Yang Ming stepped out of the car, his leather shoes making faint scraping sounds against the gravel of the manor's driveway.
Falcone Manor occupied one of the finest parcels of land on the outskirts of Gotham City.
The main building was a three-story villa in a vintage Italian style, its outer walls covered in ivy. Its architecture exuded a brooding sense of oppression. The lawn had been trimmed with millimeter precision, and several Dobermans rumbled deep in their throats as handlers led them in the distance.
An old man stood beneath the portico, his tailcoat impeccably fitted and his silver hair combed without a strand out of place.
"Dr. Yang, I am the butler here. You may call me Swig." The old man bowed slightly, his voice carrying a distinctly British reserve.
"The master is waiting for you in his study, but first, we must follow the usual procedure."
The butler raised his right hand, and two security guards approached with handheld metal detectors. Yang Ming spread his arms, opening his deep black windproof coat to either side.
The detectors swept downward from his collar, along his torso and limbs. Apart from the briefest beeps triggered by his metal belt buckle and the brass eyelets on his shoes, they remained silent.
No dangerous items. He was cleared to enter.
Yang Ming remained composed. The Storage Ring rested quietly at the base of his left index finger. All his dangerous items and equipment were inside it.
"Thank you for your cooperation. That saves me a great deal of explaining." The butler waved the guards away, then turned and pushed open the heavy oak doors.
"This way, please."
Thick, handmade wool carpets lined the corridor, their pile absorbing every footstep. Numerous reproductions of Renaissance oil paintings hung on the walls in gilded frames.
The air carried the scent of burning Cuban Cigars and aged oak. It was a classic expression of old-school Mafia taste, using the weight of history to conceal the bloodshed underlying its accumulated wealth.
The butler stopped before a pair of double doors, curled his fingers, and knocked three times in an even rhythm.
The doors opened.
The study was at least five degrees warmer than the corridor. Split pine logs burned in an enormous fireplace, flames licking the brickwork as the wood fibers snapped and crackled.
Carmine Falcone sat in a leather chair beside the fireplace. The underworld emperor who controlled more than half of Gotham City's illegal transactions wore a soft cashmere cardigan, with reading glasses perched on his nose.
Holding a cup of black tea, he had his head turned toward the elderly woman on the sofa beside him as they talked.
Louisa Falcone, the matriarch of the Falcone Family, wore a silk shawl and held knitting needles, working on a baby sweater.
"Antonio's wedding will be held at St. Mary's Church. I've already spoken to the priest." Louisa spoke slowly, with a heavy Italian accent.
"The flowers must be flown in from Sicily. Gotham's roses smell of sulfur from the chemical plants. The guests won't like them."
"Have Vincent handle the flight and customs clearance." Falcone sipped his tea, his tone gentle. He sounded every bit an ordinary grandfather concerned with the continuation of his family.
"That boy is too impatient. Keep him out of the security arrangements for the wedding."
The butler stood by the door with his head slightly bowed.
"Sir, your guest has arrived."
Louisa stopped her knitting and studied Yang Ming over the rims of her reading glasses for two seconds.
She asked no questions and showed no curiosity. In Sicilian tradition, the women never took part in the men's business negotiations.
"The roast in the kitchen should be ready." Louisa rose and placed her ball of yarn in a wicker basket.
Falcone set down his teacup, took his wife's right hand, and kissed its back.
Louisa left the study, and the butler withdrew after her, leaving Yang Ming alone with Falcone.
Yang Ming surveyed the room. There were no concealed guards, no hidden gunmen. A godfather who controlled the lifeblood of the entire city's underworld was sitting completely unprotected with a dangerous man who had just blown up one of his important transfer stations and taken more than thirty lives.
This was not negligence. It was confidence in the rules, founded on absolute power.
Falcone was certain that, given enough weight on the bargaining table, anyone would sit down to negotiate rather than draw a gun.
"Sit." Falcone pointed to the armchair across from his desk.
Yang Ming walked over and sat down. The cushions were exceptionally soft, creating the physical illusion of sinking deep into the chair beneath his weight.
Furniture arranged this way was a subtle psychological maneuver. A low seat and restricted room for movement would subconsciously weaken a guest's aggression while magnifying the host's authority.
Yang Ming shifted his weight, straightened his back, and folded his hands over his knees, rejecting the psychological suggestion.
"Cobblepot described this morning's events over the phone." Falcone removed his reading glasses, took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and slowly wiped the lenses.
"More than thirty lives, two armored Fords, and a blast door five centimeters thick. You scared that fat man out of his wits."
"They drew first." Yang Ming stated the fact.
"The rules of survival in the East End have always been crude. Cobblepot is an excellent middleman, but he lacks the refinement to see the bigger picture." Falcone placed his cleaned glasses on the desk.
"I've already apologized on his behalf. Five hundred thousand dollars in compensation, plus every piece of medical equipment on your list. As far as the damage and the accounts are concerned, we're square. Now, let's discuss future business."
Falcone opened a desk drawer and placed a 5.56-millimeter Armor-Piercing Incendiary Round on the mahogany desktop. Its brass casing reflected a cold metallic gleam in the firelight.
"Our family has these too, but our stock is limited." Falcone's tone became businesslike.
"A high-hardness tungsten steel penetrator, with a very distinctive chemical formula for the incendiary compound. It can easily punch through the steel plating on those modified bulletproof cars. And that's not even mentioning the launch tube with the infrared seeker."
"Quality merchandise never lacks buyers." Yang Ming replied.
"Gotham's black market is a pie of fixed size." Falcone clasped his hands over his abdomen.
"The other crime families are always trying to cut themselves a larger slice. If weapons of this caliber reach their hands, the balance of firepower in Gotham's underworld will collapse. I dislike imbalance. Imbalance means war, and war disrupts the normal flow of money."
Falcone leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Yang Ming across the broad desk.
"However much of this merchandise you have, the Falcone Family will take it all. As for the price, I can offer thirty percent above the highest average rate on Gotham's black market."
The offer defied normal market practice. Black-market arms already generated exorbitant profits. Another thirty percent on top was enough to make any international arms dealer lose his mind.
"Supply won't be a problem." Yang Ming's voice remained level. The enormous sum had not clouded his judgment.
"My sourcing channels are a trade secret. We each get what we need. I supply the goods; you provide the money and medical supplies."
"That is enough." Falcone nodded, approving of Yang Ming's caution.
"I don't care who your supplier is, whether it's a military laboratory or an overseas mercenary organization. But I have one additional condition."
Falcone raised his right index finger.
"An exclusivity agreement. This merchandise of yours goes only to the Falcone Family. No other buyer in Gotham City, including Maroni or any of those scattered street gangs, gets so much as a single bullet."
An exclusive buyout.
Yang Ming began weighing the tactical and financial implications. The cutting-edge medical equipment and specialized cell-targeted drugs Falcone offered were precisely the essential resources he needed most right now.
How much Stark Industries weaponry Frank could obtain over in Hell's Kitchen remained unknown. In the short term, however, the profit from this merchandise would be enough for Yang Ming to establish an absolutely secure medical stronghold in Gotham.
Signing an exclusivity agreement meant committing firmly to Falcone's side. But as the sole supplier of high-end weapons, he would hold the upper hand in price negotiations.
Weighing the advantages against the disadvantages, the returns on this deal far outweighed the risks.
"Deal." Yang Ming gave his answer.
The words had barely left his mouth.
The sound of destruction shattered the study's peace.
An immense force smashed through the study window. Cold wind and rain surged inside as a black cylinder arced through the air and struck the Persian carpet.
A hiss of escaping pressurized gas rang out.
Dense white smoke erupted instantly, spreading with astonishing speed and swallowing all visibility in the study.
"It's a smoke grenade."
Yang Ming's nose caught the pungent chemical odor. This military-grade smoke grenade produced enormous quantities of smoke, and the gases released by its combustion severely irritated the respiratory tract and eyes.
Startled by the sudden disruption, Falcone stood up. After inhaling the smoke, he began coughing violently.
Yang Ming did not cover his mouth or nose. His master-level combat instincts took over his reflexes in that instant.
The smoke blocked his vision, but his hearing and sensitivity to air movement sharpened to their limits.
To the right, at twelve o'clock, extremely heavy yet rapid footsteps were approaching Falcone's position.
Yang Ming drove off his feet, moving straight between Falcone and the unknown intruder.
He had no desire to see anything happen to his customer.