Just a dozen seconds later, Liv spread her legs wide—not like a compass, but like a queen claiming her throne on the blood-slicked floor.
Why didn't she twist away?
What the hell? She's dead!
But Liv wasn't dead. Not yet.
Over thirty gunmen poured into the Iceberg Lounge's backstage, bullets tearing through velvet curtains and shattered chandeliers as explosions rocked the foundation. Amid the chaos, Liv rolled her eyes, lips curling into a smirk.
"What the hell was I expecting?" she scoffed, not even glancing at Downton's body—now a smoldering outline on the marble.
Even with eyes as sharp as Falcone's, a dead man was just meat. Worthless.
She felt a flicker of disappointment—not for the man, but for the waste of such an unusual gaze on a lunatic.
With a sneer, she clapped twice. The surviving dancers froze mid-panic.
Just as Liv began ushering them toward the emergency exit, shrieks erupted from the alley outside.
"Holy crap—he's gone!"
"Did anyone see how he vanished?"
"He's on fire!"
"It's white phosphorus—he combusted!"
The screams were clear, but Liv ignored them. She had bigger problems: Oswald Cobblepot would be here any second. And Falcone wouldn't be far behind.
Sure enough, within moments, Oswald arrived—bulletproof vest hastily fastened beneath his tailored coat, umbrella clenched like a scepter. He tapped onlookers aside with its tip until he stood over the scorched patch where Downton's body had lain.
He jabbed the umbrella at the charred outline. "So… from the beginning, there was only one man?" His voice was low, trembling with fury. "He broke into my club. Slipped past my guards. Killed over a dozen of my men. And then—poof—vanished into smoke?"
Oswald's knuckles whitened around the umbrella. He'd rather face an army than this humiliation. An army wouldn't make him look like a joke.
He whirled on his trembling underlings. "How did he do it? I want everything."
Less than a minute later, four men—including Batel—were pinned to the floor, spilling every detail.
Why four?
Because the gatekeeper who'd taken the stranger's cash had been dragged in too.
The bills they'd collected were now heaped before Oswald's polished shoes.
He pressed the tip of his umbrella into the stack. "How much is this? Sixteen thousand dollars?" His voice dripped with contempt. "Sixteen grand bought passage into my club—the Iceberg Lounge, untouched for two years—and nearly burned it to the ground? This is what two years of loyalty gets me? This?"
Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his phone and dialed.
To Falcone, he said, voice meek: "It's my fault, Boss. A high-roller slipped through. But he worked alone—no crew, no backup. Not even a real threat."
He waited through the reprimand, then hung up.
Turning back to the four men, he hissed, "Sixteen thousand… Is that all your loyalty's worth to me?"
"More than that, Mr. Cobblepot," came a voice from the shadows.
Liv stepped forward, arms full of crisp bills. She dropped them onto the pile. "He tossed money at my girls like confetti. I gathered what I could—at least forty thousand."
Oswald stared. "Fifty-six thousand…"
Liv gave a faint smile. "Enough to patch the walls, at least."
He almost laughed. Almost.
But he couldn't keep it all—not when Liv was involved. She wasn't just a club owner. She was a fixture in Gotham's underbelly: broker of dancers, broker of secrets, and a neutral party trusted—cautiously—by every family from Falcone to Maroni.
In short, Liv wasn't a member of the Falcone family—she was merely their business partner.
Oswald Cobblepot swept the pile of banknotes aside with the tip of his umbrella and continued speaking to Liv.
"Here you go, Liv. Take it and distribute it to the frightened women."
He paused, glancing around the ruined club.
"But first—you're responsible for restoring this place to its original state."
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Cobblepot," Liv said with a nod.
Immediately, several of the girls knelt down to gather the scattered bills.
Just as the armed men stared wide-eyed at the crisp banknotes on the floor, a flippant voice cut through the silence from beyond the crowd.
"So lively. You weren't waiting for me, were you?"
Downton shouldered his way through the gunmen, pistol in hand, effortlessly parting them like a blade through silk. The club—still brightly lit from the aftermath of the earlier violence—cast sharp shadows across his face. Those who'd seen him before recognized him instantly.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Even the thugs at the back, who'd never laid eyes on him, felt the sudden shift in the air.
Clang!
Dozens of pistols snapped up, muzzles trained on Downton.
He ignored them completely and offered a casual wave to Liv at the center of the room.
Liv's hand flew to her mouth. "Downton… you're alive?"
Beside her, Oswald narrowed his eyes but turned to Liv and murmured, "You were closest to him. Are you sure it's really him?"
"I'm absolutely sure!" Liv insisted, voice trembling with conviction. "A face can be faked—a body too. But not the eyes. I'll never forget those eyes."
"Very good," Oswald muttered. He took a slow breath and rose from the velvet sofa, umbrella gripped tight.
"Looks like another mystery has been added to Gotham's ever-growing list."
"Far from it," Downton replied, his grin razor-thin. "Gotham's future is overflowing with mysteries. It's just a pity—you won't live to see them, Sabatino."
Oswald's composure faltered for the first time. "Sabatino?" he echoed, voice tight.
But Downton was already moving. The distance was perfect. No more words—just action.
He raised his pistol.
Oswald reacted instantly, twisting to dive aside—but he was a fraction too slow.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three thunderous shots from the Desert Eagle split the air. One struck Oswald square in the chest, the sheer force hurling him backward into a gilded table that shattered beneath him.
"The boss is dead!"
"He killed the boss!"
"Open fire—!"
"Wait—what the hell is that?!"
Before the gunmen could squeeze their triggers, Downton yanked a coiled string from his coat—nine grenades, pins already pulled, dangled from his fingers like grisly beads.
His index finger hooked through the last safety ring. One tug, and they'd all detonate.
Panic erupted. Men scrambled, shoving each other aside, desperate to escape the blast radius.
Meanwhile, on the floor, Oswald groaned, blood trickling from his lips. "H-help me…" he rasped. "I'm… not dead yet. Bulletproof vest… but my ribs—my spine—don't come closer!"
Too late.
Downton was already on him, the Desert Eagle's massive barrel pressed hard against Oswald's forehead.
Oswald's eyes widened in primal terror. Adrenaline sharpened his voice into something almost operatic.
"WAIT! You've got the wrong man!" he shrieked. "I'm not Sabatino! Do I look like some underworld kingpin? I'm Oswald Cobblepot—just a nightclub owner! A bouncer, for God's sake!
To hell with Sabatino—he deserves to die!"