After everyone left, Carmine Falcone set his glass on the table and sat in silence, his shadow long in the dim light of the private lounge.
Victor stepped closer and leaned down, voice low.
"Boss… should I make preparations?"
"Preparations?" Falcone gave a dry chuckle. "Ours won't be half as thorough as theirs. Forget it."
He exhaled slowly, eyes distant.
"It's been fifteen years since I last heard from them. Time slips away like blood in the rain."
He rubbed his temples.
"Give me a moment alone, Victor. I need to think—about what to say, and what not to."
Victor bowed slightly and retreated to his post, standing rigid as a sentinel.
A few minutes later, a taxi hissed to a stop outside the Iceberg Lounge.
Downton stepped out—clothes torn, knuckles bruised, a fresh pistol tucked beneath his coat. He strode toward the entrance without hesitation, scanning the chaos spilling onto the sidewalk: bodies sprawled, glass shattered, Penguin's men dragging groaning thugs into alleyways.
The fighting slowed as he passed. Whispers cut through the groans:
"Damn… he's really back."
"Run while you still can!"
"My arm's broken—Penguin's boys don't play!"
"Sabatino's crew? Wiped out. Every last one."
"Boss said: let Downton in. No questions."
Downton's lips twitched. So Oswald held up his end.
"Not bad, Penguin," he muttered. "You're learning."
Inside, the Lounge was eerily calm—jazz hummed softly, ice clinked in glasses. At the foot of the grand staircase, Oswald Cobblepot spread his arms wide, cane tucked under one arm.
"Downton! My friend! The moment I heard you were back, I came running!"
Downton gave a curt nod, then stepped forward and gripped Oswald's shoulder in a brief, firm embrace. "I always return for what's owed. Sabatino's men—handled?"
Oswald's smile didn't reach his eyes. "To the last. But understand—Sabatino serves a higher table now. If you move against him, you'll have to answer to my boss first."
"Falcone?" Downton's brow lifted. "He wants to talk?"
Oswald inclined his head. "He's waiting upstairs. In the Diamond Room."
Downton went still. Falcone. The man who once owned Gotham's courts, cops, and corpses alike. The man whose word was law before the Bat emerged from the shadows. And now—after Downton had struck twice at his inner circle, even humiliated him in his own stronghold—he wasn't sending enforcers. He was offering a parley.
That wasn't weakness. That was calculation.
Downton had expected fury, retaliation, a blood hunt through the Narrows. Instead, Falcone had skipped the games and gone straight to the table. That took either desperation… or supreme confidence.
Damn. He'd underestimated him.
"Alright," Downton said, voice quieter now. "Take me to him."
Oswald gestured toward the stairs. "This way. And if you and Carmine reach an understanding… well, you might just find yourself a regular in the Diamond Room."
He offered a rare, genuine grin. "In that case, we'll raise a glass—to Sabatino's downfall, and our mutual interests."
Penguin led the way, exchanging a few forced pleasantries with Downton.
Downton studied the oddly eager mobster and gave his shoulder a suspicious pat.
"Dude, a drink's no problem—but something's off. I just broke your ribs. You're really trying to be nice? You're not planning to poison my drink, are you?"
"No way!" Penguin snapped before Downton could finish. He grabbed the sleeve of Downton's coat, eyes blazing. "Hundreds of people have tried to kill you, and you're still walking around like you own the sidewalk. What good would poison do? If you think I'm that stupid, then we shouldn't drink at all. Break my ribs if you must—but don't you dare underestimate me, buddy."
He held Downton's gaze with uncharacteristic seriousness.
Downton met that glare with an innocent shrug and a crooked smile. "Oswald, I don't underestimate you. I'm not worried about poison—that stuff won't kill me. I'm just saying… I wouldn't put it past you to slip your own spit and scalp flakes into my glass."
"Screw you!" Penguin recoiled as if struck. "Isn't that even more despicable than poison? If that's not underestimating me, what is? Do I look like some third-rate goon who stoops to idiotic tricks?"
His hair practically stood on end. And the reason for his outrage wasn't that he wouldn't do it—it was that he had.
Lies never hurt. Only the truth cuts deep.
Before he became Falcone's right hand, before he ran nightclubs and controlled shipping lanes, Oswald Cobblepot was just a boy—short, thin, limping, and utterly powerless. If someone wrote a manual titled 108 Ways to Torture a Kid in American Schools, Oswald could vouch for at least 107 of them.
Back then, he'd wanted vengeance more than air. But the young Oswald—still clinging to scraps of decency—lacked the strength to fight back directly. So he'd turned to the only weapons the weak possess:
"You make me buy you water? I'll add something to it."
"You make me buy you condoms? I'll poke holes in 'em."
"You shove me into the urinal? Fine—I'll pee in your gym locker while you swim."
It was pathetic. Petty. But it was all he had—his only relief, and his deepest shame.
Now, hearing Downton joke about it so casually, Oswald's defenses flared like a struck match.
Downton paused, studied the explosion of fury on Oswald's face—and then burst out laughing.
Still chuckling, he clapped a hand on Oswald's shoulder. "Getting angry, huh? Knew you'd thought about it—because I've thought about it too. Look inside any man's heart, and you'll find beasts chewing on the walls. Doesn't make us monsters—just human. But listen: those thoughts? Keep 'em locked up. Even in Gotham, the big players do evil with style. We don't stoop. It'd be a disgrace—to us, to the city, to the whole damn legacy of villainy!"
He slung his arm around Oswald's shoulders like an old friend and kept walking.
Oswald had been ready to snap—ready to scream about the past he'd buried under suits and schemes. But Downton's laughter, the casual weight of his arm, the strange kinship in those words… it dulled the edge of his rage.
He was a villain now. A kingpin in his own right. Stronger than every bully who'd ever mocked his limp, richer than the teachers who'd looked away. He didn't need dirty tricks anymore.
He was Oswald Cobblepot. And he played by a different code.
With a sneer, he straightened his tie. "Don't make jokes like that again. It's pointless. Even if we were mortal enemies—which, let's be honest, we might be—I wouldn't resort to childish nonsense. It'd be beneath me."
He stopped and pointed to a heavy oak door down the hall.
"We're here. Falcone's waiting inside. Try not to annoy him too much… for your sake."