The neon penguin flickered against the Gotham fog, its blue glow washing over the wet asphalt outside the Iceberg Lounge. Inside, cigarette smoke hung thick enough to cut, mixing with the smell of expensive whiskey and cheaper perfume. A piano player worked through "Body and Soul" while conversations died to whispers in the corner booths.
Oswald Cobblepot sat in his usual spot—a curved leather banquette that gave him a clear view of both entrances. His umbrella leaned against the table, close enough to grab. The blonde next to him was new, probably wouldn't last the week. They never did.
Lorenzo Scarpino had been nursing the same scotch for twenty minutes, which told Penguin everything he needed to know about the kid's nerves. Fresh blood from the Ricasoli family, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of sharp suit that screamed trying too hard.
"You're making me nervous, kid," Penguin said, not looking up from his drink. "Either say what you came to say or find another bar."
Lorenzo straightened. "My uncle sent me. We want to discuss a business arrangement."
"Your uncle." Penguin's voice stayed flat. "Salvatore Ricasoli. Heard he was expanding operations outside Chicago."
"Just a small presence here. Nothing that interferes with your... interests."
Penguin finally looked at him. Really looked. The kid's hands were steady, but his jaw was too tight. First time negotiating, probably first time in Gotham too.
"Nothing interferes with my interests because I decide what happens in this city. Not your uncle, not the Falcones, not anybody else who thinks they can waltz in here with Chicago money and East Coast manners."
"We're not looking for trouble—"
"Then you're in the wrong business." Penguin leaned back. "What's the arrangement?"
Lorenzo glanced around, then leaned forward. "One shipment per month through your docks. We handle our own logistics, you get fifteen percent off the top, and we keep everything quiet."
"What's in the shipments?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does if it brings heat down on my operation." Penguin's voice dropped. "I've spent fifteen years building this thing. Every cop that matters is either bought or scared. Every judge knows which way to lean. You think I'm going to risk that for fifteen percent of whatever your uncle's peddling?"
The kid's confidence slipped a notch. "Twenty percent."
"I don't want your money, son. I want to know what happens when your first shipment draws attention. When some ambitious detective starts asking questions. When the Feds start looking at import manifests." Penguin drained his glass. "Because when that happens, it's not your uncle who takes the fall. It's me."
Lorenzo set down his drink. "Nothing's going to happen."
"Famous last words."
"So that's a no?"
Penguin studied him for a long moment. The kid had backbone, at least. Stupid backbone, but backbone nonetheless.
"Tell your uncle we'll start small. One container, properly documented, fifteen percent. Anything goes sideways, the arrangement ends permanently."
"And if everything goes smooth?"
"Then maybe we talk about container number two."
Lorenzo stood, straightened his jacket. "Pleasure doing business."
"Kid." Penguin's voice stopped him at the edge of the booth. "Next time you come to my place, dress like you belong here. That suit makes you look like a cop."
The Drive Home
Lorenzo's Mercedes purred through the empty streets of Old Gotham, jazz filtering softly through the speakers. The meeting had gone better than expected. Uncle Sal would be pleased—fifteen percent was highway robbery, but it was a foothold. That's all they needed.
He stopped at a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The neighborhood here was all boarded storefronts and broken streetlights, the kind of place where honest people didn't walk alone after dark.
Something moved in his rearview mirror.
Lorenzo's hand went to the .38 under his jacket as he turned around. The back seat was empty, just shadows and leather. But something felt wrong. The air in the car had changed, like when you walk into a room and know someone was just there.
The light turned green. He drove three more blocks before pulling over.
The rope hung from the dome light, tied in a perfect hangman's noose. Professional work. Clean. Meant to be seen.
Lorenzo was out of the car before he fully processed what he was looking at, gun drawn, scanning the empty street. No one. Nothing. Just wind and the distant hum of traffic on the interstate.
He approached the car like it might bite him, peered through the windows. The noose swayed gently in the dome light's glow. Someone had been in his car. Someone had sat in his back seat, tied that knot, and disappeared without making a sound.
...
Detective Elena Vasquez crouched next to the body, her breath visible in the February cold. Three years working homicide in Gotham, and she'd never seen anything quite this clean.
"No signs of struggle," she said to Commissioner Gordon, who stood a few feet away, smoking his first cigarette of the day. "No defensive wounds, no bruising on the wrists or ankles. Whoever did this, the victim went willingly."
"Or was unconscious."
"Toxicology will tell us." She stood, pulling off her latex gloves. "But look at the knot work. This isn't some street-level muscle. Whoever tied this knew what they were doing."
Gordon examined the rope. Military precision, the kind of knot that would do the job quick and clean. "Any ID?"
"Lorenzo Scarpino, age twenty-six. Illinois driver's license, staying at the Gotham Grand." She flipped through her notebook. "Credit card shows he had dinner at Romano's last night, then drinks at the Iceberg Lounge. Car was found six blocks from here, keys still in the ignition."
"Penguin's place."
"That's what I'm thinking."
Gordon dropped his cigarette, ground it under his heel. The alley stretched between two abandoned buildings, the kind of place where bodies turned up regularly. But this felt different. Calculated.
"What do we know about the Scarpinos?"
"Chicago family, but not major players. More white-collar than muscle." Vasquez closed her notebook. "This kid wasn't important enough to warrant a hit like this."
"Unless he was just the message."
She looked at him. "Message to who?"
Gordon stared up at the fire escape where the rope had been anchored. Fifteen feet off the ground, no way to reach it without equipment. Professional job, start to finish.
"Someone who needed to know the rules just changed."
...
Bruce Wayne hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, but that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the pattern emerging from the files scattered across his desk—three bodies in six weeks, all connected to organized crime, all killed with the same methodical precision.
Alfred entered with coffee and a disapproving look. "The Scarpino murder?"
"Third one." Bruce held up a surveillance photo. "Each victim was seen at the Iceberg Lounge within twenty-four hours of their death. Each was killed somewhere private, then moved to a public location. No witnesses, no evidence, no mistakes."
"Professional work."
"More than professional. Surgical." Bruce pulled up another file on his computer. "Lorenzo Scarpino, Joey Torrino, Marcus Vale. Different families, different territories, but they all had one thing in common."
"They were negotiating with Penguin."
"And now they're dead." Bruce leaned back in his chair. "Someone's cleaning house, but not randomly. These hits are strategic. Eliminating specific threats to a specific operation."
Alfred set down the coffee. "You think Cobblepot's behind it?"
"Penguin's many things, but he's not stupid enough to kill people in his own backyard. This brings heat he doesn't need." Bruce studied the crime scene photos. "Someone else is playing a longer game."
"The League?"
"No. Too subtle for Ra's, not theatrical enough for the others." Bruce closed the files. "This is someone new. Someone who understands Gotham's power structure well enough to exploit it."
Alfred cleared his throat. "Sir, when was the last time you slept?"
"I'll sleep when the pattern makes sense."
"The pattern won't make sense if you collapse from exhaustion."
Bruce looked up at him, then at the windows showing the gray morning sky over Gotham. Alfred was right, of course. He was always right. But somewhere in this city, someone was systematically eliminating people, and every hour that passed gave them more time to work.
"One more night," Bruce said. "If I don't have answers by tomorrow, I'll rest."
Alfred nodded, knowing it was the best compromise he'd get. "Very good, sir. Though I should mention—Commissioner Gordon called. He'd like to speak with you about a charitable donation to the police widows' fund."
Bruce smiled grimly. Gordon's code for we need to talk.
"Tell him I'll be in touch."
As Alfred left, Bruce turned back to the files. Three bodies, three families, one common thread. The Iceberg Lounge sat at the center of it all, but Penguin wasn't the puppet master.