

Knowing his own power, Bardi wasn't afraid. For Carmine to invite him to a meal despite being aware of Bardi's strength was intriguing and earned him some respect in Bardi's eyes.

Bardi tasted the brandy and foie gras. The elegant flavors filled his mouth, leaving a lingering fragrance. He nodded slightly in approval; good food always had a way of lifting one's spirits.

The two exchanged polite conversation, with Carmine occasionally bringing up past events to probe Bardi. However, Bardi responded lightly, revealing little.

After some time, having enjoyed a round of the meal, Bardi set down his knife and fork. Leaning forward with his arms resting lightly on the table, he maintained an air of effortless composure. His posture was straight and refined, and his table manners exuded a natural ease.

Carmine studied him closely, observing his demeanor and words.

A flicker of doubt crossed Carmine's mind.

Bardi's confidence and poise, his relaxed yet commanding presence, were remarkable. He didn't fit the mold of the typical nouveau riche or upstart.

Instead, Bardi had an aura about him, a natural authority that seemed to envelop the space. Every smile and movement carried an unshakable dominance, making others feel inexplicably inferior.

This sense of being overshadowed unsettled Carmine. He found himself unnerved, feeling as though his own presence was being subdued by Bardi's quiet yet overwhelming confidence.

From the moment he first laid eyes on Bardi, Carmine knew it was impossible to recruit him. Bardi was not someone who would ever willingly serve under another. If anything, he could only be an adversary.

"Carmine, I need to deal with something first. After that, I'd like to discuss a matter with you," Bardi said casually.

Carmine gestured for him to proceed, simultaneously signaling his butler to leave.

"Mike."

Bardi dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, wiping away a faint sauce stain. With swift, silent movements, he picked up his knife and fork again, cutting his steak elegantly.

Mike, still kneeling on the floor, shuddered and replied, "Here, boss."

"Do you know where you went wrong?"

"I do," Mike answered, his voice trembling.

"Then tell me."

"I shouldn't have let those seven lowlifes take the money. It's your money, boss. I should've destroyed them on the spot."

"Good awareness. But if there's a mistake, there must also be punishment."

"I understand! I'll strip down and run a hundred laps around Gotham's streets right now!" Mike declared firmly, his body trembling.

For a moment, the room seemed frozen. Mike's words hung in the air, puzzling everyone.

Why…why would he suggest running naked around Gotham as punishment?

Clink…

The sound of bending metal broke the silence.

The sterling silver knife and fork in Bardi's hands had bent under the subtle force of his fingers, contorting into unnatural shapes.

Bardi's expression remained indifferent as he stared at Mike, his gaze cold enough to make the man's hair stand on end.

Carmine's brow twitched slightly, the faintest sign of unease betraying his otherwise composed demeanor.

The room grew eerily quiet, heavy with the weight of tension.

Bardi's quiet pressure filled the space, suffocating and undeniable. Mike began to sweat, his unease growing with every passing second, while Carmine instinctively found his breathing slowing, as though the air itself had grown denser.

After a long moment of silence.

Bardi simply smiled and apologized to Carmine. Carmine waved it off, saying it was fine, and asked the butler to bring in a new set of cutlery. Quietly, he squeezed the bent handles of the ruined sterling silver knife and fork, feeling the lingering tension.

"Mike, you're a smart guy. That's the only reason I kept you around," Bardi said calmly. "If you want to live, there's a way."

He leaned back slightly, his tone indifferent and detached. "How much money do you have left? Three hundred thousand dollars? Then in three days, give me ten times that amount. Pay me three million dollars, and you can live."

Bardi didn't even look at Mike as he spoke, his tone devoid of concern, as if he were merely reciting numbers. Mike's life meant little to him.

However, Bardi saw value in keeping Mike around. Mike was a despicable, unscrupulous man, capable of handling tasks others would shy away from. He was a tool, useful for dirty work that even Bardi found beneath him.

True to his character, Mike immediately reacted with exaggerated theatrics. His face contorted, tears streaming down as he wailed loudly, resembling a professional actor giving a performance worthy of an award.

"Boss, no! Please, no! It costs at least a million dollars for a single trip to Thailand. How could I come up with three million dollars in Gotham in just three days?" Mike cried, his voice trembling with feigned desperation.

Even Carmine, a seasoned underworld boss, couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at Mike's performance. The thought crossed his mind that Mike might've been better suited for Hollywood than the mercenary world.

Bardi's expression remained cold, unamused. The sterling silver knife in his hand glinted under the light, and the subtle pressure of his fingers bending the metal again silenced Mike's cries.

"I don't care about your excuses, Mike," Bardi said, his voice eerily calm, yet the weight of his words pressed down like an iron hand. "I don't care what you want from me. I only care about what you can do for me. That's how this works."

He tilted his head slightly, giving Mike a thin smile that carried the menace of a devil's grin. "Now, stop crying. Get out."

Mike's theatrical tears abruptly stopped, his face pale as he realized his act had failed. He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists as he stood up.

"Fine! I'll rob a bank if I have to," he declared. "If I die, boss, make sure they bury me under Brokeback Mountain!"

Bardi didn't respond with words. His cold glare said it all.

"Get out," he finally said, his voice sharp as a blade.

Mike scurried out, his footsteps hurried as though trying to escape the suffocating pressure Bardi exuded.

…

After Mike left, silence lingered in the room. The atmosphere, once tense, began to ease slightly.

"I'm sorry, Carmine," Bardi said, putting down his knife and fork with deliberate care. "It seems I ruined the mood."

Carmine, ever composed, waved his hand dismissively. "It's understandable. Mike's reputation precedes him. Everyone knows he's unreliable, but his skills make up for it. Here's hoping he actually gets you your three million."

Bardi gave a faint smile, though his expression remained distant. "Money isn't the issue, Carmine. It never has been."

He paused, swirling the brandy in his glass before continuing. "In three days, I'll be leaving for Metropolis. But before that happens, I want Gotham to remain under my control through you."

His words, though calmly spoken, carried a weight of authority that left no room for negotiation.

Carmine's hand, which had been lifting his brandy glass, froze midair.

This was... too arrogant.

***

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