Even before Downton stepped into Little Italy, word had already reached Liv through a network of streetwalkers who doubled as Falcone's eyes and ears.
So by the time he stood beneath the frosted glass sign of the Iceberg Lounge, Liv was waiting—poised, polished, and smiling like she'd known he'd come.
"Mr. Downton," she said, stepping forward with a graceful tilt of her head. "Forgive me for not greeting you sooner. Please, come inside. Let's sit and talk."
"I've already walked far enough," Downton replied, glancing past her. "The entrance's three or four hundred meters from where you were hiding backstage."
He gave her a slow, appraising look—lingering just long enough on the sleek black stockings beneath her tailored skirt to make his interest clear.
Behind Liv, the dancer he'd specifically requested waved sleepily, her eyelids heavy.
Noticing her, Downton leaned in and gave her backside a playful pat. "Why so tired?"
"I didn't get to sleep till three," she mumbled, pouting. "And it's not even nine! Guess which older lady dragged me out of bed?"
She shuffled forward, wrapping her arms around him with theatrical laziness, then pulled him into a slow, greedy kiss.
When they finally broke apart, Downton led both women through the club's velvet-curtained corridors to a secluded private room. The dancer poured herself a glass of champagne while Downton turned to Liv.
"I need intel on the Dimitrov family," he said, voice low. "Especially the whereabouts of their boss. And I'll need a car—and a driver."
"No problem, Mr. Downton," Liv said smoothly, already pulling a sleek phone from her coat. She handed it to him. "Consider it a gift. Dimitrov's current location is already pinned in the navigation."
She paused, then added with a knowing smirk, "As for your driver—I pulled Batel out of Oswald Cobblepot's custody. Do you think he'll do?"
"Batel?" Downton raised an eyebrow. "He's got sense, sure. But driving for me? That's a death sentence."
He glanced toward the door, where Batel stood guard like a hulking shadow. "I once promised that man a quiet life. Now I'd be dragging him into a war. That feels… unfair."
Liv chuckled softly. "To get him out of Penguin's clutches, I told Oswald he was useful to you. So now, he better be useful—or he's dead either way. Besides," she added, swirling her drink, "Gotham's crawling with nobodies. For a thug like him, dying behind your wheel might be the closest thing he ever gets to glory. Don't underestimate how much men like that crave a name—even if it's written in blood."
She called out crisply, "Bartel! Come meet your new employer."
Bartel—stiffened, then shuffled in like a schoolboy summoned to the principal's office. Towering and broad-shouldered, he somehow managed to look timid.
Downton took a slow sip of champagne, then—without warning—drew a pistol and fired a single shot at the floor near Bartel's boots.
Bang!
Bartel flinched so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.
"Listen," Downton snapped, holstering the weapon. "I don't need bodyguards. I enjoy killing too much to outsource it. But I do need a driver who doesn't dissolve into jelly at the sound of gunfire. You don't have to be Victor Zsasz—God forbid—but at least stand like you've got a spine."
He shot Liv a dry look. "Honestly, Liv, I'm already regretting this. I'd take a lunatic like Zsasz over a trembling sack of nerves any day."
Liv nodded sympathetically. "You're aiming to challenge Carmine Falcone—the 'Roman,' who's ruled Gotham's underworld for thirty years. Of course you'd want someone as sharp and ruthless as Zsasz at your side."
She leaned forward, voice dropping. "But if you admire that kind of killer… why not recruit from their ranks? You are a nightmare for assassins, Downton. Your reputation alone could lure them."
Downton's eyes narrowed—then lit up.
"Wait… you mean…?"
A slow grin spread across his face. He clapped his hands once, sharply. "Of course! Put a bounty on my head—eight million, ten million—doesn't matter. They'll come running. And when they do? They'll never collect. They'll just get tangled in my web… and maybe, if they impress me, they'll live long enough to work for me."
Downton rubbed his chin, eyes gleaming with quiet intensity.
"Liv," he said, "tell me about the elite assassins in the business right now."
Liv leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "If we're talking elite, the first name that comes to mind is Deadshot. Floyd Lawton. Ruthless, precise, never misses. I've worked with him before."
She paused, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "He's got this irritating habit of jacking up his fee at the last second—but honestly? Most clients don't care. When your target's guaranteed to die, price becomes a footnote."
Her expression turned serious. "But Downton—listen. While you're weighing your options, Carmine Falcone isn't waiting. His people have already zeroed in on the Dimitrovs."
She leaned forward, voice dropping.
"Victor Zsasz is already moving. And you know as well as I do—Zsasz doesn't just kill. He marks. If he reaches them first, the Dimitrovs won't just be dead—they'll be a message."
Downton's jaw tightened. "I called him Gotham's best once," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'll let him steal my vengeance."
Liv reached out and turned his face toward hers, locking eyes with a gaze that was equal parts challenge and seduction.
Downton smirked. "Falcone thinks he can bury my intel by burning down a whole family. Fine. But I don't let revenge wait until morning. The Dimitrovs die by my hand—or not at all."
He started to rise—but Liv caught him mid-motion, biting down hard on his lower lip.
When they finally pulled apart, a bead of blood welled on his lip. Liv didn't flinch under his glare. Instead, she leaned in again, gently tracing her tongue over the wound, applying a slow, deliberate balm with the heat of her breath.
After a long moment, she exhaled—satisfied—and stepped back out of his reach. Her fingers brushed his chest lightly.
"You should go," she said softly, smile glinting like a blade. "I'd hate for you to be late… and regret it."
Downton gave a curt nod. "I'll be back when I've got new work for you."
He turned and strode out, Bartel trailing anxiously behind.
Liv watched the door close, then licked her own lips slowly. "What a man," she murmured. "Even if Falcone fades, Downton could run this city from the shadows. My perfect partner…"
"Ahem."
She froze.
Downton stood in the doorway again, one eyebrow arched.
"That little speech of yours?" he said, grinning. "Keep it up. I like hearing how amazing I am."
He stepped forward. "Now—do me a favor. Get me a tracking device. Something discreet. I need to plant one on myself."
Liv blinked. "On yourself? Are you insane? If the signal's compromised, your enemies will track you like prey."
Downton laughed—a rich, rolling sound. "If I don't wear one, even my own driver won't find me in time. Just get it, Liv. I'll double your cut."
She shook her head, already reaching for her comms. "You're impossible."
"And yet," Downton tossed over his shoulder as he left for good, "you keep betting on me."