After Downton's declaration, the private room fell into silence so complete it seemed to swallow even the hum of the city outside.
Falcone hadn't heard such quiet certainty in years.
For thirty autumns, he'd ruled Gotham's underworld, weathering chaos, betrayal, and the kind of madness that would break lesser men. But madness had never frightened him—only the rare man who spoke without fear or frenzy gave him pause.
And Downton… Downton was just such a man.
Watching Falcone's expression settle like cooling steel, Downton leaned back against the leather sofa, posture relaxed but eyes alert.
Each man weighed the other.
If an enemy like this stood before me, Falcone thought, how would I break him?
Downton asked himself the same question—and found no easy answer.
The silence stretched, taut as a garrote—until a knock broke it.
Both men turned toward the door. Falcone watched Downton; Downton's fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol beneath the table.
"Enter," Falcone said at last.
The door opened slowly. A woman stepped in, poised and elegant, balancing a silver tray with practiced grace. Her dark hair framed sharp, knowing eyes and a mouth that hinted at secrets.
Falcone exhaled—relief, then irritation. "You?"
Downton blinked once, then murmured under his breath, "Well… hello."
The woman's lips curved into a vibrant, almost feline smile. "Downton, isn't it? I do hope you remember my name. It's Selina Kyle."
She gave no sign of acknowledging Falcone's question. Instead, she set the tray down with a soft clink and offered Downton a look that was equal parts amusement and appraisal.
"Mr. Falcone," she said smoothly, turning to him with a slight, mocking bow, "the staff refused to serve you two alone. Too much… tension. So I volunteered. Consider it a public service."
"Get out," Falcone said flatly.
Selina didn't flinch. She simply nodded, her eyes lingering on Downton a moment too long. So this is the ghost everyone's whispering about? The one who walked out of a sealed morgue, left three of Falcone's lieutenants broken in an alley, and somehow knew about the old man's secret dealings with the Court?
Interesting. Dangerous. Useful—if he could be played.
She'd never cared for Falcone's empire, nor his ambitions. But if this man could help her settle certain debts—especially with the League—then a little flirtation cost her nothing.
At the door, she paused, glancing back as if just noticing Downton's gaze trailing her. She offered a demure, perfectly calibrated smile.
Young men are so easy.
Downton, watching the play of muscle beneath black stockings as she crossed her legs mid-step, gave a slow, appreciative wink.
Across the table, Falcone cleared his throat.
"What?" Downton said, pouring himself a glass of wine. "Can't an old man appreciate beauty anymore? Or have you forgotten what it feels like to want something?"
He took a sip, then grinned. "Because I'll tell you—Selina Kyle's the kind of woman who makes saints reconsider their vows. Tell me honestly, Carmine—when she walks by, do you really see just a daughter?"
Falcone's fingers tapped once on the oak table. "If I were you," he said, voice low and edged like a shiv, "I wouldn't talk about her like that. She's my blood."
Downton choked—wine spraying across the tablecloth.
He stared, glass half-raised, eyes wide. "Selina Kyle is your daughter?"
Falcone's jaw tightened. "Her mother was… unforgettable. Even old men make mistakes."
But his gaze was sharp, probing. How does he know her? How much does he know? He'd suspected Downton had ties to the Court, maybe even whispers from the League—but this? This felt different. Too precise. Too personal.
Downton leaned back, laughing softly. "Gotham," he murmured. "You really are a city stitched together from shadows and secrets."
He swirled the wine in his glass, mind racing—not with metafictional references, but with implications: If Falcone's tied to Selina… and the Court's watching both… and the League's still pulling strings… then this city isn't just corrupt. It's a chessboard.
And Batman?
Oh, he'll be coming.
Downton almost looked forward to it. Let the Dark Knight try to cage a ghost who knew all the exits.
Just then—another knock at the door.
Instantly, Downton's hand went to his gun again.
Since the last knock had been for drinks and food, this one had to be for the man he'd been waiting for.
Somehow, the weight that had settled on Falcone's shoulders earlier had lifted. Watching Downton now—coiled, ready to kill—he offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
Click.
The door swung open. Victor and Sabatino stepped inside, one after the other. Selina Kyle, posted outside as guard, peered in with quiet curiosity.
Noting that only Downton's glass held wine, Victor moved smoothly to the sideboard and poured a fresh drink for Falcone.
Just as the bottle left the rim of the glass, Downton stood.
Victor reacted instantly, hand darting toward Downton's arm—but Falcone was faster. He caught Victor's wrist mid-motion, holding him firm with a look that needed no words.
Downton ignored them both. He strode straight to Sabatino, who met his gaze with wary eyes.
"You're Sabatino?" Downton asked.
"Yes," Sabatino said, voice tight. "You're the one who had the boss track me down—"
Bang.
The shot punched into Sabatino's thigh. He collapsed with a cry, clutching his leg.
Before anyone could move, Downton stomped down on his chest and fired three more rounds—each one precise, each one crippling a limb. Sabatino howled, writhing on the floor.
Downton crouched, pressed the butt of his pistol into Sabatino's face, and spoke with chilling calm.
"I owe you, friend. If not for your little war with the Dimitrovs, I never would've realized I was immortal."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Funny how that works, isn't it? You helped me discover my gift—so now, I'll help you discover yours."
He shoved the muzzle into Sabatino's open mouth, muffling his scream.
Sabatino's eyes darted past Downton—to Falcone, seated like a king at the far end of the room, untouched, unmoved.
Why? Sabatino's mind screamed. Why let this happen in front of you? If you wanted me dead, why watch it?
The world made no sense.
Bang.
And just like that, Sabatino's questions died with him.
Downton stood, shaking his head with a cold, humorless smile.
"Guess you had no talent after all."
He pulled the gun free, wiped it absently on his coat, then glanced toward the door—where Selina still stood, frozen.
She vanished the moment his eyes met hers.
Downton returned to his seat across from Falcone, placed the pistol on the table with a soft clink, and exhaled like a man finally satisfied.
"Call it a favor," he said. "Even sworn enemies can owe each other something. I'll repay you someday."
Falcone leaned forward, palms flat on the table. His voice was smooth, deliberate.
"No. If you acknowledge the debt, then let's settle it now."
He paused, eyes sharp.
"You just cost me a capable man—one I could ill afford to lose. So I've decided: use your favor right here. Join my family. Marry my daughter. Bring your… talents… under the Falcone name, Downton."
Downton barked a laugh, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the glasses.
"Are you serious?"
"This isn't a joke," Falcone said, unruffled. "And don't worry—I wouldn't insult you with a bastard like Selina. You'd wed a legitimate daughter. Blood, name, inheritance—all hers."
Downton's smile vanished. He leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Even that's worse than Selina! That's not an offer—it's a threat wrapped in silk."
He drained his wine in one bitter gulp, then hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered with a sharp crack.
"I came here hoping for a decent meal. Haven't eaten anything real all day—had to wolf down my last steak like a stray dog."
He stood, voice dripping with contempt.
"And now? You—once the steadiest man in Gotham—sound like a senile old fool playing at dynasties. It's pathetic."
He adjusted his coat, tucking the pistol back into his waistband.
"Sabatino's dead. My business here is done. Time to find my next creditor."
He strode for the door, but paused as he passed Selina, still lingering in the hall. Her expression—amused, curious, maybe even a little defiant—caught his eye.
He grabbed her chin, not gently.
"You've got the nerve to smile?" he growled. "Your old man just called marrying you an insult. If I were you, I'd march in there and slap that smug look off his face—show him those nails weren't just for show."
He released her with a shove.
"You're finished, Selina."
And with that, he vanished into the Gotham night.