In a villa on the outskirts of Gotham.
The twin brothers, the underworld's top enforcers, stood guard at the door in white shirts and suspenders, their expressions stern.
The villa was surrounded by elite Mafia members in suits, holding submachine guns. They guarded the area so tightly that not even a fly could get out—or in.
"Ah!" Soaking wet, Gordon was dragged out of the bathroom and thrown miserably onto the soft carpet.
His emaciated body was covered in wounds. Gordon opened his mouth and vomited again, staining the expensive golden fleece carpet.
However, the owner of the house was not angry. Instead, he snapped his fingers, signaling the two bodyguards beside him to pull Gordon up.
They put him in a fluffy set of pajamas and gave him a glass of high-proof liquor that could catch fire.
"James, I'm glad to see you. You've lost weight."
Falcone looked to be in high spirits. He wore a well-fitted black suit with a red rose tucked into his breast pocket.
He looked as though he were about to attend some banquet.
But he was indeed going to an important occasion—to take back everything that belonged to him—so he was in a good mood.
Even the white cat in his arms lay contentedly on his lap, purring happily.
Gordon raised the glass and took a sip. The fiery liquor irritated his wounded throat, but the pain also cleared his head a little.
He had been kidnapped. Like a plucked duck, he had been pinned in a sink while they used a stiff brush to scrub away every patch of black shoe polish from his face and body.
His skin burned with pain, which was bad enough. But when they found the tracker inside him, he suffered even more. The vomiting and diarrhea