"Yes, boss."
Sabatino nodded and continued, his voice low but steady.
"Truth is, my men and I don't know much about that 'ghost.' We were locked in a firefight with the Dimitrovs when he showed up—like smoke rolling through the alleyways. One second, bullets were flying; the next, half the Dimitrov crew was down, and he was gone."
He paused, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
"The GPD's got more on him. Deputy Commissioner Gordon personally brought him in."
Sabatino hesitated, then added carefully, "But I don't know if Chief Savage was looped in on your orders, sir. If he was, he might be able to tell you more."
With that, he drained his drink and poured another, eyes fixed on Carmine Falcone as he awaited judgment.
Falcone didn't keep him waiting. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled Victor Zsasz.
"Bring Chief Savage—and the girls he's been sheltering."
Zsasz slipped from the room without a word.
Falcone took a slow sip of his bourbon, then gave Sabatino a faint, tired nod.
"You did well, Johnny. Stay awhile. Have another drink with me later." He sighed, the weight of years pressing down on his voice. "These are turbulent times. The Waynes' bloodline returns to its ancestral seat… and now, ghosts from old tales walk the streets again."
Age had gnawed at him. Where once Falcone moved like a lion ruling his domain, now he felt the rust in his bones. And Gotham's predators had noticed.
Maroni—no longer bothering to hide his ambition—had toasted himself as "King of Gotham" more than once in his own speakeasy. Fish Mooney, too, grew bolder, her alliances shifting like smoke.
To keep them at each other's throats, Falcone had quietly backed the hungry young Oswald Cobblepot. A useful knife, if kept sharp and pointed away from its master.
But time was the one enemy even Falcone couldn't bribe or bury.
And now… the Court of Owls had returned.
Fifteen years ago, they'd whispered in shadows, content to let him rule while they watched from the rafters. Now? They struck openly—interfering in his war with the Galavans, the Dimitrovs, the whole damned order.
He still thought them cowards—hyenas circling a dying lion.
The problem? He knew the lion was dying.
The door opened. Savage entered, flanked by Zsasz and six young women—runaways, street kids, maybe dancers from the Iceberg Lounge. Falcone's gaze swept over them, then hardened as it settled on the woman trailing behind Savage, balancing a tray of drinks and cigars.
"You," he said, voice like gravel. "What are you doing here?"
The woman curtsied—just enough to be mocking—and set the tray down with practiced grace. "I grew up in your shadow, Mr. Falcone," she purred, offering a smile that was equal parts cunning and charm.
Falcone exhaled slowly. A signal.
Zsasz stepped behind her, silent as a blade sliding from its sheath.
She didn't flinch. Instead, she turned and offered him a glass of whiskey with a soft chuckle. "You look like you could use one."
Savage, watching with uneasy fascination, turned to Falcone.
"First time I've seen her," he said, voice thick with interest. "A real vision. If she's yours, Carmine, I don't blame you—though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't… curious." He grinned, unaware of the precipice beneath his feet. "If she weren't your girl, I'd—"
"—She's my daughter."
The words dropped like ice into boiling oil.
Falcone's eyes locked onto Savage's—cold, unblinking, predatory.
Savage froze. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"I—I didn't mean—Christ, I'm sorry! I had no idea! I was drunk, stupid—please, Carmine, what can I do to make this right?"
Falcone said nothing. He let the silence stretch, let the fear coil tighter.
Finally, he spoke.
"Humility, my friend. And control your curiosity. Some doors should never be opened."
"Yes, yes—absolutely. No more questions. I swear—"
"Enough." Falcone waved a dismissive hand. "You're forgiven. Ignorance is its own punishment." He leaned forward. "Now—Gordon arrested someone unusual today. A ghost, they say. Tell me everything you know."
Falcone cut off Chief Savage mid-sentence. The chief visibly relaxed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab the sweat beading on his forehead before hurrying to speak.
"Your intel's spot-on," he said, voice hushed. "I only just got word myself. Gordon claims he caught someone—an Asian man—who vanished into thin air. No record in immigration, no ID, nothing. Like he never existed."
He let out a shaky breath. "And then he says the man died—multiple times—only to come back each time! Honestly, I think Gordon's finally cracked. Maybe he's high. Or maybe Gotham's finally driven him over the edge. Wouldn't surprise me."
Savage's voice trailed off. His eyes snapped toward the private room's door.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
BOOM!
CRACK!
Thud—thud!
Gunfire erupted from the hallway, sharp and relentless, silencing the room in an instant.
After a beat of stunned quiet, Falcone slammed his palm on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. "Victor," he growled, eyes blazing, "find out who dares interrupt my evening. Bring them to me. And when they kneel before me, they'll die like a dog at Caesar's feet."
"Yes, sir," Victor Zsasz replied without hesitation. He slipped from the room, knife in his left hand, pistol in his right.
He navigated the winding corridors of the Minus Forty-Four Degrees Club—a hidden annex beneath the Iceberg Lounge—and emerged into chaos. Patrons screamed, chandeliers shattered, and smoke coiled through the air. Gunfire echoed from the grand hall.
Following the tide of fleeing guests, Zsasz reached the epicenter of the carnage. A slow, cruel smile crept across his face—until he saw who stood at the heart of it.
An Asian man. Over six feet tall.
Bullet-riddled, yet still standing.
Laughing as he lobbed a grenade—then collapsing under another volley of gunfire.
And then—his body burst into flame... and vanished.
Zsasz's smile died.
Sabatino's warning echoed in his mind: "An unkillable ghost. A corpse that burns and disappears."
Without another second's hesitation, he turned and ran—not to fight, but to warn Falcone.
Meanwhile, moments earlier…
After parting ways with Old Deng, the grizzled gunsmith, Downton didn't return to the borrowed sedan. Instead, he walked a few blocks in the direction Deng had indicated and flagged down a cab.
The moment he slid into the back seat, he yanked a thick wad of cash from his duffel and tossed it onto the seat beside him. "Take me to the Iceberg Club!" he announced with a booming laugh. "Got money to burn tonight, pal—literally!"
He flung a handful of hundred-dollar bills into the air. They fluttered around the driver like confetti.
The cabbie—a seasoned Little Italy local—knew exactly what the Iceberg Club was. And he knew men like this didn't just show up there unless they were either very rich… or very dead.
But this guy? Cocky, loud, dripping with arrogance—he fit right in. Probably some trust-fund idiot looking to gamble away his inheritance. Perfect prey for Penguin's den.
"Hang on, boss!" the driver said, shifting gears. "I'll get you there in one piece!"
As the cab sped off, Downton kept up his act—grinning like a fool—while quietly nestling a grenade deeper into the folds of cash in his bag.