Sabatino had finally formulated a retort—sharp, dismissive, perfectly timed—but Oswald's declaration left him speechless. His jaw clenched; his eyes burned with impotent fury.
For ten long seconds, he just breathed, ragged and heavy, before spitting onto the marble floor. He gave his ruined suit jacket a bitter shake. Holes gaped where fists had punched through fine wool.
"Is that your all-in, Oswald? A few holes in my jacket?" Sabatino sneered. "Tell me—when you're in bed, is spitting in a woman's face the closest you get to sex?"
The jab landed. Sabatino felt a flicker of satisfaction. Before Oswald could fire back, he lifted a hand and mimed a phone pressed to his ear.
"I didn't come to the Iceberg Club to do business with you, shortstack. I called Falcone before I walked through your door."
He stepped forward, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"You keep polishing your little iceberg. I'll be waiting in Minus Forty-Four… for the real boss. Oh—and do me a favor? Keep an eye on the front door. Wouldn't want you missing his entrance."
With that, Sabatino hawked another glob of spit—this time at Oswald's polished shoes—then peeled off the torn jacket with theatrical disgust. He let it drop to the floor with a soft thud.
"Didn't even stain the tiles," he muttered, chuckling as he turned away. "Use it as a rag, watchdog."
"Heh… heh heh…"
Oswald watched him go, cigar smoke curling from his lips in slow, deliberate rings. Only when Sabatino vanished into the club's shadowed corridors did he speak.
"Took you long enough to show your teeth," he murmured—then exhaled a thick plume of smoke and snapped his fingers. "You heard the man. Carmine Falcone's coming. Clean this place spotless."
His henchmen scurried off.
Alone now, Oswald limped toward his office, cane tapping softly against the floor. Inside, he shut the door with deliberate calm—then seized the umbrella hanging by the coat rack and slammed it downward.
Crack!
The wooden rack splintered. The umbrella—reinforced steel beneath silk—remained pristine.
Oswald bent over it, knuckles white, breath coming fast and shallow.
"Penguins…" he hissed, voice trembling. "Penguins!"
His eyes flickered with something raw—revulsion, shame, rage.
"What disgusts me most… are penguins. And you, Sabatino."
Moments later, deep within the Iceberg Club's most guarded sanctum—Minus Forty-Four Degrees—a private room glowed with amber light.
Carmine Falcone sat opposite Sabatino, Commissioner Pete Savage beside him. Their arrival had Sabatino shifting in his seat, fingers drumming nervously against his glass.
He'd known Falcone for years. Yet in the man's presence, he still felt like a street rat caught in the gaze of a king—especially now, when his own ambitions had grown too large to hide.
Falcone looked harmless: medium build, neatly combed silvering hair, posture relaxed. A gentleman. A philanthropist. The kind of man who'd hold a door for a nun.
That's what made him terrifying.
Noticing Sabatino's unease, Falcone smiled and slid a tumbler of whiskey across the table. "Johnny," he said warmly, "you told me on the phone this was urgent. So I came straightaway. Is your news… inconvenient to share in front of our good Commissioner?"
Sabatino hesitated—then gave a slight nod.
He turned to Savage. "Commissioner, I hear there's been an influx of Ukrainian girls in Minus Forty-Four lately. Two in particular… exceptionally charming."
Savage's eyes lit up. He raised his glass with a knowing grin. "Then I'd be remiss not to inspect them personally." With a wink, he rose and sauntered out.
Silence settled. Only Falcone and his ever-present shadow remained—Victor Zas, bodyguard and the family's deadliest blade. The man met Sabatino's wary glance and ran his tongue slowly over his teeth.
Falcone waved a dismissive hand. "Victor's family, Johnny. Speak freely."
Sabatino exhaled. "Boss… I think I found him. The one you asked me to watch for—the kind of man who can come back from the dead."
Falcone's eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"
Then his expression shifted—curiosity giving way to dawning recognition.
"Wait… when did I—?"
He stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
Ah.
After a moment of silence, Falcone had to admit it: he was getting old. If he'd been younger, he never would have forgotten a single order he'd given his subordinates—not even one issued more than a decade ago.
While reminiscing about his younger, sharper self, Falcone gave Sabatino an admiring smile.
"Johnny," he said, "that was an order I gave you over fifteen years ago. It's remarkable you've remembered it all this time."
"Boss, you know me," Sabatino replied without hesitation. "Any order you give—whether it's been ten years or twenty—I treat it like a top priority. I still can't forget it. Back then, in the summer… you told me to quietly search for someone who could be resurrected."
He paused, his expression tightening with lingering fear.
"I've searched all these years without a single lead… until today. While I was fighting those bastards from the Dimitrov family, we were both ambushed—by a resurrected ghost."
Gotham hadn't yet entered the era of the uncanny. To its mortal crime lords, resurrection wasn't just improbable—it was impossible.
Hearing this, Falcone fell into deep thought.
Sabatino's words stirred long-buried memories. Fifteen years ago… That was the year Thomas Wayne died. The same year Falcone—then convinced he ruled Gotham unchallenged—first glimpsed the shadow of the Court of Owls.
Their sudden, silent interference had shattered his illusion of control. In secret, he'd dispatched a handful of trusted men to dig for any trace of the Claws—the Court's immortal enforcers, rumored to rise again and again until their mission was complete.
At the time, he'd even considered mounting a challenge. But the Court left no trail—only whispers, corpses, and silence.
Now, at over sixty, Falcone dreamed of retiring to Sicily, of peace and quiet beneath olive trees.
And yet, on the very brink of that dream, the Claws had reappeared—intervening directly in a street war between his own lieutenant and the Russian-American Dimitrovs.
In an instant, a hundred possibilities flashed through his mind—each darker than the last.
Across the room, Sabatino stiffened as Falcone's brow furrowed. He knew that look. His boss wasn't just thinking—he was furious.
Falcone suppressed the storm behind his eyes and gave a casual nod.
"Go on, Johnny."
Sabatino cleared his throat. "It was an Asian man—early twenties, over 1.8 meters tall. He showed up during both our clashes with the Dimitrovs. Both times, we put him down—shot him dead. But each time, his body burst into flames and vanished.
"Then, not long after, he'd reappear—alive, unharmed. We only managed to kill him twice. By the third time he came back, the fight was over. Both sides had already pulled out.
"Later, I heard he went looking for us, couldn't find anyone… so he attacked a civilian. Got himself arrested by GCPD. But within hours, he disappeared again—like smoke."
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire erupted outside the private room—sharp, sudden, chaotic.
BOOM!
An explosion followed, shaking the walls.
Sabatino cut off mid-sentence. Victor Zas, standing just behind Falcone's chair, drew his pistol and combat knife in one swift motion and moved to the door, scanning through the narrow gap in the frame.
Ten seconds passed. The gunfire ceased. The echoes faded.
Victor turned, gave a short nod—clear.
At that moment, Falcone's phone rang.
He answered in a low, gravelly tone.
"Oswald. I entrusted you with the Iceberg Lounge—not so you could startle me like a rookie."
A nervous chuckle came through the line.
"My apologies, boss. Some big-spending lunatic slipped past security. But he's alone. Barely a nuisance."
"I see."
Falcone hung up without another word. He didn't believe Oswald would dare betray him—not here, not like this. Whatever had happened was likely genuine chaos—Gotham's brand of "accident."
He waved a dismissive hand toward Sabatino.
"Just another Tuesday in this cursed city, Johnny. Continue."