A few minutes later, Liv clipped a cufflink-like tracking device onto Downton's sleeve, her fingers lingering just long enough to adjust it precisely.
She gave his hand a light, concerned pat.
"Since you insisted, I picked out something discreet—a Class-9 tracker. Signal covers all of North America, decent coverage in Europe too." She poked the device with her pinky. "But are you sure you want to carry this thing around?"
Downton smirked, swatting her backside playfully. "Of course. Saves my driver—and me—a lot of trouble." He straightened his cuff. "Car ready? If not, I'm leaving now."
"It's ready," Liv said, rolling her eyes. "Chevrolet Tahoe. Room for a full tactical loadout." She glanced at his small duffel. "Though you don't seem to be packing much. Next time, call me before you go off-grid. Or swing by the club—I'll hook you straight into the city's arms pipeline."
"Save the lecture," Downton interrupted, snatching the keys from her palm. He tossed them over his shoulder without looking. "Batel—let's move!"
He strode out of the private room, Batel scrambling to keep up. As they entered the arena below, Ozwald's men turned—some wary, others grinning.
"Look who it is! Batel's got a new boss!"
"Ghost! Saw you on the news last night!"
"On TV but no wanted poster? That's the Ghost brand!"
"He hit the Kane Hotel this morning—I saw him peeling out in some junker. Man can't drive for shit!"
"Welcome to Gotham, big boss!"
"Drink tonight, Ghost?"
"My brother bought it at your hands yesterday. Once I settle things with my sister-in-law… you and I got unfinished business."
"Try this!"
A half-empty bottle of tequila arced through the air. Downton caught it one-handed, took a long swig, then smashed it on the floor. The crowd roared.
"Boss Downton!" someone yelled. "You cracked Ozwald's ribs—he's laid up, or he'd be here buying rounds!"
"Ghost! You can hold your liquor—come back soon!"
"And that senator's daughter? Smooth, huh?"
"Too bad you didn't record it—Boss Downton would've paid top dollar!"
Amid the jeers and laughter, Downton raised a hand—then fired a round into the ceiling.
Bang!
Glass rained down as the chandelier shattered. Silence dropped like a guillotine.
He didn't look back. "When I'm done with this job," he said coolly, "I'll be back for drinks. Until then—stay outta my way."
The crowd parted without a word.
Just outside the club, Batel stiffened, then sidestepped behind Downton like a shadow. "Boss… let me carry your bag."
Downton glanced at him, amused. "Took you long enough to learn."
"I'm trying, boss," Batel muttered, already shouldering the duffel.
Liv had gone the extra mile: two women in tactical vests stood by the Tahoe, baseball bats resting on their shoulders. The one in front watched Downton approach, eyes bright with anticipation. Word had spread about "Boss Down's" generosity last night—everyone wondered what he'd give this time.
Downton paused. He turned to Batel, unzipped the duffel just enough to pull out three compact concussion grenades—non-lethal, military-grade. He tossed them lightly into the woman's hands.
"No cash on me," he said. "But these'll make a hell of a party favor. Have fun."
"Boss Downton is so generous! Next time you're working with Big Sister, I'll help you with the odd jobs!"
The young punk grinned, scooped up the grenade, and stuffed the crumpled explosive into the pocket of her threadbare jacket.
After she left, Bartel opened the car door for Downton and slid behind the wheel.
Downton showed him the location Liv had arranged on his phone. Bartel studied it, then nodded.
"It's right near the History Museum. I've always heard the Dimitrovs own a dozen laundromats in that area."
"Boss, we'll be there in about twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes, huh?" Downton mused. "Gotham really is a big city. You drive—I'll rest. Wake me when we arrive."
He gave Bartel a lazy wave and settled back into the seat, eyes closing.
The car rumbled to life and rolled toward the Dimitrov family estate.
Meanwhile, in the heart of Little Italy—Gotham's East District—the moon cast silver light over the manicured gardens of Caesar's Manor.
Carmine Falcone sat on an outdoor chaise in silk pajamas, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He beckoned to Victor Zsasz.
"Victor—what's the news today?"
"Boss, Miss Sophia arrived in Gotham at three this morning. She wants to see you."
Falcone exhaled a slow plume of smoke. "And?"
"Jonathan Crane—from Arkham—also wishes to speak with you."
"Hmph." Falcone gave a small, knowing nod. "Sophia's growing impatient. She pretends indifference, but that ambition of hers—it burns too hot to hide. Any fool with eyes can see what she's after… and she's no fool."
He paused, ashing his cigar into a crystal tray.
"Send Jonathan to me first. Let Sophia wait in my study."
Another pause. Then, with a wave of his hand: "While I rest, see to it the property transfer to the Dimitrovs goes through. Knowing Downton's temper, he's probably already on his way."
Zsasz's lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. "Understood, Boss. I'll deal with that bastard Yuri myself."
He turned and strode from the garden, already barking orders into his comm.
Within the hour, over three hundred armed men mobilized—heading straight for Dimitrov territory.
Back in the garden, Jonathan Crane stood quietly, observing Falcone's broad back as the don admired the night-blooming jasmine.
Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, Crane's eyes flickered with barely concealed disdain.
Falcone didn't turn—but spoke anyway. "If you're going to stare, Doctor, at least do it like a gentleman."
Crane stiffened, then adjusted his glasses and bowed slightly. "My apologies, Mr. Falcone. You know why I'm here. May we speak plainly?"
"Sit." Falcone gestured to the sofa at his left. "Tell me—what does Mr. Ressougu require of me? Though we've met only a few times, my respect for him remains unwavering. If it's within my power, I'll assist."
Crane sat, placing a small silver case on his lap.
Falcone's eyes lingered on the case for just a heartbeat before he took another slow drag from his cigar.
As smoke curled into the night air, Crane opened the case and handed over two documents.
"Mr. Ray has a shipment arriving in Gotham soon," Crane said, voice smooth and measured. "The date and container number are detailed in those papers. He requests your guarantee of its safe passage."
He leaned forward slightly.
"In addition… Mr. Ray would like to discuss the 'Gotham Ghosts' with you. He hopes you'll grant him an audience."