The Iceberg Lounge felt different now. Word traveled fast in Gotham's underworld—Lorenzo Scarpino's death had sent ripples through every family, every crew, every small-time operation in the city. And Oswald Cobblepot was smart enough to recognize opportunity when it knocked.
He sat in his private office above the main floor, watching three men who'd never been in the same room together before tonight. Vincent Torrino from the East Side, his weathered face betraying nothing. Marcus Bertinelli, young and hungry, representing what was left of his family's interests. And surprisingly, Tommy Falcone—not the head of his family, but important enough to make deals.
"Gentlemen," Penguin began, adjusting his monocle, "recent events have created what you might call a vacuum. The Ricasoli family's... setback... has left certain territories and operations without proper oversight."
Torrino spoke first, his voice gravelly from decades of cigarettes. "You're talking about the docks."
"Among other things." Penguin poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. "The late Mr. Scarpino had secured arrangements for monthly shipments. Those arrangements need not die with him."
"Depends on what was in those shipments," Bertinelli said. "Some of us prefer to know what we're moving."
"Smart boy." Penguin smiled. "Nothing that would interest federal agents. Art, antiques, private collections. Rich people buying things they shouldn't own."
Tommy Falcone leaned forward. "What's the split?"
"Twenty percent to me for facilitation and protection. The rest gets divided based on what each family contributes." Penguin's tone was matter-of-fact. "Torrino handles security, Bertinelli manages customs documentation, Falcone provides transportation."
"And if someone decides they want a bigger piece?" Torrino asked.
"Then they'll learn why Mr. Scarpino's associates have been so quiet lately." Penguin's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Gentlemen, I'm offering stability. Someone out there is removing people from the board. The smart play is to consolidate what we have before we become the next targets."
The three men exchanged glances. They all knew about the other bodies—Joey Torrino (Vincent's nephew), Marcus Vale, now Lorenzo. A pattern that couldn't be ignored.
"One shipment," Bertinelli said finally. "We see how it goes."
"Agreed," Torrino nodded.
Tommy Falcone was quiet for a moment longer. "My uncle won't like this. Direct dealing without his approval."
"Your uncle isn't here," Penguin replied. "You are. And unless you want to explain to him why you passed on legitimate business, I suggest you make the smart choice."
"One shipment," Tommy agreed.
Penguin raised his glass. "To new partnerships. And to surviving long enough to enjoy them."
...
Commissioner Gordon stood on the roof of police headquarters, his coat collar turned up against the February wind. The Bat-Signal cut through the fog, its beam disappearing into the low clouds over Gotham. He'd been waiting twelve minutes.
Batman emerged from the shadows near the access door, as silent as ever.
"Three more," Gordon said without preamble, handing over a manila folder. "Found this morning. The Bertinelli warehouse on Fifth Street."
Batman opened the folder, scanning the crime scene photos in the pale light. Three bodies, all positioned with the same methodical precision as the others. Professional executions, then careful staging.
"These weren't random," Batman said.
"No. Marcus Vale's crew. They were handling security for some of Bertinelli's operations." Gordon lit a cigarette. "But here's the interesting part—they were killed somewhere else, then moved to the warehouse. Forensics found traces of sawdust and metal shavings that don't match anything at the scene."
"Industrial area. Probably the docks."
"That's what I'm thinking." Gordon took a drag. "But there's something else. We found this in Vale's pocket."
He handed Batman a small evidence bag containing a brass coin. Ancient-looking, with symbols that weren't immediately recognizable.
"Byzantine," Batman said after examining it. "Sixth century, probably from Constantinople. Worth maybe five thousand to the right collector."
Gordon looked at him. "How do you—never mind. The point is, why would a street-level enforcer be carrying something like this?"
"He wouldn't. Unless someone wanted it found." Batman closed the folder. "These aren't random killings, Jim. Someone's eliminating specific people for specific reasons. The pattern isn't about territory or revenge—it's about control."
"Control of what?"
"I'm still working on that." Batman moved toward the roof's edge. "But whoever's doing this understands Gotham better than most people who've lived here their whole lives. They know which strings to pull."
"Any leads?"
"A few. Keep me posted on the forensics from the warehouse. And Jim?" Batman paused. "Be careful who you trust with this information. If I'm right about the pattern, they're not finished."
Gordon nodded, and when he looked up again, Batman was gone. Just like always.
...
Selina Kyle moved through the darkened gallery like smoke, her form-fitting suit allowing her to slip between the motion detectors' coverage zones. The Whitmore Gallery was one of Gotham's most prestigious—high-end pieces, serious collectors, and more importantly, serious security.
She paused at the base of the main staircase, listening. The guard would make his next round in four minutes. Plenty of time.
The Byzantine collection was on the second floor, in a climate-controlled room behind reinforced glass. Medieval coins, religious artifacts, pieces of jewelry that had belonged to emperors and empresses. The kind of collection that museums would kill for.
But Selina wasn't here for the museum pieces.
She found what she was looking for in a small display case near the back of the room—a gold medallion, no larger than a silver dollar, with intricate engravings around the edges. The placard read: "Imperial Medallion, c. 565 CE, believed to have belonged to Emperor Justin II. On loan from private collection."
The case's lock was electronic, high-end but not impossible. Selina attached a small device to the control panel and waited while it cycled through combinations. Thirty seconds later, the case clicked open.
She pocketed the medallion and was about to leave when something caught her eye. Another case, this one containing coins similar to the one she'd just taken. But these weren't part of the main exhibition. They were in a smaller, less prominent display.
The placard read: "Recent Acquisitions - Byzantine Currency Collection, Various Donors."
Selina studied the coins more carefully. Six pieces, all from the same era, all showing signs of recent cleaning and restoration. But what interested her was the notation at the bottom of the placard: "Donated by the Ricasoli Foundation, Chicago."
She photographed the display with a small camera, then checked her watch. Time to go.