New Year's Eve - The Gotham Harbor
The Donna Maria was less a yacht and more a floating palace. It was Carmine "The Roman" Falcone's pride and joy.
Tonight, it was also a cage.
"Security is tight," I observed, straightening Bruce's bow tie on the pier. "Armed guards at the gangplank. Metal detectors. Bomb sniffing dogs. Falcone is terrified."
"He should be," Bruce murmured, flashing his 'Playboy' smile as the cameras flashed. "He's lost his nephew and his bodyguard in two months. He thinks the water protects him."
"Water is an excellent conductor for electricity, sound, and... mishaps," I noted. "Shall I wait in the car?"
"No. You're my plus-one. I need eyes on the staff. If the killer gets in, it'll be through the service entrance."
The Ballroom - 11:30 PM
The main deck was enclosed in glass, heated to a tropical temperature. It smelled of expensive perfume and fear.
Carmine Falcone sat on a velvet throne near the bar. He wasn't mingling. He was watching the door.
Bruce Wayne, however, was the life of the party.
"Carmine!" Bruce shouted, swaying slightly as if he'd had too much champagne. "Great boat! Does it float? I mean, obviously it floats, but does it really float?"
Falcone looked at Bruce with disdain. "Mr. Wayne. Glad you could make it. Try not to fall overboard."
"No promises!" Bruce laughed, slapping Falcone on the shoulder.
While Bruce played the fool, I drifted through the crowd. I wore my tailcoat, blending in perfectly with the waitstaff. I swiped a tray of hors d'oeuvres to complete the disguise.
"Crab cake?" I offered to a heavy-set hitman.
"Get lost," he grunted.
"As you wish. Though I must warn you, low blood sugar affects your aim."
I moved on. I scanned the room.
Alberto Falcone, the Roman's son, was standing in the corner. He was a quiet, meek man with glasses. He didn't look like a mobster; he looked like an accountant. He was arguing with his father.
"Let me help, Pop," Alberto whispered. "I can run the books. I can—"
"Go get me a drink, Alberto," Falcone snapped loudly. "That's all you're good for."
Alberto flinched. The humiliation was palpable. He turned and walked out onto the open deck, alone.
"Trouble in paradise," a husky voice purred behind me.
I turned.
Selina Kyle stood there. She was wearing a backless silver gown that shimmered like fish scales. She looked dangerous and expensive.
"Miss Kyle," I bowed. "I assume you are here for the ambiance? Or are you planning to steal the silverware?"
"Please, Sebastian," she smirked, grabbing a crab cake from my tray. "The silverware here is plated. Tacky. I'm after the Roman's cuff links. Sapphires."
She leaned in close.
"Bruce looks cute when he plays dumb. But tell him to be careful. The air feels... thin tonight."
"I shall convey the message. Do try not to get caught. I have no intention of bailing you out of the brig."
"You love me really, Sebastian."
"I tolerate you because Sir Pounce requires a mother figure. Do not confuse duty with affection."
The Countdown - 11:55 PM
The band stopped playing jazz. The countdown clock on the wall began to tick.
Most of the guests moved to the center of the room for the balloon drop. Bruce stayed on the perimeter, his eyes scanning the crowd. He tapped his glass, signaling me.
Something is wrong, his look said.
I felt it too. A silence beneath the noise.
"Where is Alberto?" Bruce whispered as I approached.
"He went to the aft deck ten minutes ago. He has not returned."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Falcone is surrounded by guards. But Alberto..."
"The weak link," I realized.
11:59 PM.
"TEN!" the crowd screamed. "NINE!"
Bruce started pushing through the crowd. He dropped the drunk act. He moved with purpose.
"EIGHT! SEVEN!"
Fireworks exploded over the harbor, lighting up the glass ceiling in bursts of red and green.
"SIX! FIVE!"
We reached the glass doors leading to the aft deck. They were locked.
"FOUR! THREE!"
I didn't wait for a key. I placed my hand on the lock. Click. The mechanism shattered.
"TWO! ONE!"
We burst onto the cold, windy deck.
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The noise from inside was deafening. The fireworks were blinding.
But on the aft deck, it was silent.
A figure stood by the railing. It was Alberto Falcone.
He was facing the water.
"Alberto!" Bruce called out.
Alberto didn't turn. He slumped forward.
As he fell, we saw the reason.
He had been shot in the back of the head.
He tipped over the railing.
"NO!" Bruce sprinted.
He reached the railing just as Alberto hit the freezing black water below.
SPLASH.
The body vanished instantly into the dark current.
On the deck, where Alberto had been standing, lay a small object.
I picked it up.
A calendar. Open to January 1st.
"He was here," I whispered, scanning the shadows of the deck. "The killer. He used the noise of the fireworks to mask the shot."
Bruce gripped the railing, staring down at the water. He looked ready to jump.
"You cannot save him, sir," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The current is five knots. He is gone."
The door behind us burst open. Carmine Falcone ran out, followed by his guards.
"Alberto!" Falcone screamed. "Where is he?!"
Bruce turned. He looked at the Mob Boss.
"He's gone, Carmine."
Falcone ran to the rail. He saw the black water. He saw the calendar in my hand.
The Roman fell to his knees. The most powerful man in Gotham, who had laughed at the law and bribed judges, let out a wail of pure, broken agony.
"MY SON! THEY TOOK MY SON!"
I watched him.
I looked at the calendar.
"Holiday," I murmured. "He doesn't just kill the body. He kills the legacy."
Bruce looked at me. His face was a mask of cold fury.
"Find him, Sebastian. Smell the air. Find the shooter."
I closed my eyes. I inhaled the freezing wind.
Gunpowder. Salt. Champagne.
And...
I opened my eyes. I looked up at the upper deck of the yacht.
"Cologne," I whispered. "Cheap cologne. And fear."
"Who?"
"I don't know the name. But he is still on the boat."
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