"Di… Diego…"
Feeling the scorching gaze that seemed to burn right through her, Dio tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes coldly sweeping over Elana.
"Ah~!"
Just a fleeting glance, and Elana trembled violently, as if jolted by a high-voltage shock.
She let out a brief, satisfied moan, then, as if driven by some primal urge, she grabbed an expensive bottle of Bordeaux from the ice bucket—
Pop!
The cork was yanked out with force, flying off.
The deep red wine shimmered with an eerie glow under the dim lights, like viscous blood.
Entranced, she stared at Dio's chiseled profile, then suddenly raised the bottle high, her arm slashing a decisive arc—
Splash!
The costly liquid poured down like a waterfall, scarlet wine pooling across the polished stage floor, staining the area with a shocking "bloodbath."
Her wild act lit the fuse!
The other high-society women, already barely containing themselves, erupted with suppressed excitement.
"Open the bottles! Hurry!"
"Use mine! My Petrus!"
Screams and the pop of corks filled the air.
Bottles of priceless Romanée-Conti, Lafite, and Mouton were cracked open with reckless abandon.
Dark red wine arced through the air like splattered paint, converging in the center of the dance floor into a growing pool, its intoxicating sweetness overwhelming.
High heels slipped on the sticky liquid, making wet, squelching sounds.
"Not enough! Keep it coming! Bring out the best from your cellar!"
Elana panted, her chest heaving as she barked orders at the waiters.
The staff, swallowing hard, scrambled to push carts loaded with cases of top-shelf wine, opening them nonstop.
In moments, the club's main hall was thick with a suffocating aroma of wine, mixed with the women's hysterical screams and unhinged laughter, creating a scene of absurd revelry.
Dio stood expressionless at the center of this wine-soaked storm, a few wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his sharp jawline, adding a cold, sultry edge.
But he merely gazed down at the chaos he'd unintentionally sparked, his mind racing, calculating the dollar value of every bottle splashed across the floor—
With a 6% commission, tonight's liquor sales alone would net him…
Pop!
As the uproar hit a deafening peak—
The gilded doors of the floor swung open silently.
A figure entered, surrounded by sharply dressed, distinguished gentlemen, leaning on an ebony cane adorned with silver.
Short and stout, he wore an impeccably tailored purple velvet tuxedo, a cold monocle perched on his nose, glinting under the chandelier.
Beneath a top hat, his face bore a plastered-on grin.
"Well, look at that—your wife's stealing the show," a banker with gold-rimmed glasses elbowed his grim-faced companion, his tone dripping with malicious glee.
The crowd paused, following his gaze—
In the throng, a young socialite in a revealing dress, its front soaked with wine and clinging to her curves, flushed and glassy-eyed, was trying to climb the stage toward the blonde "king."
She was the new wife of the Gotham Pharma exec standing nearby.
The man's face darkened instantly, but within a second, his businessman's composure kicked in, suppressing his rage.
With a cold snort, he raised a hand gracefully, summoning a waiter, his voice eerily calm: "Ten bottles of 'Jazz' for the charming lady. Put it on my tab."
"Yes, sir."
The waiter bowed and hurried off.
Jazz—one of the Iceberg Lounge's priciest champagnes, each bottle over $20,000.
Ten bottles meant tossing out over $200,000 like it was nothing.
But this lavish, ice-cold gesture of humiliation disappointed the onlookers hoping for a public spousal showdown.
They'd wanted drama, not this "generosity."
What a wimp!
"Mr. Cobblepot's got some real talent under his wing!" a councilman chimed in, his smile oozing flattery to diffuse the tension.
"Absolutely!" a tycoon echoed, eyes locked on the stage. "This 'king'… he's like a star born for the night! Mesmerizing!"
"Tonight's liquor sales must've smashed a million, right, Mr. Cobblepot?"
The flattery buzzed like a flock of noisy nightingales.
Cobblepot listened absently, his fingers rhythmically tapping the cane's handle.
When the elites finally talked themselves dry, he cleared his throat, his voice, laced with an old Gotham drawl, cutting through the chatter:
"Vanity… definitely my favorite sin!"
The room fell dead silent.
The suited gents exchanged confused looks, clearly lost by the boss's cryptic remark.
An awkward silence spread like icy water for a dozen seconds, the air nearly frozen.
Finally, a quick-witted waiter leaned toward a nearby guest, whispering, "The boss is quoting a line from that new movie, The Devil's Advocate (1997). It means—"
"It means have fun tonight, folks. The bill's just pocket change," another waiter jumped in, flashing a professional smile.
The crowd let out a collective sigh, erupting into exaggerated laughter and applause, as if they'd just heard the quote of the century.
Cobblepot nodded with satisfaction, basking in the "adoration" built on ignorance and fear.
---
Three hours later, Dio finally shook off the reluctant socialites.
Elana still clung to his sleeve, eyes drunk with adoration, murmuring incoherent nonsense.
Until Dio whispered something in her ear. The famously fiery socialite froze, cheeks flushing, eyes glazing over, her grip loosening as she stared dreamily at his retreating figure.
Locke, hunched and leading the way, guided Dio through hidden corridors.
This time, they didn't stop at the massive metal door but at a heavy, intricately carved deep red mahogany door, adorned with a cold metal penguin emblem.
Locke took a deep breath, still faintly nervous, and knocked lightly.
"Come in!"
Oswald's booming voice rang out.
Pushing the door open, a thick cloud of cigar smoke hit them like a wall.
Oswald lounged in a wide black leather chair, feet propped arrogantly on a desk cluttered with papers.
Seeing Dio, he dropped his feet, spread his arms, and flashed a greasy grin, striding forward with a laugh: "Our star's here! Our money-maker's arrived!"
He went for an enthusiastic bear hug.
But Dio, slick as an eel, sidestepped gracefully, leaving Oswald grasping air.
The man's smile froze for a split second, but he brushed it off, slapping his arm like he was dusting it, exclaiming theatrically: "One night! Three damn hours!"
He waved three stubby fingers in Dio's face. "You racked up over a million bucks in sales! Kid, you're a walking cash machine! A miracle!"
He spun, strode to a massive built-in safe, and spun the dial with practiced ease.
The heavy door swung open, and he pulled out a weighty black briefcase.
Thud!
He slammed it onto the polished mahogany desk, rattling the ashtray.
"Rules are rules. Six percent commission, plus your three-grand base. Sixty-three thousand, not a penny less."
Dio nodded impassively, stepping forward to grab the case.
But the moment his fingers brushed the cold metal—
Click.
A faint mechanical sound.
Two towering shadows emerged silently from behind the door and the bookshelf, flanking the only exit.
"Kid."
Oswald's grin vanished, replaced by cold calculation and unyielding authority.
He lit a fresh cigar, eyeing Dio through the swirling smoke: "The money's yours, no issue there." He blew a smoke ring. "But… we need to talk about your future work schedule. A 'talent' like you, just working a stint? That's a waste. The Iceberg Lounge needs you long-term…"
His voice cut off abruptly, stuck in his throat.
A pair of crimson eyes, glowing like congealed blood in the dim, smoke-filled light, radiated a chilling, savage indifference.
Not human eyes—more like a demon whose territory had been crossed.
A shiver shot up Oswald's spine, his back instantly slick with cold sweat.
His cigar-holding fingers trembled, ash falling.
The pressure from that gaze was far more terrifying than the two brutes behind him.
One more word, and…
Would he die?!
"We… we can talk, kid?"
Oswald forced his voice steady, clinging to his bravado.
"One night."
Dio's voice was eerily calm, stating a simple fact: "I might come back someday, but I'm not signing any contracts."
"…"
"One night?"
Oswald barked a laugh, his faltering expression shifting. "You think you can cash out and bolt? What is this, some red-light dive where you come and go as you please?!"
"Oswald."
A cold voice from the doorway sliced through his bluster.
"Your analogy? Not a fan. And…"
"Treat our star 'king'…"
"With some respect."
The short, stout man with the cane stepped in.
"'Treat genius like the tenderest flower in spring.' Don't you get that?"
Sweat soaked Oswald's shirt. He scrambled, almost comically, to drag a heavy leather sofa over, plopping it behind the man, wiping nonexistent dust with his sleeve: "Boss! You… you didn't need to come for this small stuff…"
Ignoring him, Cobblepot studied Dio with interest: "You're impressive, kid."
His tone was warm, almost paternal: "Trouble at home? Need a big chunk of cash?"
He probed for leverage.
Dio stayed silent, his crimson eyes meeting Cobblepot's through the monocle, unflinching, unreadable.
A seasoned young man.
Cobblepot shrugged, turning to Oswald: "How much did the kid earn tonight?"
"With… with the base, sixty-three grand, boss," Oswald stammered, voice tight.
"Round it up."
Cobblepot tapped the floor lightly with his cane's silver tip, like it was trivial.
"Round… it up?"
Oswald blinked, brain stalling.
Drop the three-grand base? Then the commission…
But the next second, catching Cobblepot's icy glare, he jolted, getting it.
The boss was making it a clean number!
He fumbled to reopen the safe, pulling out a thick stack of crisp hundreds—seven grand exactly—holding it out to Dio with trembling hands, his smile uglier than a sob.
That was his money!
But then, under Oswald's disbelief, Locke's shock, and Cobblepot's amused gaze, Dio took the extra cash without a flicker of emotion.
He didn't count it, didn't even glance at it. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the stack to Locke, who stood like a backdrop.
"!!!"
Locke, scrawny and stunned, fumbled to catch the windfall.
The heavy stack weighed on his hands, his heart, stealing his breath. "Sir?" he started.
But Dio ignored everyone, grabbing the sixty-grand briefcase and turning to leave.
The two brutes at the door parted as if pushed by an invisible force, stepping aside to clear his path.
No one dared stop him.
"The Iceberg Lounge's doors…"
As Dio's tall, cold figure vanished around the corridor, Cobblepot's voice, low but clear, carried a strange… anticipation? "Are always open to a 'king' like you, kid."
Dio didn't look back, just gave a casual wave, cool and detached.
His figure melted into the corridor's shadows.
Locke stood frozen, staring at the ink-scented stack of bills, then at Oswald's dark, venomous glare.
He glanced cautiously at Cobblepot, still smiling falsely but with unreadable eyes, tapping his cane.
The pressure nearly choked him.
Until Cobblepot waved him off, Locke exhaled, bowing deeply with a strained, apologetic smile.
He bolted out, chasing after Dio to guide him out.
Bang!
The heavy mahogany door closed, sealing the tense atmosphere inside.
After a beat, Cobblepot chuckled, breaking the silence: "Some people are meteors—brief but lighting up the whole sky."
"A raw gem," he said, pleased. "First time I've seen a Falcone look that rattled."
"You did good, Oswald."
"Too kind, too kind," Oswald grinned obsequiously. "Boss, if he's that valuable…"
"Should I have him tailed?"
He leaned close, lips nearly at Cobblepot's ear. "If it goes smooth, we could grab him while he's sleeping, use his family to—"
"Good plan," Cobblepot nodded. "No one ignores family."
"Haha, boss, I—"
Crack!
The cane whipped across Oswald's face, staggering him, cutting off his words.
"Ow—!"
Blood gushed from his nose, staining his pricey suit.
Oswald clutched his face, staring in horror at Cobblepot, who calmly wiped blood from the cane with a handkerchief.
"But…"
"Low-class move, Oswald," Cobblepot's voice softened, his monocled eye narrowing dangerously. "This isn't your Blackgate slum, because…"
His voice dropped lower.
Oswald held his breath, leaning in.
Whack!
Another brutal strike silenced Oswald's scream.
"This is the damn Iceberg Lounge! My kingdom!"
Cobblepot exploded, his stout frame bursting with surprising force, the cane raining blows on Oswald.
"Lowlife!"
"Scum!"
"Tasteless!"
"Shameless!"
Each word came with a heavy hit, the office echoing with sickening thuds.
"In short…"
"You're too damn low-class, Oswald!"
Penguin's shrill voice trembled with rage.
Thud!
The final blow sent Oswald sprawling.
With a cold snort, Cobblepot pulled out a silk handkerchief embroidered with a penguin, wiping the cane's blood and straightening his crooked tie.
As for Oswald, the brute curled into a ball, shaking like a possum caught in headlights.
"Listen, you idiot," Cobblepot jabbed Oswald's forehead with the cane.
"Here at the Iceberg Lounge, in Gotham, what matters most? Style! Class! Swagger!"
"Outside, do whatever—shoot a sheriff, bomb City Hall, send a truck of explosives to the prison for Christmas."
"Burn, rob, play highway bandit, kill whoever you want."
"But here, you behave."
He turned to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a whiskey: "This is the Iceberg—a place where the elite choose to throw their money at us."
"Not some Gotham mutt stealing, swiping, or scavenging!"
"Those ladies sometimes hold more power than their deadbeat husbands."
"Like that bunch out there."
"Since… since that blonde kid's so important…"
Oswald swallowed blood, forcing a grin. "Then we should—"
"No rush. He'll be back."
Penguin sipped the amber liquid, smirking confidently: "Our 'king' will walk back into this castle soon enough."
---
Locke led the way, his shoes clicking softly on the marble floor.
He kept glancing back at the blonde teen, hesitant to speak.
Wall sconces cast their long shadows, twisting under the gothic arches.
"This way, sir."
Locke pushed open a hidden side door, and the damp night air rushed in from the VIP parking lot.
The guard at the door froze, nearly dropping his walkie-talkie.
"Mr… Mr. Locke?" he stammered, eyes darting between them. "You're personally—?"
His gaze lingered on Dio, his mind reeling—Since when do escorts get this kind of treatment? The manager himself? Is this guy even an escort?
Ignoring the guard's shock, Locke waved him off wearily.
Once the guard stepped back, Locke shakily pulled out the stack of bills and a business card.
"Mr. Diego…"
His throat bobbed. "I can't take this. It's a hot potato—I can't handle it."
He could already imagine Oswald's vengeful reaction to this cash.
Dio paused, tilting his head.
Moonlight carved a sharp golden edge along his profile.
He glanced at the sweat-soaked bills. "That's your problem." He took the card but not the money, his voice cold as ice. "I don't take what's not mine."
With that, he stepped into the night.
Moments later, the Harley's engine roared, a beastly growl cutting through the night wind.
Locke stood frozen, the bills rustling in the breeze.
He stared at the fading figure, a pang of inexplicable envy hitting him.
"Must be nice…" he muttered, fingers tightening, crumpling the bills.
He wished he could be like that guy.
Not groveling like a dog before Oswald every day.
The wind caught a bill, spinning it in the air.
Locke reached for it, missing.
With a bitter smile, he shook his head and turned back to the gilded cage of the lounge.