"I believe the only way to reform people is to kill them."
-Carl Panzram

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August 2014

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The wind whistled through the trees, a splendid song dancing amongst the branches as they shivered and shifted, shedding several leaves to the bare basin below. The turbulent breeze captured the fallen foliage, Mother Nature's unseen fingers scooping the leaves between her grasp, tossing them airborne to meet her chanting hiss.

Four furry legs dashed through the vegetation, the forgotten leaves crunching beneath rough paws. A shy pant tumbled over a long pink tongue, an inky black nose suctioned to the ground, sniffing out the prize.

For a split second, the dog froze—wet nose stilling over a set of pretty pink nails.

Several still fingers poked through the crunchy blanket, a single brown leaf wrapped around the bloodless index finger, decorating the lifeless skin like a ring.

The dog inspected the severed hand, thoroughly sniffing the body part as if to ensure that it was—in fact—severed and defunct.

With a snort, the animal lapped at its drooling jowls, claws burying deep into the dirt as it promptly buried the body part, the faux pink nails disappearing beneath the earth.

Once the evidence was properly concealed, the dog continued on its journey—routinely trekking onward towards the nearest property in search of what its master desired.

The dog returned just as several bulbous rain drops slipped from the storm clouds above, a strangled sob slipping through Mother Nature's fingers as she finally freed her sorrow.

The icy rain claimed the animal's fur, but the dog remained unphased—for he adored the rain, worshipped the cold. It was difficult for his master to beckon him back in come the winter months, and he often slept in a thick blanket of snow, a sweet smile stretched across his chops.

He was a siberian husky, after all.

A pleased grin slithered along the smooth lips of his master once the dog reentered the yard, a rolled-up newspaper pinched between razor-sharp teeth. It was routine for him to venture nearly a mile south in search of the nearest property, where an untouched newspaper laid rolled-up on the pebble driveway. He frequently snatched it before the residents ventured outside, and by the time they emerged from their warm slumber, the paper was gone—prompting another vexed phone call to the local office.

"Good boy, Bullet." His master cheered, falling to their knees to meet the panting dog. Bullet's tail eagerly wagged, a small snort emerging from his nose as he held the paper high.

"There's a big ole steak with your name on it for supper," his master added, rotating their blood red mug to the other hand. Bullet dropped the slobbered paper into his master's open palm, tongue lapping out to press wet, slimy kisses to the curve of their knuckles.

His master giggled, lips pulling together into a kiss as they pressed several pecks to Bullet's furry head.

"Let's bring this in to Daddy before the rain really starts," his master added, kicking the front door open with their boot-clad foot. The dog gleefully ran inside, nails noisily clicking against the wood floors as Bullet disappeared from sight, on a mission to locate his favorite human.

With slight difficulty, Bullet's master unraveled the paper with a single hand, a mug full of steaming chai tea clutched between reddened fingers. The rain came down in thick sheets, a pleasant roar tickling the shell of their ear as the newspaper uncoiled, big, black letters riddling their sight.

A small gasp tickled their tongue as the cover story came into view, an excited twinge pulling at their chest.

SALVATORE MARONI DIES OF PROSTATE CANCER

"No fucking way," Bullet's master whispered, an amused snort emerging from flared nostrils. "Daddy's going to be particularly pleased by this."

The door snapped closed on their heel, violent raindrops drumming against the roof as they skillfully navigated the premises. They could hear a hushed tone emerging from the dining room, an over-enunciation of certain syllables, a cackling chuckle, a husky sigh. The sound alone generated a pleasant warmth within the chest of Bullet's master, dwindling down to the tips of their toes as they shyly rounded the open doorway, revealing a giddy Bullet seated directly beside his beloved human father, who was planted in front of a heaping plate of blueberry pancakes and a mess of greasepaint pallets.

The newspaper met the round table with a garish smack, Sal Maroni's sickly features catching his eye.

"Ohoho," he mused, a sneaky smirk stretching along scarred lips. "Mister Macaroni is finally dead."

"Of prostate cancer, no less." His wife beamed, placing her mug on the table. Instead of settling into her own individual seat, she collapsed atop his lap; nuzzling her nose into the warm crook of her husband's neck.

"I'd only be fully tickled if his little weiner magically combusted, but prostate cancer is good too." He mused, index finger flattening against the paper. He drew it closer, brushing his half-eaten plate of pancakes aside to fixate his focus on the news.

"Says here that his only son—Jakob Maroni—a baby Macaroni-ha. Anywho, his little er-offspring is due to take over the family business. Ya hear that, Ember? We've got ourselves some plans tonight." The scarred-face man beamed, patting a giddy Bullet atop his head.

Ember purred against Joker's cozy neck, lips daintily peppering a series of sweet kisses along the beating surface. She could feel his steady pulse against her mouth—the way it slightly hopped when her teeth nipped at the skin—and she grinned, a smile so big and bold that it nearly made her cheeks ache.

"Good. I've been pretty bored lately. I could use a new adventure," Ember said, craning her neck to meet Joker's stunning chocolate gaze.

"Who needs an adventure when you're married to the Joker?" He teased, swatting her playful kiss away and instead directing his long, slender fingers to her waist, digging deeply into the skin to tickle her silly.

Ember loathed his tickles, and it was enough to get her up off of his lap—a mock sigh slipping off of his tongue as if to insinuate relief from her lack of presence. She huffed, snatching up his sticky, syrup drenched fork as she shoveled a mouthful of pancake into her mouth, two pairs of wide, puppy-dog eyes glued to her frame.

"Don't look at me like that," she slurred through a mouthful of food. "Both of you."

"Get the shower ready, doll. We have a long day ahead of us," Joker slurred through a full mouth, swiftly shoveling pieces of pancake into the hatch. He snuck several chunks to the dog—much to Ember's irritation—and slipped the plate into the sink.

His wife was already in the bedroom when he slunk through the doorway, a gentle spray of warm water slipping between lightly parted fingers. The hot water heater went sour three weeks prior, which led to one too many cold showers for Joker's liking. He could handle a bit of cold, but after awhile, it made him agile—pissy. Ember found him in the front yard carving an array of peculiar shapes into the bones of a weeping, slaughtered deer—the blotted blood encircling the clown's arms, a profusion of guts dismissively strewn about. Bullet nibbled on pieces of the dead deer, and the sight nearly sent Ember straight to the toilet with a sick stomach.

"Nice'n hot, ain't it? Thank Mommy for that. Our hero, her lil boyfriend bringing in a new hot water tank." Joker slurred, stripping down bare. Ember was already nude, dressed in nothing but her signature paper plane necklace as her shoulders slumped against the tiled wall, legs politely crossed.

"Thank Satan," she giggled, removing her hand from the stream. With a small smile, she eyed the way Joker's legs looked as he stepped out of his boxer shorts, his identical charm nestled between infrequent bursts of chest hair. "Good thing the guy is nearly legally blind, one look at your busted face would've sent him running."

"Ha-Ha," Joker mocked, kicking his boxers aside. "You're just so funny, Lady Napier. Besides, no need to thank me. I didn't do a damn thing."

Ember's eyes rolled, lanky legs stepping into the cozy cubicle. The warm water felt glorious against her sore shoulders, a sigh of relief slipping through parted lips as her counterpart clambered in beside her, playfully pushing her aside. She tossed a curse in his direction, only to earn a pinch in her side, followed by a pair of greedy, scarred lips suctioning to her shoulder.

Ember tossed her head back in bliss, eyes tipping up towards the sky as her lids gingerly fluttered closed. She reveled in the feel of his marred mouth—the way he expertly nipped and sucked—and she bit back a moan when Joker's wandering fingers danced along the protruding curve of her hipbone.

"I thought we had plans," Ember breathed, knotting her fingers in Joker's drenched curls. The green had long faded—disappeared—and instead of strutting his usual blond shade, he'd opted for something entirely different. New.

The lengthy locks were a deep shade of umber—a warm cup of coffee on a bitter, dreary day—courtesy of Michelle's favorite box dye brand, something with aloe and avocado oil mixed inside. The tips of his hair tickled his shoulders, long and loopy, and Ember nearly yanked an entire section straight out of his skull when curious fingers found her center.

"I always make time for my lovely wife," Joker mused, unable to bite back his wide, lopsided grin.

His glare trailed along Ember's red flesh, warm and splotchy from the blistering stream. Her skin was so sensitive, like a baby freshly born, and the sight always amused Joker. He barely had to pinch—hardly had to smack—and her pale flesh would glow for him, a temporary tattoo, an aching prize.

His fingernails dug into her hip, and Ember gasped—her hold tightening on his scalp as she yanked several stray curls away from his head. He grunted in response—so good, so fucking good—and with one swift movement, he spun her around—lacerated lips claiming her trembling mouth.

She met his glare briefly before swallowing his groans—a dark black stare riddled with lust—and she let him take her. Claim her for his own.

After all, he owned every bit of her. His Ember, his wife.

Joker breathed life into the woman just as he'd done endless times before—her flushed frame molding to his, locking together as if they were carefully crafted to do so.

Made for one another.

Joker's palm cupped her warmth, and she sighed into his open mouth, a series of pleas decorating his tongue as she begged him to touch, to finger, to fuck.

Only, he wouldn't give in so easily. After all, he was The Joker—the Clown Prince of Crime, as cringy as Ember said it was—and most of all, he was the master of torture. He wouldn't give in until she was on her knees, profusely begging for a kiss, a touch . . .

"Don't fucking torture me, Jackson." Ember hissed, pulling Joker's mangled bottom lip between her teeth. She bit down until she tasted blood, and lapped it up like it was candy—a dark chuckle emerging from his throat as he licked at the severed skin. He nearly saw stars when the coppery taste drizzled down his throat, and just like that, he was ruined. Spent.

So much for torture.

Ember was on her knees before he could emerge from his trance, the water consistently pelting her shoulder as she took him into her mouth—so soft, so warm, and she outwardly groaned against his length, for she knew just how wild it made him . . .

"Fuck, Em," Joker rasped, eyelids fluttering closed as his head laid lax on his shoulders, adam's apple blissfully bobbing with each and every carnal sound. "You're always so good at that, pet."

Ember grinned at the nickname, lengthy nails claiming Joker's rounded buttocks as she tightly squeezed, leaving crescent-moon shapes in her wake. Just as he enjoyed leaving evidence of his love behind on her skin, she craved the very same.

She'd just barely cupped the surface of his balls when Joker tugged her up onto her feet, the spray of the shower bitterly blinding her. She yelped in protest, the soaked soles of her feet nearly slipping as the madman spun her around, making her dizzy. Ember hardly had time to protest—for she was mostly busy with blinking the water out of her eyes—before he bent her over, the palm of his wide hand colliding with her left buttock.

"Fuck," Ember exclaimed, eyes rolling back into her skull as his fingers found her aching bud. Her arms extended, palms steadying against the slick wall of the shower in a weak attempt to steady herself. She knew she didn't have to, he'd never let her fall—besides, the grip he had on her hip was enough to leave behind bruises.

"Gentle, Jackson." Ember shyly begged, knees wobbling slightly as he teased at her entrance. He was warm and cozy against her throbbing center—her favorite sensation—and her eyes rolled up into her skull as he playfully poked and prodded around her folds, a slight snicker tickling his tongue. He knew how much she loved that—craved it—and his job wasn't done until her legs gave out and she was clinging to him for support.

Joker leaned forward, peppering dainty kisses along the curve of her soaked spine. The warm water felt glorious against his backside, and just as his tongue lapped out to meet the in-between of her shoulderblades, he slowly sunk into her—earning a hushed gasp from the woman beneath his mouth.

"Yah good?" he purred, freezing in his motions.

"I always forget how big you are," Ember whispered, tangling her fingers within his. She knew was she was doing—stroking his already massive ego—but the statement alone made his dick twitch within her, a girlish giggle easing over Ember's tongue as she clenched around him.

Joker eased into a steady rhythm, his hips rutting against Ember's as a chorus of groans echoed within the quaint cubicle. Beads of sweat trickled down Ember's scarlet cheeks, head swimming in satisfaction as the heat nearly sent her overboard. She loved the way shower sex made her feel—the steam resembled slender fingers, coiling around her lungs, limiting her air supply. Joker increased his pace, long fingers knotting within her hair as he pulled her head back, emitting a breathless whine from the woman. Black spots danced along her vision, her walls tightly contracting around him as she inched higher and higher and higher . . .

"C'mon, Em. Let go." Joker purred, unable to contain himself any longer. He knew that Ember was seconds away from losing consciousness, and he also knew that the sensation always made her cum so hard that she squeezed his dick painfully hard. He liked the pain, the way it made his balls draw up and his heart skip several beats. It made him dizzy—weak—and if he wanted to prevent dropping his lady, he had to finish, and fast.

She let his favorite pet name slip—daddy—and he was spent; white hot ribbons painting her walls as he held her in place, knuckles flushed and pale. The shower felt unbearably stuffy and small, and the madman found himself tearing open the glass doors for a sliver of relief—a burst of cool air.  A slight tremble claimed his knees as he collapsed onto his elbows upon the sink, struggling to catch his breath.

The roar of the shower tore him from his high, a pleased chuckle connecting with his back as Ember pressed kisses along his shoulder. "Getting old, there?"

"Never thought I'd-uh, make it this far," Joker admitted, brushing his nose against Ember's. "Come on, let's get cleaned up."

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A four-legged Bullet watched in glee as his masters shared countless laughs, slender white legs draped around the purple hips of Gotham's infamous clown-paint criminal as she dipped her fingers into tubs of greasepaint.

"It's been so long since I've seen you in your paint," Ember mused, stealing a soft kiss between layers. She smoothed the chalky white paint across Joker's skin, forefinger curiously tracing the deep pockmarks of his mangled skin. She always found fascination in his scars, the way her fingers dipped between folded flesh. She had the urge to kiss them, and did just that—smearing white along her mouth in the process.

"Retirement is a weird thing," Joker said, tracing mindless circles against the bare skin of Ember's thigh. "Admittedly, I-uh, enjoy it. But I can't wait to slither back into my favorite suit."

"Let's just hope it still fits after all the pancakes you've been eating," Ember teased, and Joker pinched her sides, earning a boastful laugh from the woman.

She helped him into his suit—the plum fabric settling snugly into his broad frame. It still fit him perfectly, although he'd left it hanging in the closet for nearly two years, now. The coat was warm and familiar, a hint of gasoline etched within the fabric as Joker buttoned his vest.

"Wow," Ember breathed, smoothing her palms along Joker's wide-set shoulders. They were planted in front of a fingerprint riddled mirror, floor-length, with a gaudy decorative border that she always despised. "It's like you never even took it off."

"Feels like home," Joker admitted, admiring the pristinely applied paint. He smoothed his bare fingers across the surface, smearing the blood red hue along his mouth to make it look more jagged—angry.

"Hey," Ember pouted, brows pulled together in frustration. "It looked perfect."

"Yeah, a little too perfect, darlin'." Joker teased, smacking his lips. His greasepaint-riddled fingers dipped into the expanse of his coat pocket, the tip of his lengthy forefinger gently gliding along the heel of his favorite purple blade—a gift from his foster mother, Michelle. If he ever misplaced that knife, he thought, he may just lose a piece of his soul.

If any pieces remained, that is.

Ember silently watched as the madman retracted the switchblade, red-stained thumb affectionately tracing the curved edge. He settled upon the handle, and clicked it open—earning a soft gasp from the still woman behind him.

The sleek, silver blade glimmered beneath the buzzing white lights from the bathroom, a plethora of diamonds shimmering along the surface. Joker eyed the object, a snakelike grin slithering along his features as he turned it over in his fingers, a maniacal laugh bubbling up his throat.

Ember slightly stilled, anxious breaths tickling her throat as she took a step back, fingers detaching from Joker's dark locks. She felt the shift almost immediately—the darkness, the wickedness—it oozed off of him like cheap, overbearing cologne.

He spent most of his retirement relatively . . . tame. If she could even call it that, really. The purple suit was hung and forgotten at the rear of the closet, and ensemble not needed. The blade stayed in the pocket—neglected, ignored. He used other blades—simple ones, basic ones—blades that he didn't spare a second thought over if they disappeared, because they weren't used as frequently. She could hardly recall the last body she found in that room—the walls still oozing with a bloody proclamation of love—and it was some hitchhiker, and unfortunate fella who lost his way and eventually, his lunch. Right on the concrete floor, directly beside the mess of dried, miscellaneous stains that never quite came out.

She saw the body once—intact, shockingly—and then never again. Discarded. Abandoned.

As if he never existed at all.

Joker took up hiking nearly sixteen months prior, something he did alone. Often, he took Bullet along with him, but never Ember. Not once.

She hardly even knew about the severed, manicured hand that their dog had stumbled over that very morning, and like a good little pup, he covered it right up, never to be seen by the woman of the house.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The laughter continued, and the Joker nearly doubled over onto his knees—purple blade still in tow, wild eyes blinking back tears. The jacket nearly slipped from his shoulders, and Ember found herself backing towards the bed, the back of her knees dizzily colliding with the mattress. She braced a palm against the mushy surface to steady her shaken legs, a staggered sigh slipping through her lips as she watched the clown cackle with glee.

Joker spun around on his heel, gaudy scars bloody and a swollen, and Ember watched with wide eyes as he brought the shiny silver blade up to his mouth, pink tongue darting out to meet the object. He flattened his tongue against the blunt side, mischievously dragging the muscle up up up toward the top.

"Oh, baby," Joker cheered, pocketing the knife once more. "Don't be scared. It's just Daddy."

Ember's lips pulled into a forced smile, chest inordinately heaving as the clown took several taunting steps in her direction, shoulders obnoxiously hunched.

"I'm not scared," she murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her shaking legs were sure to give her away, and she knew just how much he loved it. He'd voiced it several times—God, tell me how scared you are, baby, I'm so close—and although she couldn't feel it, she just knew that he was rock-hard beneath his purple trousers, as if he hadn't taken her less than an hour prior in the stuffy shower.

"Oh?" Joker teased, head tipped to the side. "Your-uh, legs say otherwise, sweet tart. Come on, don't shy away from me—I'm still here. Deep-uh, down, that is."

"Jackson–"

Joker lurched forward, fingers delicately coiling around Ember's throat as she outwardly gasped. Their fronts messily collided, the woman's damp locks tickling Joker's painted face as he playfully applied pressure to her neck. He reveled in the way her mouth popped open—a sweet sigh tickling her tongue—and he mimicked the sight and sound, hips flattening against her frail, bony body as he pinned her against the mattress.

"You like it when Daddy chokes you like this, don't you, sugar?" Joker purred, tongue lapping out to wet his lips. Greasepaint filled his senses, and he found himself growing dizzy—dizzingly hard, that is.

"You're-uh, lucky we're on a tight schedule, sugar plum, otherwise I'd screw ya silly right here and now." he mused, removing his hand from Ember's neck. She lurched forward, capturing his painted lips in a swift kiss that had him nearly breathless.

"Ira's almost here," Joker informed between breathless smooches. Ember trailed her lips down his neck, smearing the paint along the pale surface as the madman tossed his head back just enough for her to reach his favorite spot. "You're ruining my face."

"Good." Ember breathed, reattaching her lips to his. Joker had just pinned her down onto the bed—fingers fiddling with the buttons of his trousers—when a knock came at the door, signalling that his henchman, Ira, had arrived.

Fuck.

"Let's-uh, postpone this." Joker chuckled, kissing Ember once more. He urged her to dress as quickly as she could as he disappeared from the room, patting Bullet atop his sweet, furry head on the way out.

Ira was an impossibly tall Swedish man with a head full of shaggy blond hair that dipped into his beady black eyes. He was calm and collective, stark opposite of his employer, but he was determined and fit, and most importantly, he loathed the Maroni's. Michelle met him three months earlier at a dive bar, and as wonderful as a mother that she was, she took him under her wing and introduced him to the infamous Joker—a man who seemingly disappeared from Gotham's radar two years prior. The GCPD had hardly any complaints about Joker's retirement, but the mob had several—for a retired clown was no better than a dead clown, and Maroni especially always wanted to tote Joker's severed head around on a painted purple stick.

"Little Maroni's gonna shit his pants when he lays an eye on you," Ira slurred, thin lips pulled into a smirk at the sight of his slightly shorter boss. "Where's Lady Joker?"

"Gettin' ready," Joker grumbled, adjusting his coat. "Get the car warm. She'll be out soon, and I-uh, got somethin' to do real quick."

Ira raised a brow. "Be quick, Little Maroni's party starts in sixty."

"We'll be fashionably late," Joker teased, and disappeared from view—leaving a lanky Ira with a curious Bullet. The henchman nodded curtly at the animal before exiting the estate, clambering into the warm vehicle in wait of his employer.

The drive to Jakob Maroni's incredibly stale and pretentious gala was relatively quick—mostly due to Ira's intense need to speed and Joker's greedy, gloved hand up Ember's dress—and when they arrived, his wife nearly vomited out of the window, the nerves buzzing wildly within her chest.

After two years of absence, the Joker would be making a very public appearance before the entire mob. Although the inside affairs would not be televised, the red carpet was crawling with paparazzi, overly excited losers with cameras clambering over one another to get a single shot of Gotham's second richest white man (following not-so-closely behind Bruce Wayne, also retired, considerably MIA)—Jakob Maroni.

He was a short, frumpy fellow with an ugly array of nonsensical tattoos up his right arm and a head full of untamed brown locks. Showy red bumps claimed his forehead, splotchy spots of acne, and he carried not two, but three big-breasted women on his arm, crooked smile catching each and every lens of the paparazzi's cameras.

The sight made Ember sick, and she was quite relieved to know that Ira was steering them around back, tucked away from all of the flashing lights. She was never a fan of popularity even before her relationship with the Joker, and the idea of being spotted on camera was enough to make her empty stomach jolt.

Joker's warm palm cupped her thigh, gloved fingers gently squeezing in reassurance.

"Ira, cover my ass. Ember, your job is to look pretty." Joker rambled, stuffing a silver-plated gun into his jacket. Ember hadn't seen the weapon in ages, and her stomach roiled once more.

Something was wrong.

"Do we have some kind of plan?" Ember breathed, fiddling with the neck of her dress. Her heart erratically beat beneath her ribs, like a rabid bird bouncing about within a too-tiny cage, and she sighed when her husband shook his head with a grin.

"It's all just a show, babygirl. I finally get to kill a Maroni, all while his little rich bitch friends watch. Then-uh, maybe after, we can fuck in his blood. Sound good?" Joker teased, delivering a wink in Ember's direction. She barely choked out an answer before he was shoving open the car door, and on his way out, he proclaimed that he loved her—a statement that made her heart soar—and with that, Joker and Ira were gone.

She watched the two men round the front of the vehicle, a giddy Joker delivering a firm pat to Ira's back as they skipped up towards the rear door of the establishment, a large steel door with a sign reading KEEP OUT.

Joker, predictably, did not obey; gloved fingers drawing an invisible frowny-face along the metal surface of the sign as Ira picked the lock. Joker glanced once more over his shoulder, winked in Ember's direction, and disappeared beyond the door.

Ember had just barely enough time to yank open the door before she spilled the contents of her stomach, and with a small sob, she too made her way inside, wondering how and why everything in the universe could feel both so right, but also unbelievably wrong.

|•|•|•|

Jakob Maroni was a dick.

He treated everyone around him as if they were peasants—lesser than—and Ember merely gagged into her drink as she watched him mingle, stubby fingers consistently flattening against his oily hair.

She was dressed in an ivory, showy sequin dress—floor length with thin straps—one which hugged her hips just a little too tight.

She hadn't seen Joker or Ira since they exited the car, and she'd been at the bar for nearly forty-five minutes, achingly nursing a drink with too much vodka in it. It sat uncomfortably on her turbulent, empty stomach, but alcohol was always a good idea, and if her husband intended on putting on a show, the least she could do to tame her anxiety was to get a little bit tipsy.

"I don't think I've met you," a voice called, and she nearly dropped her drink. Jakob Maroni hovered her bar stool, grubby fingers incredibly close to Ember's bare knee as he studied her features.

"Jakob Maroni," he introduced with a sly smile. He extended a hand, but she refused to shake it, smirking slightly when he sheepishly tucked it away.

"Amber," she said, opting for a basic name that was relatively close to hers. Her dress suddenly felt way too tight. "I'm too old for you, Little Maroni."

"Oh?" Jakob purred, clearly entertained. He had a piece of lettuce between his teeth. She saw his eyes wander down her slim frame. "No one is too old for me, sweetheart. I'm an old soul trapped in a twenty-four-year-old's body."

Ember snickered. "Still too old."

"Tell me about that nickname," Jakob said, taking a seat beside her. She scoffed at the sight, suddenly desperate for Joker's impending arrival. "Little Maroni. Only some very specific people have called me such a thing, and you, darling, seem too clean-cut to be involved with such individuals."

"You have no idea who you're talking to," Ember chuckled, setting down her drink. "I can handle myself plenty, Little Maroni. Trust me, you don't want to be seen with me when the tables turn."

Jakob raised a brow. "You're too pretty to be involved with what you are. Get out now while you still have a chance."

"Fuck off." Ember bit, stepping off of her stool. She awkwardly adjusted her dress, considerably annoyed by the fact that she chose something so tight, and she found her eyes irritably wandering the ballroom, slipping past stagnant individuals in search of her purple prince.

Any fucking time now, J . . .

"Hold the fuck up," Jakob called, claiming her elbow within sweaty palms. "You don't get to talk to me that way at my fucking gala–"

"I'll give you three seconds to get your grubby fingers off'a my girl, Macaroni, before you lose em all."

Ember's pulse fluttered, a slight snicker dancing along her lips as she roughly yanked her elbow out of Jakob's clammy grasp. She barely caught wind of a painted-face before several surrounding individuals noticed his presence, terrified gasps and guttural screams enveloping the area.

Jakob's features hardened as Joker strut into view, purple blade twirling between gloved fingers. The clown was cocky—giggly—bloody lips upturned into an amused grin. He tore his glare away from Maroni's spawn for a split second, blackened stare settling upon a sharp-dressed Ember. He winked once, prompting a batch of butterflies to swarm her stomach, before thrusting the sharpened tip of his knife in Jakob's direction.

"You think you can manhandle my girl and just walk away, hmm?" Joker slurred, head cocked to the side. He was so arrogant—so confident—and Ember couldn't help but grin, the lengthy nail of her index finger slipping between chattering teeth as she apprehensively chewed.

"Out of retirement so soon, clown?" Jakob spat, taking several steps backward. Ember saw right through his confident stance—inside, he was a trembling, terrified, little boy.

The hushed crowd gradually dispersed, several strangers slipping through the exit doors, disappearing from sight.

No one in their right mind wanted to be around when the Joker was in the building. After all, he was quite fond of blowing buildings up, regardless of who was inside.

"Only for you, Little Macaroni." Joker teased, gnawing on his bottom lip. "Go ahead, hop up on stage. Make your speeech. We're-uh, all waiting." He thrust his blade in the direction of the stage, an oddly small surface with nothing but a single microphone accompanied by a cheap black stand.

It was evident that Jakob's "gala" was just a mostly inexpensive party to celebrate his induction to the mob as its rightful leader. If the mob had any common sense, they'd put a bullet between his lazy eyes before he could even take the stand.

Ember could tell just by the way he talked that he was nowhere near as intelligent as his late father, and there was no chance that he knew how to run the largest underground criminal group in all of Gotham. She wondered if he were even actually related to Maroni, for it appeared as if half of the lights up in his noggin were completely off.

Jakob tossed his hands middair in mock surrender, a sly smile cascading across his lips as he slunk towards the stage. He seemed amused—elated, almost—by Joker's presence, and the realization made Ember's stomach go sour. She wanted to gag—to heave—but she reminded herself that Joker was in control.

He was always in control.

What remained of the steadily shrinking crowd was mostly gathered by the exit, bulging eyes glued to the scene as Jakob hoisted his leg up, beckoning for some nameless goon to help him onto the stage.

Joker only chuckled, blackened stare shifting to meet a severely stiff Ember several feet away. He could tell that she was nervous—bubbling over with anxiety—and it made him itch in anticipation. He could practically see the sweat glistening upon her upper brow, the way her bottom lip quivered and shook, how she mindlessly picked at the skin around her nails.

She didn't trust him.

"Hey," Joker lowly hissed, blood-red, bottom lip tugged between his teeth. Ember glanced his way, and he mouthed two extremely important and impactful words.

Trust me.

She relaxed, stiff frame visibly loosening as she returned her attention to a cocky Jakob Maroni on the stand, his sweaty, sausage-like fingers curled around the microphone.

"Is this thing on?" he dryly teased, nodding in the direction of the dwindling crowd. "Hey, you guys leaving so soon? Things are about to get good, I promise!"

"Say your speech, dickhead." Joker called, twisting the purple blade between his gloved clutch. "Tell everyone just how happy you are to take over-uh, after dear old daddy."

"My daddy was an absent asshole," Jakob said, tightening his hold on the microphone. "I could care less about him or his death. The only good thing he did for me was leave me his entire estate and the title of Master Mobster. I'm untouchable because of him. Cops can't have me, gangs don't want me. I own the mob. I own Gotham."

Guests continuously eased out of the premises, careful not to alert anyone capable of blowing it all to smithereens.

"Joker here thinks he owns this city, but he never did." Jakob added, nudging his slightly taller goon in the side. His hand slipped behind the thick burgundy coat that the man wore, and Ember found herself growing bored—impatient—eyes lazily wandering to the ceiling.

"He never did. Gotham is my birth right, Gotham is mine. And tonight, I'm making sure that no one, not even some psychopathic asshole clown, will ever attempt to take it from me again." Jakob finished, retracting his now full hand from behind the goon's back.

Ember's lips parted in protest, but it was too late.

Time seemed to tick in slow motion—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—and her stare settled upon a handsome purple shirt, a blob of blood gradually blooming.

Joker dropped his blade, shy fingers gliding across the widening wound placed directly over his black, beating heart.

"Ha!" Jakob exclaimed, thrusting the gun into his goon's outstretched grasp. "Looks like the Joker does have a heart!"

"Jackson–" Ember gasped, chest filled with ache. Her lungs neglected to intake air, and her knees severely wobbled as she dropped over her heels on the way to the unsteady clown, his chalk-white, painted forehead rimmed with puzzled lines.

Ember reached him just as he'd sunk to his knees, his breaths emerging in the form of a wheeze as he met his wife's glassy eyes.

"Em," Joker whispered, reaching out to meet her trembling fingers. He barely uttered a phrase—the one she loved to hear oh so much—before he slumped sideways with a sigh, collapsing into a managed mass of stiff limbs.

"No no no no–" Ember breathed, gritting her teeth as she shuffled forward on her knees to meet the unmoving man she called her husband, her lover, her life.

Her dress slightly tore beneath her knees, a garish sound, and she collapsed against his upper half, the curve of her palm grazing the growing mass of blood beneath his shirt.

She stared blankly down at him—the way his neck hung to the side, black-holes for eyes sealed shut—and she screamed. Loud. Ugly.

He died quick—without a pause, nary a moment. It wasn't like in the movies, where they had enough life behind their eyes to confess to their sins, to list off names of those they loved. No—it was short. Quick.

Death did not waste her precious time, and she snatched Jackson Napier up as quickly as she could, as if she'd been waiting—hovering. She had her blackened, bloody fingers outstretched, desperate, and scooped him away, a sadistic snicker tickling Death's pretty pink lips as she cradled Joker's soul in her long arms, a whisper, a giggle easing out of her throat—mine mine mine.

Ember's hands balled into fists atop Joker's chest, and screamed out of anger, out of defeat. You're better than this, Jackson. You're smarter than this. But as she looked down as his lifeless frame she realized that perhaps, he simply was not.

He was human, after all.

The stunning silver chain of Joker's necklace peeked out from the pale skin of his neck, and Ember found herself tugging at the chain, forefinger gently grazing the slick skin of his throat as she tore the paper plane pendant from the confines of his shirt.

She nearly choked at the sight of the plane spattered with bright blood, heart irregularly thumping within her chest as she withdrew her own necklace from beneath her dress. She leaned forward slightly, pressing the pendants together as if to ignite some kind fire—a sort of magical spell—one that would bring him back.

She heard Jakob Maroni explode into a fit of sarcastic laughter up on the stage, and what remained of his guests only stared—wide-eyed and terrified—as the man solely responsible for the Joker's assassination gleefully celebrated.

Ember watched through hooded eyes as the younger lad jumped about, cheering about his accomplishment, consistently calling Gotham his. She shook from head to toe, fury bubbling up within her chest as the pale skin flushed a deep scarlet.

Just as their henchman, Ira, softly announced his presence behind the ruined woman, something within her brain snapped—a measly wire, a faulty rope—shredding and warping, falling astray. The extreme emotion wracking through her clammy frame instantaneously vanished, and she was left feeling calm, collected, and most importantly, confident.

With Jakob distracted, she slipped her hand into the warmth of Joker's coat, trembling fingers grazing across the cool silver of his full-auto Glock-17, a gun she damn well knew was fully loaded and eager to be used.

Ember thickly swallowed, unblinking stare solely glued to Jakob's flailing frame. He was fucking dancing, jumping around on stage and childishly cheering.

This was the man who was intended to take over the mob?

Ember bit back a chuckle at the thought, stiff fingers confidently curling around the gun as she gradually withdrew it from the inner pocket of Joker's custom coat. She couldn't look down—couldn't see him—couldn't break the spell. Not until she'd fulfilled it's most desperate desires.

Ira's eyes widened at the sight of Joker's pistol in Ember's clutch, a thick lump present in his throat as he watched the woman slowly stand to her feet, careful not to pull either Maroni or his goon out of their apparent trance.

"Hey, Macaroni," Ember coyly called, appropriately spreading her legs to get into position. Her mind painfully flickered back to Joker's lessons—how he'd nudged her feet with the toe of his shoe, spread your legs—and she felt the blood drain from her face at the realization that Joker, her Jackson, was dead at her feet.

Jakob's giddy gaze met the barrel of Ember's gun, and with a gasp, the weapon fired—planting a lethal wound directly between his goon's eyeballs.

Jakob screeched as the man's hefty frame met the wood, several boards splintering upon impact, and he barely had any time to react before Ember fired once more, skillfully sinking a bullet into the meaty flesh of Jakob's thigh.

Ira gasped behind her—clearly stunned by her skilled shots—and Jakob crumbled onto his bottom, a painful howl crawling up his throat as he gawked at his angry, gaping wound.

"You bitch!" he exploded, cradling his bleeding thigh with both hands. He barely had time to call for help before Ember was up on stage with him. Through his bloodshot, blurred gaze, he was able to spot a glimmer of something silver in her clutch, her slender fingers wrapped around a deep purple blade.

Jakob Maroni's strangled shout shifted to a pained cry when the woman settled all of her weight against his buckled knees, the fabric of her dress haphazardly torn, exposing most of her lily white left leg.

"You just made the worst mistake of your short, pitiful life, Jakob Maroni." Ember hissed, Joker's favored blade pinched between her clammy fingers. He feebly attempted to throw her off, but she aptly countered his attempt, squeezing her thighs tightly together to lock his legs in place.

"I'm not afraid of you," Jakob spat, an unconvincing mask slipping over his paling features. "Your little boyfriend is dead, and I killed him. He's had a million dollar bounty on his head for almost a decade, and I did the job no one else could on my first day as Gotham's king."

Ember brought the blade to his throat, a hushed gasp tumbling over Jakob's lips as he squirmed beneath her hips. She was stronger than she led on, and he could feel the tip of the knife slowly slicing away at his frantic flesh.

"You're not fit to rule," Ember snarled, her once soft, kind brown eyes swallowed up by darkness—by death. She felt nothing—no pain, no sorrow, no hurt. Nothing but a hollow hole in her soul, a gaping cavern in her chest, an empty spot where her heart once beat.

"I'm glad I killed him!" Jakob announced only, to suddenly spit out a cry. Ember's free hand had located the ugly, weeping wound in his thigh, and her thumb twisted and dug, deeper and deeper until she swore that she could feel the warm cushion of his severed muscle around her skin.

Jakob thrashed and cried beneath her rigid frame, and Ember unintentionally nicked his neck, a fresh cut swiftly oozing all over her fingers. The younger man sobbed and begged, and she eventually withdrew her thumb from his gunshot wound, a surplus of black, blotted blood circling the digit. She merely shrugged at the sight, and returned her attention to Joker's blade at Jakob's neck, his ashen skin smeared with scarlet.

Ember watched with widened eyes as the man openly cried beneath her, his brave mask completely melting away to reveal the scared little boy beneath her hips. His cheeks were wet with tears, eyes bloodshot and blurry as he audibly begged for her to move—get off of me please get off—but his fate was sealed from the second he pulled the trigger.

You're a dead man, Jakob Maroni.

"Hey, hey," Ember sarcastically cooed, a haunting, toothy grin easing along her lips. "Don't frown, friend. Don't you know it's better to smile? Less work on the muscles in your face."

Jakob paused, perplexed by her statement. It was a childish phrase, one that reminded him of something a school teacher once told him.

"I have an idea," Ember suddenly said, tearing the blade from his neck. Jakob nearly sighed in relief at the loss of contact, before openly gasping when Ember slid up his legs, settling herself just over his groin. Her palms claimed his dampened cheeks—gentle and soft—and he felt the frigid silver of the bloody blade come into contact with his lower, quivering lip.

"I'll make sure you'll never forget to smile ever again," she whispered, biting down on her bottom lip to conceal her impending laugh. She felt weightless—free—and as Jakob Maroni cried and thrashed beneath her stiff hips, she simply smiled, wedging the serrated steel at the very corner of his soft lips, fingers roughly gripping the handle, squeezing so hard, so tight that the curves surely left dents in her skin, but none of that mattered—not a worry, not a care—and she yanked and pulled, stretched his mouth open wide, carved the skin wide open. Gaping.

The blood was blinding, coating both her hand and the blade as she kept going and going and going, until he was gagging and gurgling, choking on his own blood, teeth and tongue stained a violent red. She barely made it an inch into his cheek before he began to audibly aspirate, and with a grunt of dissatisfaction, she bent her elbow, down far enough to plunge the blade directly into his heart.

When he was finally silent, she got to work on the other side of his mouth, completing the gruesome task.

She sat back to admire her work, most of it hidden by an overwhelming abundance of blood, and she jumped when a palm met her shoulder, the reassuring, shy touch from Joker's remaining henchman.

"Are you okay?" Ira asked, eyes trailing down to view the plethora of blood that soiled her dress. Her hands and arms were covered—coated—as if she were wearing red, elbow-length gloves. She reeked of slaughter, like a man who'd just finished butchering a crowd of cattle, and she concealed Joker's weapon within the shoulder strap of her dress, taking Ira's offered hand as he helped her to her feet.

She glanced over her shoulder to view Joker's limp body, but it was gone. Not even a single drop of blood left behind from the clown.

As if he never even existed at all.

"He's in the trunk," Ira explained, sensing her worry. "I wrapped him in a blanket. He deserves a proper burial, not to be found by the cops when they eventually show up."

"Ira," Ember whispered, her tone unsteady. She viewed the bloody mess that was once Jakob Maroni once more, and she had an idea. "The mob . . . there's a group of them directly next door, isn't there? What remains of Maroni's crime family and their allies, that is?"

Ira slowly nodded, brows knit together in confusion as he watched an anxious Ember collect her thoughts. "Maroni banded together most of the crime families before his death—the Sullivan's, Falcone's, Dubelz, Bertinelli. They all came together after Batman went off the radar. Jakob was supposed to take over as their lead."

"Bring me the machete from the car," she said. "I have some work to do."

|•|•|•|

As promised, Ember found a generous group of mob members buried deep inside the neighboring building—a stale, windowless structure that reeked of mold and rot. From the outside, it almost appeared completely condemned, the shingles on the roof lazy and lopsided, most of them missing. An unpleasant yellow paint coated the concrete exterior, splotchy and cracked, vandalized in several spots.

It was the perfect place to hold a completely illegal meeting between a bundle of Gotham's most-wanted criminals, all of whom were anxiously awaiting the arrival of their newest leader—who, by his blood, and his blood only—had the right to take over operations.

No one particularly liked Jakob Maroni, but his father made quite the name for himself, and he did his best to keep most of them from ever seeing the inside of a jail cell. The least they could do in his honor was allow his son to take over, regardless of how foolish or irritating he really was.

There was an office on the third floor, four doors down the dingy hallway, the orange carpet stained and torn. Aging bulbs flickered and groaned, some completely blown, the glass angry and black.

There was a steady trickle of red that followed on Ember and Ira's tracks—drip drip drip—staining the soiled carpet a deep vermilion, dripping down onto the baseboards. Her fingers were knotted in a nest of wiry hair, her knuckles flushed a stark white in comparison to her glowing red chest, a silvery paper plane pendant perched perfectly between her breasts.

A younger man guarded the door, one with hair so blonde and eyes so blue that he appeared to have been plucked directly out of a fairy tale, and although he was ordered to search any guest that arrived, he found himself completely immobile. Stunned. Big, round eyes fixated on the weeping object within Ember's grasp.

"Step aside, young man, and get out while you can." Ira said, a gentle palm cupping the kid's shoulder. Ember hastily met his gaze—her black, soulless stare boring deeply into his shaken sea of blue.

He barely nodded before darting past, not once looking back to see what he'd abandoned.

Ira was right, this was no place for a young, handsome, innocent soul. It was for the damaged—the damned—and Ember Napier had been damned to hell since the moment her birth parents abandoned her.

"Ready?" Ira breathed, motioning towards the closed door. Although they were several feet apart, Ember swore that she could hear his heart racing within his chest—an inconsistent rhythm, a rushed tune. He was frightened, for he'd worked for these men for nearly a decade before being hand-picked by Michelle Napier due to his curious track record. Ira was told that if he left, especially for the clown, he was good as dead, and now, he was walking right back into the middle of it, as if they'd never put a bounty on his head in the first place.

Ember made a mental note to do something extra special for him in thanks—if they both lived, that is.

"Open it," she whispered, tightening her hold on the object in her grasp. It had left behind a rather garish mark on the carpeting, a haunting puddle, and Ember had specks of it on her toes, her sore feet still shoved within the restraints of her overpriced heels.

Poor choice of attire.

Ira curled his fingers around the tarnished golden handle and opened the portal, revealing a room full of well-dressed men, a swirl of cigar smoke dancing around their heads—all of which turned to meet their sudden, unexpected visitor.

Behind the desk was an unnamed member of the Sullivan family—a man maybe around Ember's age—with a round, red face and beady brown eyes. He was vastly overweight and hardly fit in his chair, one that was meant to host Jakob Maroni, no doubt.

"Your new boss has arrived," Ember coolly announced, gliding towards the cluttered desk. Without another word, she raised her arm, revealing the object pinched between blood-stained fingers as if it were a shiny new toy.

The room gasped in unison, and she dropped Jakob's severed head atop the desk, his freshly marred cheeks glowing a bright, haunting red.

Sullivan's eyes narrowed, glare lingering slightly on Jakob Maroni's head. He saw the scars—an almost identical replica of Joker's—and his stomach rolled, an overall sense of extreme unease settling within his bones as he glanced around Ember's frame in search of the clown.

"Where is he?"

"Dead," Ember simply said, requesting Joker's gun from a stiff Ira planted behind her. He was careful to avoid any kind of eye contact with the room's inhabitants, and although every single one of them surely recognized him, no one said a word. After all, he'd just walked into the room with a woman covered in blood, yielding the weeping head of a young Jakob Maroni.

That was, until Sullivan stifled a chuckle, one that made the blood within Ember's veins run cold.

"That fuckhead Maroni killed the most slippery criminal Gotham's ever seen?" Sullivan snatched a blue, ball-point pen from the clutter atop the desk, the inky, pointed end curiously poking and prodding at the frayed, choppy flesh of Jakob's right cheek.

Suddenly, his gaze rotated upwards, locking on Ember's empty eyes. Amused, he raised a single brow.

"And you expect me to believe that this skinny mini killed Maroni, as daft as he was?"

"You wouldn't be so surprised if you knew who she was," Ira chirped, lips pulling into a confident smirk as he watched Ember's grasp shift around the gun. He hadn't spoken much with the woman before this night, but he knew quite well of her relationship with the Joker, and no ordinary woman would wed such a man.

"She's sex on legs, is what she is," Sullivan said, twirling the pen between his fingers. He laughed at his own crude joke, and before he could share the laugh with his surrounding friends, Ember's arm raised, index finger curled, legs perfectly parted . . .

A crimson hole claimed the inbetween of Sullivan's eyes, angry and oozing, bloodshot eyeballs gliding upward within their sockets.

The overweight man slumped backwards with a sigh, and spoke no more.

"Jesus fuck–"

"–did this bitch just–"

"–she fucking killed Sully–"

"Anyone else have anything to say about my legs?" Ember chirped, a cocky smirk slithering along her lips. Most of the room immediately silenced—stagnant, burning cigars pinched between shaking fingers, dark liquor anxiously swirling around within trembling glasses.

Ten of the men bit their tongues, all besides the eleventh—the most handsome of them all. Blonde hair, green eyes, a series dainty freckles painted along his nose. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, a pair that constantly slid down his nose.

"You're the Joker's wife, aren't you?" he asked, setting down his half-drink glass of scotch. He eyed the emerald ring threaded around Ember's finger—always marry an April girl—and shockingly, he smiled. A sweet grin. Small and dainty, as if out of pity.

He seemed completely unphased by his colleague's corpse, gaze glued only to that of Ember Napier, Joker's Glock-17 still in hand.

"Patrick Kelly, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Not what you expected?" Ember countered, refusing to remove her finger from the trigger. Ira stood idly by, tense and torn, for he knew the man she currently spoke too quite well.

Patrick Kelly.

He was mostly a nobody in the eyes of the mob—he didn't come from money, he wasn't related to any of the big-name families. But, he was smart. He was sly. He could dance his way around a crime scene and leave nothing behind, not even the scuff of a boot. Joker expressed interest in hiring him several times, but Kelly worked on his own accord. He had hopes of separating from the crowd of criminals within the next year, and now with their newest leader headless and Sullivan bleeding from his skull, his hopes and dreams might've finally come true.

"I half expected you to have a little more paint on your face," Kelly admitted, swallowing a chuckle. Ember stood frozen in place as the man circled the desk, stare eventually settling upon an expired Sullivan, still lounged within his cracked leather chair.

"The paint doesn't suit me," Ember said, raising a brow. "You seem pretty confident considering I just murdered your stand-in boss without hesitation. It may be best for you to step aside."

Kelly paused, hands stuffed into his pant pockets as his thin lips gently pulled into a smile. He liked this woman—Joker's lady—but the Joker was dead, and she was not, and she knew her way around a gun, a knife, and the balls between her legs were bigger and bolder than any of the lousy men currently scared shitless in that very room.

"It's impressive," Kelly murmured, gesturing towards Jakob Maroni's bloody, scarred head. "What you did to that little fuck-up. He was never meant to take over after his father, Sal tried to have him killed several times. Things just never quite worked in his favor. Pity, he was a good leader."

"Does this little story have a point?" Ember impatiently countered, refusing to pry her finger from the trigger. Jackson had taught her well—too well—and she refused to waver until her needs were met.

Kelly brushed aside several cluttered items, dismissively tossing bulging folders and dull, unsharpened pencils to the floor. He settled half of his weight on the desk, the aging wood whining beneath his weight, and crossed his hands atop his lap.

"Tell us what you want."

"I want Maroni's spot," Ember simply said, the barrel of the pistol pointed directly over Kelly's heart. "If you so much as let out a little laugh, I'll shoot you dead."

Kelly threw his hands up in defense, refusing to release the bubble of chuckles that tickled his throat. "No laughs, here. You've proven yourself quite useful, Lady Joker. After all, you managed to bring back the head of the mob's least favored, and then killed the mob's most favored . . . I think it's safe to say that the power rests atop your shoulders right now."

Ember's gaze narrowed in suspicion. Nothing was ever this easy, regardless of how skillfully (and, rather violently), it was obtained.

"I want it all," she demanded, nodding towards a slowly decomposing Sullivan. "Starting with his spot. Get him out of the chair. Now."

Kelly nodded, beckoning over a trio of men that were currently huddled up against a dusty bookshelf. They hesitated slightly, but when Ember cocked the gun in their direction, they practically squealed; glasses clattering to the floor, stale liquor and shards of glass dancing along their feet.

It took all three of them to shuffle an overweight Sullivan from the chair, and when his body tumbled to the floor with an enthusiastic thump, Ember couldn't help but grin. Refusing to drop the gun, she rounded the desk—side-stepping over Sullivan's slumped frame before settling into the leather chair, the material sighing in relief when her considerably smaller self collapsed against the seat.

She kept her gun ready, elbow resting atop the desk as her eyes drifted over the room. Ira was still standing in the very same spot, a sly smile plastered along his features as he observed Ember in her position of power. Kelly stood directly beside her, hands still stuffed within his pockets.

She felt weightless—free. Maroni's ugly mug stared back at her, his head balanced atop the desk by the fatty flesh of his severed neck, surrounded by a sticky pool of blotted, black blood. She almost laughed at the sight of him—his open, lifeless eyes, the frightened expression still glimmering within the empty orbs. His lips were severed—slit—an extended smile, a gaudy grin.

Thankfully, the computer to her left was already open and active, revealing a plethora of restricted information—information that could kill.

"As far as succession goes," Ember gradually began, gliding her reddened fingers along the keys. "Jakob had no children, and I killed him, so therefore, I inherit the throne."

The woman threw her hands up in glee, a sarcastic laugh slipping through her lips as she dismissively tossed Joker's open blade onto the oak table. She kept the gun steady—firm—elbow still propped up, barrel pointed towards the door. Any funny business would result in a lethal wound in a particularly unsatisfactory place, and admittedly, Ember was just itching to apply pressure to the trigger just once more—to feel the vibration ripple up her arm, the physical evidence of her actions.

"The password to the computer is titties123, if you were wondering," Patrick Kelly called, playfully clearing his throat. He shot a dazzling glance in Ira's direction, before extending an arm, offering to shake the henchman's hand. "Ira, it's been awhile. Never thought I'd see you around these parts again."

Ira's lips parted in response, but a burly, middle-aged man near the door interrupted his comment. He was red in the face with rage, a single strain of smoke rising from his steadily burning cigar as he took a single step forward.

"I ain't takin' no orders from a little bitch," he seethed, crushing the cigar between his sausage-like fingers. "Especially the Joker's sloppy seconds."

Kelly leaned forward to confront the man, but nearly fell backwards against the bookshelf when a bullet whizzed past his shoulder, the clammy skin of the goon's neck instantly swallowing an eager bullet.

His round fingers coiled around the weeping wound, an excess of shiny scarlet blood slipping between the parted digits. He choked once, and stumbled to his knees—reaching out for assistance from the surrounding men, none of which stepped forward to assist. In fact, the living members that remained stepped completely away, edging closer to a stoic Ember, a woman who'd just lost everything and quite frankly, no longer gave a damn.

A woman who wouldn't dare be crossed.

"Anyway," Ember sighed as the man died, finally setting the gun down on the desk. Her fingers delicately swayed along the keyboard, swiftly searching for access to the mob's money. "Patrick and Ira, come help me. I need to transfer some funds to some important people. After that, I'll be on my way for the night."

"George here is the one to ask about finances," Kelly chirped, nodding towards the tiny, trembling man closest to the desk. His knuckles were a gaunt white, almost identical to the flush of his clammy cheeks. "What do you plan on transferring? Surely you know that we need something to continue operations."

"I'm not devastating my organization on my very first day in office," Ember mocked, urging a shaking George forward. "I just need to shuffle some money around. Two million, to be specific, going to two different people. Michelle Napier, and Ryder Clean. Surely you've heard of him?"

A small smile enveloped Kelly's lips. "Ryder Clean does good business. He'll be appreciative to know that the mob is run by someone such as yourself. George here will take care of it for you, and by morning, he'll have the money wired to both Ryder and Ms. Napier. As for you, Lady Joker,"

Kelly circled the desk, gentle, tense fingers crawling along Ember's bare shoulder as he reassuringly squeezed. "Go home. Grieve. I've never seen a woman lose her husband and not be in shambles. You deserve to let it out."

Ember warily glanced up to meet Kelly's forest green stare, his gaze completely unreadable. He was kind—too kind—and just as anyone else in the mob, she didn't trust him.

"Your throne will be here when you choose to return," Kelly added, tearing his hand away. "I'll see to it. After all, I enjoy living, and you've proven plenty that you know what you want, and what you'll do to get it. I've been wanting to leave this fucked-up organization for longer than I can count on my own ten fingers, and you, Lady Joker, have finally offered me some kind of reprieve."

"I won't hesitate to kill every last living fucking member of this damn organization," Ember hissed, standing to her feet. "After all, you learn some tricks after living with the Joker for quite some time."

"Oh, I believe it." Kelly said, stepping across the room in several large strides. He opened the door, waving his hand as if to dismiss her. "Your position will not be compromised in your absence. But for security, you may want to take the uh—head with you. Showing that to anyone will make them soil themselves."

Ember chuckled, glancing once more at Jakob Maroni's head. A gnat eagerly nipped at the meaty flesh of his face, feasting upon the dried blood and frayed muscle that lined his cheeks. 

"Tomorrow morning," she said, snatching up Joker's blade. She snapped it closed and slipped it into her bra, nodding curtly in Ira's direction as she rounded the desk, passing by a jittery George on his way to the computer. "I expect the money to be wired. No excuses. I'll be back when I can stomach it."

Kelly smiled—whether it be genuine or faux, Ember would never know—and he bid his new boss a temporary farewell. Ember took Ira's hand, (and Jakob's head), and left—not even looking back once at the very room that she'd somehow completely conquered.

They walked in silence for most of the way, until they were settled back in the car, the very same one with a dead, decomposing Jackson Napier stuffed up in the trunk, his broad, purple frame neatly wrapped in a thick blanket, courtesy of his kind henchman. Ember slid into the passenger seat, a peculiar numbness enveloping her limbs as she tossed the bloody, beaten head of Jakob Maroni into the backseat, not caring just how much blood would seep onto the leather.

"Ira," Ember softly began, avoiding the henchman's shy gaze as he rammed the key into the ignition. "What the fuck just happened?"

Ira chuckled, the vehicle roaring to life with a noisy purr as he threaded his seatbelt around his wide frame. "Ember, you're the new boss of Gotham."

|•|•|•|

The ride back to Jackson and Ember's cozy abode deep within the woods felt unusually long, and every ten minutes, the woman requested that Ira pull over so she could retch on the side of the road. After the third time, nothing quite came up beside some sticky spit and a strangled sob, but nevertheless, her stomach rumbled and roiled, and she stumbled out of the vehicle, nearly twisting her ankle in her blood-spattered heels, and heaved.

She was sure that someone spotted the bloody woman on the side of the road perhaps once, but she was too deadened to care—too stunned. Joker was dead in the trunk, a swift and seemingly painless death. Too quick. Not enough time for a speech, nary a sigh.

She retched again.

Bullet was overjoyed when they pulled into the property, the burly animal nearly beating down the door as he scratched and whined and barked, eager to lick the faces of his married masters. Unbeknownst to him, his daddy was dead. Rotting. Extinct. Laced within the arms of the greedy woman called death, her lengthy black nails burrowed into his chest, prying the cavity open, twisting around his heart, yanking it free.

It belonged to her, now.

"Bring him inside," Ember croaked, nearly tripping over her ripped dress. "Put him in the torture room. I need to say goodbye where I met him again after fifteen years apart."

Ira did as he was told, and the woman disappeared within the home—a once warm, welcoming structure filled with love—and now, it felt cold. Barren. Like a deafening void. She felt sick to her stomach again, but swallowed the bile with ease—there was simply nothing left to spell.

She placed a sealed-lip kiss atop Bullet's furry head, a single tear slipping down the flushed, rounded apple of her cheek. The animal's mood instantly shifted, a tiny whine catching in his throat as he anxiously observed Ember's shattered self.

He followed her to the room where Joker tortured and killed countless victims, including an incredibly nosy and unbearably whiny Redheaded Sarah—a kill that still made Ember's stomach twist.

It was unbearably cold in the room—barren, concrete walls, with stripped floors to match. Joker had painted over the abundance of stains on a rainy Sunday afternoon six months prior out of sheer boredom, the evidence of his massacres disappearing beneath pearly-white paint. It looked almost too shiny, too perfect.

The sight made her sick.

Bullet was unfamiliar with this particular part of the house, tall ears flattened against his head as he peered around the doorframe, wide, bug-like eyes scanning the area for any unfamiliar faces. Only, it was just him and Ember, surrounded by nothing but concrete, rusted nails, tarnished chains, and a faded, pink proclamation scribbled along the wall—a sloppy penmanship, dainty drips.

Joker would never paint over that wall, simply due to the fact that Ember would castrate him if he even tried.

The woman settled onto the frigid floor, legs caked in sticky blood as her dress audibly tore once more. She debated tearing the flimsy material clean off, but she and Ira weren't nearly as close as she'd been with Horton, and the idea of stripping down to her undergarments in front of the man made her slightly uncomfortable, especially when Joker was no longer around to protect her like he had done with a greedy Bleaker.

She could still see the man's blood on her sheets—the way the muscles in Joker's forearms contracted with every thrust of the knife, how it sunk into the brittle, boned cage of Bleaker's chest, penetrating the fat, the muscle, the heart . . .

. . . how Joker stabbed him dead, how he looked so cathartic, so relieved, as Ember's gaze dipped downward to meet the little friend that had slipped out of his shirt, a gleaming silver charm, a paper plane.

Bullet settled beside her, a nervous whine tickling her ears as Ira stepped inside, a broad bundle held firmly in his arms, one so large that it nearly dwarfed him. Ember gasped at the sight, a shaking palm flattening against her lips as her eyes profusely watered.

This wasn't real, this couldn't be real.

"Where do you want him?" Ira asked, frowning. He pretended as if it were easy to hold Joker's dead body, but Ember knew that the weight of his departed soul was more than enough to make anyone's arms turn to jelly, especially his trusted henchman, the only decent man they'd employed since Christopher Horton's untimely demise.

"Just on the floor here," she whispered, kicking off her heels. She shifted her weight on the cold concrete, a worried Bullet unable to sit still beside her, edgy whines slipping off of his tongue. He knew what was in that blanket, he could smell it from a mile away.

His Daddy.

"I'll give you some space," Ira said, placing the body onto the floor before her. "I'll be tending to the head if you need me."

Little Maroni's severed head.

"Thank you, Ira," Ember whispered, unable to look him in the face. Instead, her gaze was glued to that of the navy blue blanket, Joker's comfortable cocoon, and she nearly crumbled once more when the door slammed, encasing the three of them in the deadliest room in the house.

Ember remained frozen for several seconds too long, glossy eyes transfixed on the snug blanket that held her darling beau. She was too scared to see him—too frightened to face the reality of the situation.

How could one look into the face of the person they love, knowing that beneath their sealed eyelids, nothing even existed anymore?

Suddenly, she was transported back to the morgue—forced to identify the charred, blackened body of her first husband.

Noah Teller.

Joker had killed him, too.

She swallowed a mouthful of bile, and reached out to meet him. The blanket felt considerably warm, and she couldn't help but smile at the fact, for maybe, just maybe, if his body was warm enough, it would jumpstart his heart once more . . .

Her blood-stained fingers met the flap, and she inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing halfway shut as she peeled the veil away, revealing the corpse within.

As soon as the blanket fell away, she instinctively threw her hands up towards her face—pink palms shielding him from view as she choked back fearful sobs. She felt pitiful—weak—and if the roles were reversed, she knew damn well that Joker would have her bloody, dead body cradled in his arms, her jelly-like torso draped over his lap, paint-riddled fingers yanking, pulling at her cheeks, prying the lids open, sobbing at the sight of her eyeballs tipped back into her skull.

She was too cowardly to even look at him.

Bullet broke into fitful whines, ones that sounded almost like real, human sobs. She felt him nudge against her knee, and her entire body trembled, heart thickly thumping in her throat.

She had to do it.

"Quit this shit, Ember," she lowly hissed, salty tears decorating her lips. "He's your husband. He's Jackson."

Ember's fingers trailed down to her neck, eyes still squeezed shut as she cradled her own paper plane necklace within her grasp, the curve of her thumb lightly tracing the linear edges. She knew he still wore his—she saw it covered in his blood—and before she could help it, another cry tumbled off of her tongue.

She opened her eyes.

Her sweet Jackson comfortably laid before her in the arms of a nice, warm blanket—freckles buried beneath a chalky white paint, scars riddled with a bright, bold red. His black painted lids were gently sealed—peacefully, almost—and he looked as if he were dreaming. Sleeping.

Only, the dim, bulbous blob of blood on his shirt suggested otherwise, directly hovering over the heart that once belonged to her.

"Jackson," Ember whispered, refusing to believe that he was gone. "I'm here."

She traced the deep lines in his face—the tips of her fingers delicately gliding along the rippled flesh, just as they'd done so many times before. She could picture the scars in her sleep, the way they effortlessly mangled his cheeks, and she could draw them a million times over, even with her eyes sealed tightly shut.

She bent over with a stranged sigh, the flat of her thumb barely brushing the curve of Joker's lower lip as she pried them apart, her trembling mouth descending to meet his in a shy, farewell kiss.

Bullet whined, and Ember broke down—rotating sideways to face the dog full-on. She latched her arms around his furry neck, burying her nose in the scruff of his throat as she openly cried, the perfect paint of her entire being chipping away in substantial sheets.

She cried and she cried and she cried—cursing Jackson's name aloud, yelling at him—screaming over and over. You're better than this, Jackson. You're fucking smarter than this!

Ember pressed a trio of sealed-lip kisses to Bullet's muzzle, ending just on the tip of his cold, wet nose when a sudden shift in the room stopped her heart clean in her chest.

She saw it from her peripheral vision—a blurred, black figure gradually rising, up up up up up . . .

The woman shrieked, fingers pulled together into a taut fist as she swung her arm, delivering the hardest punch she'd ever thrown, square between the nose.

A nose smeared with milky white paint.

A white nose now accented with a gentle drip of red blood.

"So that's what it feels like to be dead. Ah, fuck, Em," Joker rasped, gloved fingers gliding along the fresh blood seeping from his nostrils. A deep chuckle bubbled up his throat, dark, dimly-lit eyes meeting the ghost white stare of his wife.

"Jackson," Ember gasped, shaking her head from side to side. She had to hold Bullet back, for he nearly lept directly onto Joker's blood-stained chest, a gleeful pant tumbling off of his tongue as he, quite literally, watched his master rise from the dead.

"Thanks for the-uh, kiss, my Prince. Sleeping Beauty here has been asleep for a bit too long." he said, snapping his neck to the side, the bones audibly cracking in response.

Ember swallowed thickly, completely appalled by the scene that panned out before her. He was dead—she never saw his chest rise, not even once—the blood on his shirt . . .

Joker busied himself with the removal of his gloves, and Ember's fingers dipped down into her bra, the tips just barely meeting the warmth of the weapon so easily stowed . . .

He heard the well known click—music to his ears—and the knife was in his chest.

Just barely buried, not even an inch deep. It was a sheepish stab—a test, perhaps—and his chin met the collar of his shirt as he peered down at the blade, a bubble of blood teasing the silver, dripping onto Ember's fingers.

Joker hadn't flinched.

He saw her slightly shift in the side of his vision, crawling closer to the madman on bruised knees, before retracting the weapon with a girlish grunt, gore-stained fingers tightening around the handle as she penetrated his chest once more, earning the very same reaction as the first—nothing. Nothing but a small bubble of blood, unusually bright and red, and a small sneer from the clown before her.

"You-uh, done, doll?"

Ember's forefinger met the slow flow of blood, the warm liquid gathering atop her skin as she brought it to her mouth, slipping the digit inside without a second thought. Joker's jaw slackened at the sight, and she ran her tongue over the liquid to taste it fully, a grimace overcoming her features when realization dawned upon her.

"It's fake."

"That's my girl," Joker nearly growled, heart thickly thumping within his chest, as if it were learning just how to properly beat once more.

Ember tore the knife from his chest, bitterly tossing the seemingly useless weapon aside before knotting her fingers in his soiled shirt, harshly yanking the fabric apart as the buttons fluttered to his lap. She gasped at the sight—a dense vest, accessorized with an abundance of miniature blood bags, littering the surface like confetti. Two of them had burst—one from the bullet, which was flattened against the vest, stained by the faux blood—and the other had ruptured from Ember's pitiful stabs, still slightly oozing down the length of the chest and dripping onto the purple legs of Joker's pants.

"Bulletproof vest," Ember whispered, head shaking from side to side. "But you weren't breathing–"

"My little friend," Joker began, clearing his throat as he repeatedly blinked, as if to rid his eyes of an eternal sleep. "Wears a-uh, lunch bag over his head. He made somethin' special recently, I've been dyin' to try it. Slows your breathing, barely pumps your heart. Paralyzes you from the forehead down. Even made my dick all numb. It's a powder, slathered it all over my vest. The bullet released it, I breathed it in, and snap. Weird experience, wouldn't recommend it, but it fuckin' worked. I'm dead, baby."

I'm dead, baby.

"Jackson," Ember gasped, still keeping her distance. "I don't understand . . ."

"I wanted the mob off'a my fuckin' back," Joker added, shrugging out of his clothes. He tossed his jacket aside first before tackling the vest, unbuckling the sides with ease as Ember ogled the abundance of fake blood strapped to his chest.

"B-But," Ember muttered, the events from that very night slamming into her like a freight train. "Jackson, I am the mob."

Joker paused while unbuckling his vest, painted brows raised in wonder as he met Ember's indecipherable expression. Although paralyzed, he had been achingly aware of his surroundings for the past few hours, most of which were spent stuffed up in a trunk.

Fucking Ira.

The henchman knew. He was pre-informed. Joker just wished he'd maybe put him in the backseat, or anywhere else less . . . stuffy. He felt as if he had a massive hairball in his chest that he needed to hack up.

Just as Joker's lips parted to ask what exactly Ember meant by her statement, she'd lunged forward, curled fists repeatedly beating against Joker's pale chest as she openly cursed.

"Why didn't you fucking tell me?" she seethed, hitting him once more. A playful giggle tickled Joker's tongue, and when she hit him again—harder, this time—he full-on laughed, head lolled backwards, eyelids crinkled with amusement, tongue dancing around within his mouth.

The sound only made her angrier.

"Stop fucking laughing!" Ember hissed, her trembling leg jutting forward, rounded knee clipping his groin.

Amused tears brimmed Joker's bloodshot eyes, and he flinched at Ember's sudden contact, her hips straddling his as the familiar feel of his favorite blade met the surface of his neck.

"Ohoho," the madman purred, eyes significantly widening at the sight of his lady on his lap. She'd never quite been like this—so savage, so irate. He was half convinced that she'd slit his jugular at any given moment, and he couldn't help but roar in laughter at the thought.

Faked his death only to be truly murdered by the woman he pledged his entire soul to.

How fucking poetic.

"You're covered in blood," Joker choked, playfully gulping when Ember dug the tip of the knife into his flesh, drawing a single bead of blood to the surface. She seemed cold—bitter—not a bit of light or love behind her eyes.

That was what this room did to people. Did to him. Did to her.

Ember sunk down to meet his wild expression, a silly grin spread along his lacerated lips as the tip of her nose brushed his.

"You almost killed me in this room," she said, unable to stop her arms from shaking. "And now, the roles are reversed. How does it feel, Joker? To know that you're under the blade of Gotham's very own mob boss?"

Joker's gaze significantly widened, a roaring chuckle vibrating against his chest as his hands found her hips—so pointy, so nice, and he found himself rolling his up to meet hers, meet that sweet spot, that place she loved, and he craved . . .

Mama mob boss.

"What did you do, little devil?" he purred, tightening his hold on her waist. He saw the blood all over her hands and arms, the way it perfectly painted her dress, the ripped slit all the way up her thigh, and it made him throb beneath his royal purple pants, and the blade against his neck wasn't exactly helping . . .

A mocking smile stretched along Ember's lips—madness, as you know, is like gravity—and she tangled her fingers between his unruly brown locks—yanking, pulling—earning a tearful giggle from the unhinged man beneath her.

"I killed him," she muttered, "little macaroni. His severed and scarred head is in the trunk of our car. Ira's busy preserving it so I can use it for leverage."

"Leverage with what?"

"With anyone in my mob that decides to cross me," Ember hissed, retracting the blade from her husband's neck. "I already had to off two of them, I'm happy to get rid of more if I need to. I'm prepared to claim my throne if need be."

"Your throne?" Joker gawked, squeezing Ember's hips so hard that she grimaced. "Mommy Mob. Well-uh, that kinda made my entire plan completely fuckin' pointless."

"Extremely so," Ember breathed, clicking the switchblade closed. "Looks like you faked dead for no reason, baby. Hope it sucked."

"It really did," Joker snarled, paint-riddled fingers trailing up Ember's side. She smacked his touch away, and he giggled once more. "Worst part was not feeling my dick. Although, the feeling is-uh, back now in full force."

He thrust his hips up to meet Ember's once more, and she instinctively gasped, a bloody palm holding her weak frame steady against his bare chest.

"Did you miss me?" Joker asked, fingers dancing up her spine. She curled into his touch, and threw her head back with a sigh, unable to tame the sensation that crept down her back.

"I hate you," Ember countered, delivering another light punch to the center of his chest. The action just made Joker more antsy, and he tangled his hand within her lengthy locks, nails scraping against her scalp, pulling her face down to meet his.

Their mouths met in a rushed embrace, and Bullet made his presence known once more with a flicker of jealousy, his cold nose nudging against the curve of Ember's elbow.

"Quit, Bullet," Joker spat, and the dog instantly obeyed, flattening himself against the floor as he redirected his attention somewhere else.

He knew better than to bother his masters at an improper time.

Ember pulled away from the kiss, panting slightly when Joker trailed wet, sloppy smooches down the slope of her throat. "No, I really fucking hate you."

"Good."

Ember captured Joker's wrists with ease, flattening his arms against the concrete as she took control, and boy oh boy, did he let her.

Mama mob. The thought alone made him achingly throb, and if she punched him another time, he may accidentally ruin his pants.

"I wish I would've seen you tonight," he whispered, groaning when she bit down on his neck. "My sexy wife, killing people."

"I carved his face while he was still alive," Ember revealed, licking a stripe all the way up to his jaw. His skin tasted of sweat and paint, and she danced her hand down his torso, fingers fiddling with the button on his slacks. He fidgeted beneath her hold, and she audibly cursed—stop wiggling—and she swallowed his sigh when her hand slipped into his boxers, feeling how close he already was.

"Those punches made you almost come in your pants, didn't they?" Ember snickered, amused by the fact that she could get him off without even touching him.

When he didn't answer, she wrapped her hands around him and squeezed as hard as she could—and he squirmed, eyes screwed shut, lips parted, chest heaving. She flattened her free palm over his chest, feeling his heart flutter against the skin.

"Harder," he requested, and she gawked—stunned by just how much he enjoyed the pain. She always knew that he was a masochist, but everyday she learned something new about him—like an onion that needed excessive peeling, every layer that she peeled away over time revealed something new about him, something intriguing, something weird.

"Are you sure?" Ember asked, slightly releasing her hold on him, only to earn a dissatisfied grunt from the clown. He reached down to meet her touch within his boxers, and he laced his fingers around hers, showing her just how hard to hold, and where.

She submitted, and he hissed, coating her hand with his warmth as he insisted that she continue to grip—to squeeze.

To help him through his high.

She held on tightly and leaned down to capture his lips, her tongue lazily dancing along his as he struggled to come down from his euphoric episode. He drug his lips down to her jaw, edging her chin upwards so that she could view the aging, stained statement on the wall—I love you—and she squeezed once more, a small gasp tickling her jaw.

"You're so hot," Joker rasped, encouraging her to release him. "All mine, forever."

"Maybe you should fake your death more often," Ember teased, kissing him hard.

"I can't believe you really thought I died." Joker teased, trailing his fingers along the waist of her panties. He slipped them inside, eager to return the favor. She sweetly sighed, burying her nose in his neck as she whispered her favorite phrase multiple times against his skin.

I love you I love you I love you.

"Don't you worry, princess," he continued, skillfully massaging her center. His opposite hand cradled her cheek, and with a wide grin, he continued.

"The author of our story ain't done with me yet."

—

♡

surprise!