Seeing Liv's brows furrow, Downton chuckled and snapped shut his travel bag.
"It's just a question, Liv," he said. "Not as hard as you're making it out to be."
"Downton!"
Liv wasn't nearly as relaxed as he pretended to be. The moment she spotted the grenade tucked in his belt, her hand shot out, pressing hard against his thigh—dangerously close to his groin.
"These women?" she said, voice low and urgent. "They're already living on borrowed time. Pitiful, every last one of them. Maybe I'm the only one who isn't—but that doesn't mean I get to play hero."
She leaned in, her left hand suddenly accelerating toward his belt.
But Downton caught her wrist before she could reach it.
He shook his head, amused. "Don't wait until you're staring down the barrel to remember you're human, Liv. What happened to that 'equality' you always preach?"
He held her wrist firmly but not cruelly. "I'm not here to kill anyone. I don't want your favors, and I sure as hell don't want your lives. Just an answer."
With that, he released her—but kept his other arm locked around her waist, pulling her close enough that the crowd wouldn't suspect a thing.
Around them, the dancers tittered and cheered, mistaking their exchange for flirtation. A few peeled off padded inserts from their costumes, letting water balloons bounce freely against bare skin. Liv knew better. These women were distractions—pretty wallpaper in Iceberg's theater of cruelty. The truly sharp ones had either climbed the ladder or vanished into the Narrows long ago.
Helpless, Liv exhaled sharply—then tilted her head, taking Downton's earlobe between her lips. She bit it gently, then soothed the sting with her tongue before whispering against his skin:
"Your 'question' might as well be a death sentence—for all of us. If your family storms the Sabatinos' compound tonight, Falcone will trace the fallout back to this club. And when he does… he won't care who pulled the trigger. He'll burn everyone who knew you were here."
She pressed her cheek to his, her breath warm against his lips. "Besides… your kind of bravery is rare in Gotham. Walking into enemy territory alone, armed with a suicide vest? Falcone would've given you a seat at his table. Hell, I'd give you one—but not as a treasure. More like a pile driver. You'd work harder for me than any laborer on a construction site."
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, deadly serious. "Whichever side you choose, Downton—we'd treat you better than your current boss ever did."
Downton studied her for a long moment—then shrugged.
"You think I still have a boss? That's where you're wrong, Liv. I answer to no one. I only came for one thing: Sabatino's location. After that? I'm gone. Off to chase the next high."
He patted her cheek—a gesture that should've stung with condescension, but Liv didn't flinch.
"And when I leave," he added, voice dropping to a murmur, "I'll leave this bag of cash right here. Nothing thrills me more than watching strong women kneel in the ashes… just to pick up coins."
Liv held his gaze as the cynicism in his eyes flickered—replaced, for just a second, by something raw. She sighed. "Can I at least ask… why Sabatino?"
"He owes me," Downton said simply. "A debt too big to ignore."
Liv's fingers tightened around his wrist—not in threat, but plea. "If it's just money, I can broker a meeting. He's here, Downton. Arrived less than twenty minutes ago—with half his crew in tow. It's not a secret; anyone with ears in this city knows. I can take you to him right now."
She paused, lowering her voice further. "But his safe house? That's the real secret. He—"
"Wait!"
Downton cut Liv off, surging to his feet. His eyes sharpened as he stared at her.
"Sabatino's here? In the club—right now?"
Liv nodded slowly, watching his reaction.
"Then why the hell didn't you say so sooner?"
He grabbed his backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and turned toward the door.
Liv leapt up, blocking his path. "You think you can just walk in and see him? Those grenades of yours might rattle a few heels, but they won't get you past his guards." She lowered her voice, intense and urgent. "But if you promise me—swear—you won't burn the place down, I can get you a seat at his table. A real conversation. Not a bloodbath."
She stepped closer. "I mean it, Downton. I've got standing in the Falcone organization—enough to open that door for you. Not enough to replace Maroni or Mooney, sure… but I've got influence. And what I don't have… is your nerve."
She'd seen plenty of tough talk in her years—men who strutted like lions but flinched at shadows. But Downton? His eyes didn't blink. Didn't bargain. They just burned.
For the first time in years, she wanted to bet on someone.
Downton studied her—then laughed, low and sharp. "Liv… flattery's a hell of a weapon. But I'm not here for a date."
He brushed past her, shoving aside two dancers who scrambled out of his way. At the door, he paused, glancing back. His hand dipped behind his waist and came up with a Desert Eagle. He aimed it not at her, but near her feet—then flicked the barrel twice in warning.
"If you can't be the boss," he said, voice cold beneath the grin, "don't play the middleman. That role gets people killed."
He racked the slide. "Sabatino and I settle things with lead. You still want in?"
Before she could answer, he kicked open the backstage door and fired.
Bang!
A thug halfway through the doorway crumpled, skull snapping back. Blood spattered the velvet curtains.
Screams erupted—dancers scattering, music dying mid-beat.
Liv stared, throat tight. "You're insane!" she shouted over the chaos. "There are hundreds of armed men in this place—and you're alone!"
Downton didn't turn. He crouched behind the falling body, already firing into the corridor. "Wrong, Liv," he called back, voice crackling with adrenaline. "There are hundreds of extras… and one main character."
His Desert Eagle clicked empty. Without hesitation, he yanked a grenade from his pack, pulled the pin, and rolled it down the hall.
BOOM!
Firelight flooded the hallway, painting his face in orange and shadow. As he slammed a fresh mag home, Liv caught his eyes—one last time—lit like coals in the inferno.
If he walks out of this…
She bit her lip, heart hammering.
…then Gotham just got a whole lot more interesting.