Chapter Text
Un grazie di fuoco
Beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face, breathing heavy and laboured as his hands seemed to clench and unclench around a weapon that he no longer had. His eyes were wild and erratic, moving from one corner of the room to the other, neck whipping back and forth to glance at the ceiling, to the dark corners of the space, to the wall at his back and then even under the very chair he sat upon.
His clothes were ruffled and disheveled, with two large stains slowly growing from beneath his underarms, the originally rather high quality suit, Dick assumed, now just utterly suffused with sweat. They’ve been waiting like this for hours now, but the mobster was adamant that his life was in imminent danger and that whoever it was they were running from, would be coming for them any moment now.
The mobster’s name was Jackson Inzerillo, of the now very recently defunct Inzerillo Crime Family in Gotham city.
Dick stood off to the side, half-concealed by the thick shadows in the corner of the abandoned office they were in. Jackson looked like he was about to jump out of his own skin at the smallest provocation, every muscle in his body tensed to flee even though he’d been the one to explicitly ask for this arrangement. No matter how many times they reassured him, his eyes still darted every which way as if trying to spot some phantom killer creeping up behind him.
Outside, storm clouds brooded over Gotham’s skyline, the faint patter of rain against the high windows adding a muffled, rhythmic pulse to the suffocating quiet of the space. A single cracked window bleeding just barely a thread of the city’s neon glow, right across Jackson’s sweat-soaked suit in a garish slash of pink and blue. The stench of stale tobacco smoke lingered in the air from some long-ago occupant, mingling unpleasantly with the rank odor of sweat that seemed to seep from Jackson in waves.
Dick’s gaze flickered over the mobster’s trembling form, and a pang of sympathy—or maybe pity—stirred in his chest. The man was far from blameless in a city as dark as this one, and a few months prior Dick was certain he had seen him still wearing an arrogant sneer on that ugly narrow face. But now?
Well, going into detail at this point would feel a little rude.
“Easy, Jackson,” Dick said quietly. His voice seemed to echo just a bit in the near-empty space. “Sit tight. We’re here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
Jackson let out a shuddering breath. He tried to nod, but his head moved in an anxious sort of twitch instead, as though every muscle in his neck fought against the idea of stillness. He cast another wild glance at the ceiling overhead, leaving Dick half-expecting armed goons to come bursting through the vents.
Off to the side and down the adjacent hall, two more figures from their team were stationed. Their presence was nearly silent, but occasionally the scuff of a boot or the slide of gloved fingers on a weapon broke the delicate hush. Every so often, Jackson threw a frightened glance in their direction, as if uncertain whether they were really friends or just another threat lurking in the shadows.
“This level of paranoia seems almost a little much, don’t you think?” Tim whispered through their comm, lifting himself up to sit atop a discarded desk that had been shuffled out into the hallway, the hood of his Robin suit down as he angled his position to use the dark of the hall to hide his face. He shared a glance with Stephanie leaning back against the opposite wall, arms crossed above her chest.
Though Dick was aware they were constantly on alert, habits long forged in the necessities of their day-to-day, he could also clearly tell that they would much rather be anywhere else than here. Steph far more than Tim given the rather unimpressed look she happened to be sporting. Which made sense, given the quick turnaround this entire operation had been when they had put it together.
By his calculation, less than 24 hours had elapsed since Jackson had come barreling into the Gotham PD claiming his life was in danger and that he needed protection, to the point that he was willing even to provide any amount of insider information he happened to possess regarding the Gotham underground. In particular, in regards to a new up and coming crime family that had recently moved in that was making waves both locally and nationally if recent reports were to be believed.
They called themselves, The Vongola .
And according to Inzerillo, they were far beyond anything anyone had ever dealt with before. Logically, most of the folks as the station had been quick to dismiss such lofty claims, given that, you know - mobsters just didn’t necessarily bring about the same level of inordinate fear as say, a global alien invasion, a magical apocalypse or god forbid the Joker being back on the loose. Also, they had named themselves after clams of all things, and well - clams? Really?
Honestly, even Dick had his doubts. But ever the paranoid maniac himself, Bruce had insisted they indulge the request anyway and Dick was inclined to agree with his line of thinking. Though not the largest crime family in Gotham by any means, the Inzerillo weren’t just some run of the mill street level small fry. They’ve been operating in Gotham since well before Dick himself and likely even Bruce had been born and had expanded their reach so deep into the very soul of the city that they were just as much part of Gotham itself as the ever present darkness, rain and crime that seemed to perpetually plague the city.
To hear that they had been essentially annihilated in a single week, all without any sort of incident or fanfare was mind-boggling. How did something like that even happen? The local police were one thing, but them ?
The birds of prey.
Jason and his vigilantes.
Bruce and the Bat-Fam?
For that kind of carnage to slip directly beneath the noses of Gotham’s most vigilant crime fighters - it was certainly an uncomfortable prospect. Whether it was because the Vongola were uncommonly efficient—or simply dangerous beyond the usual Gotham brand—well, that currently remained to be seen.
A faint beep in Dick’s earpiece broke his reverie. He raised a hand to touch against the side of his comm, making a concerted effort in keeping his voice low.
“Talk to me.”
Barbara’s calm but baffled tone rang clear through his earpiece. “I’ve run some preliminary checks on the Vongola lead Jackson gave us. Not a lot on them in the usual databases—there’s only a patchwork of rumours and coded references. They’re pretty well insulated, which is honestly a little impressive. But…” She let the words linger.
“But what?”
There was a short pause, and the faint clack of keys in the background. “The rumour is that they’re connected to something overseas. Something… old. Historic even. I’m finding references referring to ‘rings,’ and ‘flame,’—stuff so cryptic it doesn’t even read like real intel. More like some private local mythology specific to the area.”
Dick exhaled, confusion knitting between his brows. “Alright,” he whispered. “Keep me posted on anything else you find.”
“Will do,” Barbara replied, and with a click the line went silent.
From the hallway, Steph snorted softly into the comm. “You hear how this guy’s breathing? He sounds like he’s just seen the Joker waltz in wearing his dad’s pajamas.” She spoke in a bored-sounding huff. She stood with one foot propped against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t know, Dick. He’s really jittery. Are we sure anything this guy says is legit right now? I know trauma when I see it.”
There was a faint shuffle as Tim leaned back against a battered filing cabinet. “To be fair, I’d also probably freak out if my entire extended family got bumped off in a week… but these guys named themselves after clams, didn’t they?” Tim glanced towards Dick. “I mean, I know mobster naming conventions can be weird, but ‘Vongola’? I keep thinking of an Italian restaurant special.”
Dick shot them both a look, though he couldn’t entirely suppress a tiny smirk. “Keep it down,” he whispered. “We’re supposed to be protecting him—and we won’t if we let our guard down too far.”
Jackson, oblivious to the hushed conversation playing out in earpieces, fidgeted on the rickety chair at the center of the office. His gaze whipped back to Dick, a silent plea radiating from his panicked eyes. The overhead light flickered, drawing out the dark circles beneath them. For all the man’s sins, in that moment he was just another terrified soul in Gotham, caught in the crosshairs of something he assumed was bigger and deadlier than he’d ever anticipated.
Dick took a step away from the corner, letting the old floorboards groan under his weight.
“Jackson,” he murmured, voice careful, “we need more details. Anything else you can tell us about the Vongola—safe houses, known associates, how they operate. We can’t protect you if we don’t know who’s coming.”
Jackson swallowed hard. The knot in his throat bobbed, and for a moment, he looked on the verge of bolting. “I told you everything I know,” he stammered, words spilling from his mouth in a single breath.
“We reached out… to them, maybe a month back. We were gonna strike a deal—arms, shipments, that sort of thing. But negotiations went south. Next thing I know, my father’s—” He paused, jaw clenching. “My father’s dead. Uncles. Cousins. All gone. And nobody saw nothin’. Not a single shot fired in the open, not a single witness.”
Dick watched him carefully. The trembling had intensified. “But you survived,” he said.
A flicker of guilt or fear—maybe both—swam across Jackson’s face. “For now,” he murmured. “I’m sure of it. These people don’t leave survivors. I’ve only gotten this far cause’ I was using the crowds around as collateral if they came for me.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Shitty, I know. But I needed to get to ya. You boys in tights are my only hope right now.”
“And I guess I’m chopped liver then.” Stephanie chimed in, edging into the office, though if Jackson had heard her he certainly didn’t make any show of it. She stepped closer, arms still folded, her posture betraying only mild interest. “If they’re as big and bad as you say, they’re sure taking their sweet time.”
He looked up, eyes rimmed with terror and desperate hope. “Please. Help me get out, and I’ll—I’ll talk. I’ll talk about everything my family was mixed up in. All of it. I’ll give you all the names you want.”
From the hallway, Tim’s voice floated over. “We got you dude, no worries. You’re safe.” He glanced towards Stephanie, who gave a short nod. “This whole building is under surveillance. Once we find them - we intercept. We figure out their method, track them back to wherever they’re hiding, blow this thing wide open.”
Jackson raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair, staring again at the corners of the ceiling. “Easier said than done. They’re like ghosts.”
“Not the first time we’ve hunted ghosts,” Stephanie interjected dryly, stepping fully into the room with bored sort-of confidence. “And if there’s one city in the world that knows how to chase monsters in the dark, it’s Gotham.”
A crack of thunder rattled the glass in the windows, and the rain began to fall heavier now, pattering an anxious rhythm that set every nerve on edge. The old office building groaned under the weight of the storm. For a moment, Dick could have sworn he saw a flicker of light from somewhere in the building below—like a flashlight beam, or perhaps just the reflection of distant lightning.
“All right,” Dick spoke. “We hold position. If the Vongola are sniffing around for Jackson, they’ll have to come through here eventually. We give them a welcome they won’t forget.”
Jackson swallowed again, his breath ragged. “They’ll come. I’m sure of it.” His voice cracked. “I can feel them watching.”
A low beep from one of their scanners signaled movement in the building. Tim hopped off the desk, gliding into a crouch. Stephanie brought a hand to her belt, readying for trouble. Dick gave Jackson a firm look—stay where you are—and then pressed a finger to his comm.
“Talk to me, Babs.”
Her voice crackled through. “Got company on the lower floors. They’re not on the official security feeds—somehow they’re bypassing everything—but I’ve caught them on a backup camera I rigged. It looks… It looks like just one person. A man, decently tall, wearing white of all things in this weather. Brown hair, with a mask on his face.”
“That’s them,” Jackson whispered, eyes wide. “They’re here.”
Dick could feel his heart rate pick up. Everything about the infiltration fit the pattern. It was too stealthy, too well-coordinated to be common thugs. The silent arrival, the bypassing of security—this was exactly the kind of surgical precision Jackson’s stories had hinted at.
In a single motion, Dick stepped back into the shadows. Even if they weren’t fully convinced about the unstoppable might of the Vongola, this was still Gotham—where any hush could prelude danger, death or disaster. If something was coming, he’d rather be over-prepared than caught off-guard. And if it all turned out to be a phantom conjured by Jackson’s fear, well… at least it would serve as a reminder: better to take a paranoid mobster’s stories with a grain of salt, but never forget that in Gotham, the line between paranoia and reality was perilously thin.
Tim and Stephanie exchanged glances, each falling into roles practiced a hundred times over. Tim vanished deeper into the shadows, ready to flank from behind. Stephanie melted back against the wall, eyes on the door, posture like a coil.
Dick’s gaze swept the room. A drip of water leaked through the ceiling, the sound of its impact nearly deafening in the sudden silence of the space. The overhead bulb flickered again. The city’s neon haze seeped in through that single cracked window, painting Jackson in uneasy streaks of white and pink and-.
…
Orange.
…
From behind, a metal gloved hand wrapped around Jackson’s throat, curling like a snake just as another clamped down to kill the gasp that slipped from his lips, his whole body rising to a stand just as the sound of their comms screamed to life.
“Bogey’s gone! He’s disappeared!”
But Dick was already on the move, legs bracing to leap towards the sudden invader before a shock of pain shot through his legs, the sight of his own breath causing his eyes to widen as the space all around them grew heavy with ice and frost. His legs bound by crawling glittering crystals that continued to trail higher and higher with each passing moment.
“I’m stuck!” He heard Stephanie cry from off to the side, the sound of both her and Tim’s struggling ringing clear throughout the quiet of the space.
But Dick was solely focused on the man that stood before him, tall and clad in all white with a faint trimming of orange that outlined the edges of his suit. He wore a plain expressionless white mask, gleaming metal gloves or gauntlets and had eyes - gods his eyes - so bright and molten that Dick felt as though he would just about burst into flames if they were to stare at him for long.
“Jackson!” He cried, reaching down towards his waist to gather a round of Nightarangs to throw at the apparent Meta that had just burst into the scene. But before he could so much as ready himself to throw them, he heard the masked mobster speak, staring directly at Jackson himself.
“Sei fortunato che la tua Volontà sia più forte del resto della tua Famiglia. Per ora puoi riposare come un uomo e non come un mostro. Mi dispiace e arrivederci.”
And there was only fire, as Jackson’s entire body was subsumed in roaring - brilliant orange flame. A stunned hush was quick to follow. It stole the breath from every throat in the space as Dick’s muscles tensed, straining against the icy prison that snared him from the waist down. He could hear Stephanie and Tim doing the same—fighting desperately against frozen columns that refused to give, no matter how hard they pulled or dug in with gauntlets.
“Jackson!” Dick shouted again, voice reverberating off the high ceiling. He tried to hurl a Nightarang, but the ice locked his throwing arm to his side, leaving him with only a helpless glare.
His entire focus was locked on Jackson, engulfed by that eerie, flickering blaze. It wasn’t like the raw, hungry inferno of a building fire. The flames themselves seemed to almost shimmer, tongues of orange tinged with fleeting threads of pale gold, weaving over Jackson’s suit and shoes and hands and face without so much as a scorch. In the center of that blaze, the masked intruder stood close, like a sentinel ensuring there was no interruption, holding his victim close - like a mourner comforting a dying man.
To his surprise, Jackson didn’t scream. As the heat washed across him, he only stiffened, his eyes wide before somehow growing soft. Some strange emotion flickered across Jackson’s face—fear, relief, acceptance, all merging into one final expression.
In a voice that trembled less than before, Jackson managed to speak, shifting his mouth free as he turned towards his own assassin. “Grazie…” he whispered, each syllable fragile as glass. “Th-thank you… for… for giving me this…”
The words struck Dick like a physical force.
Thank you?
For what?
He’s literally killing you.
He was literally on fire, pinned in place by the intruder’s unnerving abilities. Yet there Jackson was, offering gratitude like he’d just been granted a mercy instead of an execution. The masked figure merely inclined their head, the faintest tilt acknowledging Jackson’s final words. Then, as swiftly as it had surged up, the orange flame seemed to intensify, flaring bright enough that Dick had to turn his gaze away from the glare.
When his vision cleared a moment later, Jackson’s form had started to crumble. It wasn’t the horrifying spectacle of flesh charring or blackening—no, this was more like delicate ash peeling away, fragment by fragment, as though a thousand years of decay had happened in the space of a heartbeat. His arms disintegrated from the fingertips inward, drifting off into nothing. His trembling legs turning to delicate powder, each piece flaking into the luminous air until there was simply no body left to collapse onto the floor.
Finally, the last part of Jackson’s face disintegrated in a waft of gray dust, slipping through the masked man’s gloved fingers. All that remained was a faint shimmer of floating ash and a whisper of orange flame that vanished just as quickly.
Stephanie choked back a gasp. Tim swore under his breath. Dick’s heart hammered, a furious staccato in his chest—he’d never seen anything like it. Jackson Inzerillo, a man so desperately afraid for his life, who had gone so far to live as to reach out to the Police and the Justice League was simply… gone.
The hush in the office was absolute—Dick’s mind still working hard to grapple against the events that had just transpired right before his very eyes. They had failed.
Jackson was gone.
And there had been absolutely nothing they could do about it.
Abruptly, he felt the cold around his legs begin to lessen. The glittering shackles gripping him and the others dissolved into air with a muted crack, vanishing the instant the white-clad mobster moved to take in their presence, the unexpected release causing Dick to stumble a step forward, free at last. He fought to right himself, ignoring the lingering numbness clinging to his calves. A quick glance confirmed Stephanie and Tim were likewise free, eyeing their now-exposed legs in astonishment.
“Why—” Dick started, just as the figure’s molten gaze snapped up, swirling gold boring into him through the veil of that blank white mask. Then slowly, the intruder lifted a hand—almost sheepish, like in an apology—before stepping back into the gloom.
A swirl of the same orange light lit the corners of the space, starting bright before shifting into a deep hazy indigo as they faded away. Before Dick could react, there was no one—just an empty space and a trail of ashen residue trickling down like motes of dust caught in the flickering light of the bulb still stuttering above.
Silence seized the room, broken only by the steady drip from the leaky ceiling and the intensifying rush of rain outside. Dick inhaled, forcing himself to steady his thoughts, heart still drumming in his chest. Stephanie and Tim drew in ragged breaths behind him, each also trying to process what it was they’d just witnessed.
“Did that… really happen just now?” Tim asked quietly, flexing his freed arms as though verifying they still worked.
Dick pressed a finger to his comm, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Babs,” he said quietly, “we lost Jackson. The intruder got to him first—turned him to… to ash. And then vanished.”
A short pause, then Barbara’s voice crackled through. “I’m… picking up nothing on cameras. No heat signatures except yours. Are you all right?”
Dick swallowed, turning his gaze to the flakes of ash on the grimy floor. “We’re okay. But - But somehow this… person neutralized all of us in second and then… took Jackson out in a burst of flame.” A flicker of memory sparked—Jackson’s word of thanks. “I-I can’t explain it well right now. We’ll regroup up top.”
Stephanie let out a shaky exhale, one hand braced against the wall. Tim said nothing, the uncertain look on his face mirroring Dick’s own inner turmoil. Guilt, already starting to gnaw at his thoughts from the corners of his mind. In one stroke, the so-called Vongola had proven they were far beyond the typical gangster fare most of Gotham was used to dealing with. Dick took a slow breath, forcing down the knot in his throat.
“We should have done more,” he murmured, not bothering to hide the self-reproach in his tone. They’d been in the same room, yet still let Jackson slip through their fingers. Perhaps if they’d trusted his story more, or taken a more direct control of the operation…
Stop, he told himself. This wasn’t the time to spiral.
Tim raked a hand through his hair. “I mean… it’s not like we weren’t prepared,” he argued quietly, though his voice carried a tremor of shock. “I set up sensors everywhere, stealth drones. We had Babs running point with building schematics and all local CCTV. We thought we had everything covered.”
“And that’s exactly it,” Stephanie added, still breathing a bit too fast. “We got outplayed by a guy who apparently walked through our entire security perimeter, manifested ice walls, and somehow incinerated Jackson without leaving an actual fire behind.”
Dick couldn’t help but recall the hush of that final moment—Jackson’s whisper of thanks to his executioner. He shook his head, trying to file the memory away for later dissection. “This is bigger than we realized,” he said, voice grim. “Much bigger.”
Barbara was silent for a few beats. They could picture her at the watchtower of her console, eyes scanning multiple windows of data, trying to make sense of it just like they were. “I’m running every camera feed in a three-block radius,” she finally said. “Nothing. Not even a phantom on any of the thermals. Whatever this person did, it’s like they were never here.”
Tim let out a humorless chuckle. “Great.”
A jagged streak of lightning lit the windows, momentarily revealing the sheets of rain lashing at the building outside. Thunder followed, rattling the hollow floors. In the brief flash, Dick glimpsed the pale dust of Jackson’s remains still scattered on the ground, then forced himself to look away.
“Come back to the safehouse.” Barbara continued . “I’ve started a deep dive into any global chatter around these ‘Vongola.’ I’ll see what else I can turn up.”
Dick took one last look around the dim office. The paint was peeling, and the stale scent of old cigarette smoke mingled with the cold dampness of the storm. It was just another decaying corner of Gotham, hiding secrets that even they hadn’t been ready for.
He gave a short, curt nod and pointed toward the door. “Let’s move.”
Tim led the way into the hallway, shining a small flashlight from his belt to keep an eye on any sign of a lingering threat. But the corridors were silent now—no footsteps, no suspicious movements. The battered desk Tim had perched on earlier lay askew, a testament to how quickly everything had erupted and then ended in a single, horrible instant.
Stephanie followed close behind, boots crunching on debris that littered the floor. As they descended the building’s stairwell, she stole another glance at Dick. “You okay?” she asked softly, her tone gentler than before.
He nodded, though the knot of guilt in his chest felt heavier with each step they took. “Not really,” he admitted. “But I will be. Let’s just get to Babs. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with.”
At the ground floor, Tim pushed open the rusted exit door that led onto a narrow alley, the wind whipping droplets of rain inside. For once, the city’s neon glow felt alien, reflecting harshly against the puddles and flickering across their weary faces. Dick braced himself against the chill, swallowing the sour taste of failure that still clung to his tongue.
They emerged onto the slick street. In the distance, police sirens wailed, mingling with the howling wind—a typical Gotham night, except the three of them knew it was anything but typical.
We should have saved him, he kept thinking.
But had Jackson really wanted saving in the end, or had he, on some level, welcomed that final cleansing judgment? In the stretch of silence that settled between them all, he could almost imagine the faint echo of Jackson’s final whisper:
“Grazie.”