The witty comeback Sabatino had painstakingly rehearsed evaporated under Oswald's declaration. Sabatino's eyes widened in frustration, his chest heaving for a full ten seconds. Spitting a mouthful of saliva, he gently shook his suit jacket, now riddled with holes.
"Your all-in? Just a few holes in my clothes? Penguin, when you're in bed, do you only cover a woman's face in spit?"
Feeling marginally better, he didn't wait for Oswald's reply. He raised his hand in a phone gesture.
"I didn't come to the Iceberg Lounge to haggle with a shorty like you. Before I arrived, I contacted Falcone! You just guard your club. I'll wait at Minus Forty-Four Degrees for Falcone to show up. Remember the door!"
He spat near Oswald's feet, discarded his jacket with disgust, and strode further into the lounge.
"Oops, dirtied the floor. Use that jacket as a rag, doorkeeper."
Oswald chuckled, exhaling a thick puff of cigar smoke.
"Did you hear that? Falcone's coming. Clean up the club."
He limped toward his office.
Inside, he slammed the special umbrella hanging by the door onto the coat rack. Crash! The rack shattered, the umbrella untouched. Leaning on it, his breathing grew heavy.
"Penguin… Penguin… What disgusts me most is the Penguin… and you, Sabatino…"
Meanwhile, in the lounge's secret club within a club—Minus Forty-Four Degrees—Falcone sat opposite Sabatino, accompanied by Gotham Police Chief Savage.
Sabatino shifted uneasily. Despite years of knowing Falcone, the man's presence still demanded caution, especially from those whose ambition barely fit in their chest.
Falcone, of moderate build and tall, with neatly combed thinning hair, radiated a disarming calm. From a distance, he might seem a gentleman.
But Sabatino knew better.
Falcone handed him a glass of whiskey.
"Johnny, my old friend, you said on the phone you had something important. Is it inconvenient to discuss in front of our Chief?"
Sabatino nodded slightly before turning to Chief Savage.
"Chief, Minus Forty-Four Degrees recently acquired several attractive Ukrainian girls. Two are untouched, particularly enticing."
"Really? Then I must give them my attention," the Chief said, chuckling as he left.
Sabatino then faced the third man in the room: Victor Zsasz, Falcone's personal bodyguard and deadliest enforcer.
Victor licked his lips cruelly.
Falcone shook his head.
"Victor is an old friend. Nothing to hide from him."
Sabatino nodded and spoke solemnly.
"Boss, I believe I've found the person you wanted me to look for… someone who can resurrect from the dead."
Falcone blinked, startled.
"When did I—" He stopped, realizing he had indeed given that command years ago. Time had dulled his memory.
"Johnny, that was over ten years ago. Rare that you'd remember."
"Boss, commands from you, whether ten or twenty years old, are always a priority. Fifteen years ago this summer, you asked me to search for someone who could return from death. I searched for years with no clue… until today, during the war with the Dimitrovs. Russians and I were attacked by a resurrected wraith!"
Sabatino's gaze lingered with fear. Gotham had yet to enter a non-human era. Resurrection seemed impossible.
Falcone's mind raced. Fifteen years ago, the death of Thomas Wayne had introduced him to the Court of Owls, their Talons capable of returning from the dead, tools of punishment and manipulation. Attempts to uncover their secrets had yielded nothing.
Now, a Talon reappeared, interfering in Sabatino's conflict with the Dimitrovs. Falcone's brow furrowed—every scenario suggested disaster.
Sabatino stiffened, sensing Falcone's anger.
But the boss's expression remained understated.
"Continue, Johnny," Falcone said.
Sabatino's voice was steady.
"Okay, Boss. He's an Asian man, around twenty, over six feet tall. Twice in battle with us and the Dimitrovs, stray bullets killed him, yet he spontaneously combusted and vanished. He reappeared each time. By the third return, the fight had ended. Later, he attacked a citizen, was arrested, then vanished again—like a wraith."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunshots and an explosion erupted outside.
Victor Zsasz drew his weapons, scanning cautiously.
Ten seconds later, the chaos subsided.
Victor nodded to Falcone, signaling safety.
Falcone's phone rang.
"Oswald, I entrusted the Iceberg Lounge to you to manage, not to create surprises," Falcone said in a low voice.
"Apologies, Boss. I let a big-spending madman slip in. But he's just one person—not a problem."
"I understand."
Falcone hung up, confident Oswald hadn't attempted outright betrayal. The incident was merely a Gotham-style accident.
He gestured to Sabatino.
"Just an accident, Johnny. Continue."
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