Chapter 66: The Jester

Making a crystal ball music box model was much more technical than the first two tasks, but it was not too difficult to satisfy because the requirement was simple: "Silent."

A music box that did not need to produce sound was essentially just an ordinary crystal ball. The parts that required the most effort—the music cylinder, the comb, and the tines—could be completely omitted; it only needed to spin.

Components for this part were easy to purchase, and the assembly was straightforward. Ma Zhaodi did not need to spend extra skill points to buy basic handicraft skills; he could put it together step-by-step just by following tutorials found online.

"Fortunately, today is Christmas, and the Falcone family isn't holding a banquet. Everyone is staying home to celebrate the holiday, otherwise, I'd have to specially go ask Falcone for time off... Tsk, is this what they call the '9-to-5 corporate slave' vibe?"

Do not misunderstand. Ma Zhaodi was just an ordinary waiter and temporarily had no opportunity to bother the busy Godfather of the Gotham City underworld, even if he had successfully transitioned into a master chef—the Falcone he would have to ask for leave was the Roman's own son, Alberto Falcone.

Despite being the biological son of the Godfather, his name was rarely mentioned by anyone in the family. Whether in newspaper reports or among insiders in the Gotham underworld, opinions of him could be summed up in four words: clever, and transparent.

He had earned a scholarship to Harvard through his own efforts and later pursued advanced studies at Oxford. His educational background and intelligence made him stand out like a crane among chickens throughout Gotham's underworld. Logically speaking, with such a son, the Roman's underworld empire seemed to have a guaranteed successor.

Yet that second impression—transparent—was single-handedly crafted by the Roman himself. Carmine Falcone had forbidden Alberto Falcone from touching the family business since childhood, directing his older brother Mario Falcone and older sister Sofia Falcone to act as his right hands in assisting with gang affairs instead. Alberto had expressed to his father countless times that he wanted to follow in his footsteps, but the answer he received was always the same.

"No, you don't need to get involved in the family business."

Consequently, he was only ever assigned trivial, harmless administrative tasks within the family, living the life of a wealthy young heir much like Bruce Wayne—yet he was not accustomed to indulging himself the way Bruce did, so he appeared increasingly introverted and quiet, fading further and further from people's minds.

In reality, however, Ma Zhaodi could state with certainty that he was undoubtedly Falcone's favorite son, without exception.

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Meanwhile—

"Dent! It has to be Harvey Dent!"

Outside Maroni's Italian restaurant, faint, scattered voices were swallowed up by the howling blizzard. Doors and windows were tightly shut and securely veiled, making it impossible for passing pedestrians to catch even a glimpse of the interior.

Inside the restaurant, the dim ambient lighting typical of upscale dining establishments illuminated a single table, casting a faint glow over the immediate surroundings.

Most of the tables and chairs had been neatly cleared away, leaving the entire restaurant looking vast and empty, having been cleared out by the two men seated at the table.

"I want to find some people, my dear friend—I mean, some good men to plant in the District Attorney's office, watching Harvey Dent twenty-four hours a day."

"It's already being arranged, Mr. Maroni. Found a kid, goes by Vernon, hahahahaha hehehe..."

The mustachioed man held a glass of red wine, unable to suppress a sly chuckle. His voice sounded remarkably like a shadowy villain from a cartoon—though the words he had just spoken were indeed those of a shadowy villain.

"My dear friend...?" Maroni, sitting opposite him, furrowed his brow. Such an unkempt display from the man was truly rare, and that villainous laughter sounded genuinely unsettling. "What the fuck is so fucking funny about this?"

Yet the man holding the wine glass remained silent, continuing to emit a spine-chilling cackle.

"Hehehehe... ho-ho... ha-ha-hee-hee-hee-hee... hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo—"

"Plop!"

Laughing hysterically, he dropped his wine glass and plunged face-first into the plate of pasta before him. The smile on his face was blindingly bright, his mouth split from ear to ear, and he made no further sound.

"Hey!"

Maroni was splattered with pasta sauce as the man knocked the plate askew, instantly flying into a rage. But before he could blow his top, a waiter dressed in white approached his side carrying a tray.

"Care for some more wine, Mr. Maroni?"

A teasing voice rang out beside his ear. Maroni's attention was instantly captured, and he turned his head to look.

Dark green curly hair, a corpse-pale complexion, a sharp bridge of the nose, and two sharp, harsh eyebrows. The corners of his mouth split nearly to his ears, displaying a reckless, uninhibited grin.

It was not a warm smile. It was a terrifying smile, a chilling smile.

His gaze was like a cat watching a mouse, like a viper eyeing a traveler. There was no warmth in his eyes whatsoever, forming a jarring and startling contrast to the massive grin plastered across his face.

Just looking at his face, Maroni instinctively felt a chill. Chaos and madness mixed with thick malice washed over him, causing the underworld boss who had spent his life licking blood from the blade to feel a trace of fear.

So he used anger to mask his fear.

"A clown."

He judged the man before him from a position of superiority, his face showing an expression of angry arrogance. "No clown is getting into my turf, any—"

"Mine is bigger than yours, Maroni."

A revolver with a barrel the size of Maroni's forehead pressed against his head, freezing his attempt to draw a gun from his jacket halfway.

His eyes widened abruptly as he looked at the other man's playful grin and nonchalant gaze. At that very moment, Maroni realized that the man was an absolute lunatic—he didn't care about the consequences of killing him, nor did he care how much power he held.

He genuinely did not mind killing him.

At that moment, the clown spoke again: "Or should I call you—the Holiday Killer?"

Hearing such an outrageous assertion, Maroni instinctively retorted: "The Holiday Killer? Me?"

"Of course. You're the second man of Gotham City, and Carmine Falcone, the Roman, is Gotham's 'first man'."

"The Holiday Killer only slaughters the Roman's men, so naturally, you stand to gain the most—"

"No, wait, I swear on my mother's grave—"

Panicked and thoroughly rattled, Maroni was now blurting out whatever came to mind, retaining none of the poise and dignity of an underworld boss: "At the end of the day, this is still about business! The whole Holiday Killer business is ruining everyone's business!"

Hearing this, the Joker scratched his head in confusion, then thrust his pale face right up to Maroni's, his eyes blinking with bewilderment as he asked a question like a curious child.

"Then..."

"Who is the Holiday Killer?"