Chapter Two: A Family Meeting


Sylvia sat at the head of the table inside the Meeting Room. A month of sitting in Oswald's throne, and she still wasn't quite used to it.

The Authoritarian ruler of Gotham's Underworld….seemed pretty impressive to anyone on the outside looking in, but Sylvia couldn't deny that her nerves were on the grind. She might have gone through a pack of cigarettes in a day—if it wasn't for Mr. Bell hiding them from her.

She called a meeting with the Five Families, knowing full well that all would attend. For now, she was inwardly grateful that Mr. Bell had suggested keeping them in the living room—so the Meeting Room could be her own private quarters as she gathered her thoughts.

In a charming suit and tie—contrary to his usual tuxedo—Mr. Bell placed in front of Sylvia a glass of iced tea with a shot of lemon vodka, and a thick black notebook that he'd updated in the past two months that recorded the debts all families and other less than fortunate homebodies owed to her. He stood behind her, feeling both protective of his Mistress as well as selfishly perusing the fireplace to warm his chilly buttocks.

Standing on either side of the double doors in the room were Dagger and Chilly. Both men wore black suits with red ties. Dagger was the bouncer of sorts; his role was pretty self-explanatory. Chilly, who owed his life to Sylvia (after blowing fifty grand that originally belonged to Falcone) continued paying his debts to her by enforcing the cool factor: everyone had to maintain some type of civility, otherwise they'd get a bruise. Gabriel, who'd originally worked for Maroni, stood next to Chilly, having a conversation about gambling and how much it would take to buy the entirety of Gotham City.

Brittany was in the living room, offering beverages to the guests. While she had that curvaceous, blonde beauty, often times wearing every color of the rainbow, every male and female knew better than to try anything. Brittany was ditsy, beautiful, naive—but she was ultimately Sylvia's to protect. And, god have mercy on anyone who dared hurt her.

While Brittany was serving as a bartender of sorts, Delilah was Sylvia's eyes-and-ears. Delilah was five-foot-ten, wore a lot of Gothic-themed clothes, and she had a long detailed dragon tattoo that wrapped around her back and torso. With dark chocolate hair, and amber eyes, she was beautiful but fierce. As good of a talker she could be, Sylvia valued her more for listening in on people's conversations. A good listener, indeed.

Both women had heard of Sylvia Cobblepot. Knew she was protective of her people. Tough, but fair. Delilah and Brittany had both come to the club, Lean on Vee's, thinking it was still owned and run by Fish Mooney. A year spent outside of Gotham made all the difference, and they were surprised to learn that the Umbrella Boy's squeeze had been running things. Delilah and Brittany were at first surprised and disappointed….but Sylvia had something of a reputation that proceeded her. In many ways, she was compared to Fish Mooney. Both management style, and charisma.

And they loved her for it.

Needless to say, both girls were eager to prove themselves. Delilah was an immediate success. Brittany….was still learning.

The ladies, Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Mr. Bell made up Sylvia's inner circle. The others….for now….would have to prove their loyalty, for Sylvia was not so quick to trust. At least, not anymore.

"This is it?" Sylvia asked quietly, flipping through the thick lined papers within the black book.

"It's been updated," Mr. Bell said lowly, nodding behind her. He faced the fireplace, holding out his hands to the heat, rubbing them briskly. "The numbers are as high as they've ever been."

"I'm sure they were supposed to be higher."

"After the ordeal with Galavan, things have been unsettled."

"I took care of Galavan. Things should be settled by now."

"People are talking, my lady." Mr. Bell sighed disappointedly. "Trying to stir the pot."

"Who?"

"Delilah has the names. I just know there are rumors. You'd want to crush the rumors—that is why you're having the meeting, aren't you?" Mr. Bell asked, turning to her, forgetting the heat.

"One of many reasons." She answered dully.

Sylvia scooted her chair back. Mr. Bell pulled it to the side so she freely stood and he scooted it back into the table. He watched her briefly pace the floor; her flats were noiseless along the wooden tiles. Wearing a black knee-high skirt, fish net stockings, laced up boots, and a V-neck black camisole, Sylvia's naked arms and legs provided a noticeable exposure—but Sylvia was very well guarded. Despite the cool air inside the mansion, Sylvia was hot under the collar (literally and figuratively speaking).

"Galavan punched a hole through the empire, big enough for other people to jump in and try to take a part for themselves," Sylvia said coolly. She lazily picked up the glass of tea, drank from it for a moment, and placed it back on its wooden coaster.

"You're bringing that control back, then?"

"Yes."

"By having a meeting?"

"By establishing new expectations," Sylvia answered stoically. After, she ran her tongue over her teeth, adding, "You put way too much sugar in this."

"I can make another."

"No need. It's fine." She waved her hands at him dismissively but gave him an apologetic smile. "I never specified how much sugar to put in it. It's delicious, either way."

"What's with the grimace then?"

"I can taste it on my teeth."

"Are you sure you don't want me to remake it?"

"No, this will do." Sylvia insisted pleasantly. She took another sip. "It's probably better I have the extra sugar. I feel like it's going to be a long day."

"The meeting is all that's on your agenda for the day, my lady."

"Yes, but that's my morning."

"Meaning?"

"I have a meeting with the commissioner," Sylvia answered, a tinge of annoyance barely grazed the surface, but Mr. Bell, who knew his protege, heard it in her voice. "He's been insistent. I meet with him in the afternoon."

"I can prolong the meeting."

"Don't bother. After I speak with the heads of the Families, I'll be talking to him. I've put him off for as long as I can—If I continue to do so, it'll just look like I've been avoiding him."

"It's a meeting about….?"

"His dirty cops."

"He only gets a 10% take. His cops personally get only what you allow them to receive. Those were the established terms," Mr. Bell reminded curiously. "What else is there to discuss? It'd be redundant to have the meeting. Are you sure you don't want me to go in your stead?"

"As charismatically capable you've proven to be, Mr. Bell, he's made it clear to me that he doesn't want to talk to you," Sylvia said, crossing one arm over her chest while the other lied on top of it as she held her glass. "He wants to talk to me. No one else."

"For?"

"He wants to renegotiate terms."

"Because of Galavan's interference?"

"No. The only thing Galavan has interfered with was Oswald's mind. Dangling Gertrud's life in front of him made him weaker. Easier to control. These people" (Sylvia gestured outside to the people who were waiting for her, and to imply to commissioner) "think that I'm weak….weak because I don't have Oswald with me. Bless their hearts—they're sorely mistaken."

Mr. Bell allowed a small proud smile to grace his rough features as he said happily, "I'm more than pleased to hear you say that."

Sylvia drank the rest of her tea, and handed the empty glass to him.

"A Queen is a Queen, with or without her King," Sylvia sighed. She glanced into the fire place and muttered, "Even if she never truly wanted the throne, she'd defend it, the King, and herself—right down to the bitter end."

"That's poetic." Mr. Bell offered, smiling sadly. "Shakespearean, really."

"Thank you. I made it up on the spot."

"Would you like another tea?"

"Please."

"Less sugar?"

"More of it, actually. That was pretty damn good."

"How about a lemon?"

"Don't bother with the lemon."

"Vodka?"

"Please, Monsieur."

Mr. Bell nodded with a sinful smile. He rounded the table, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Sylvia turned from the fireplace, looking to him in response.

"For what it's worth, I couldn't see anyone else that could do the job half as well as you could." Mr. Bell reassured.

"I can." She admitted quietly, smiling sadly as she glanced at the throne. "I can think of another person who could do this job with his hands tied behind his back."

"He's fine, I'm sure."

"I know he is." Sylvia replied, looking at Mr. Bell squarely in the eye. "But that doesn't keep me from worrying about him."

Mr. Bell was well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, French, German, and sign language. But for all his tactical advances, and gentlemanly persona, he couldn't find the right words to comfort his Mistress. Perhaps there was no room for comfort. Realizing this, Mr. Bell lifted the empty glass, saying, "I'll be getting that tea for you now, my lady."

"Merci."

Mr. Bell left shortly after her whispered thanks. Still, she continued to stare into the fireplace.

How many times had she come into this very room, and see Oswald doing this very thing? Staring into a fireplace, searching the glowing embers for an answer that wouldn't come. Her questions had been answered already, but that didn't stop her from searching for new ones—answers she wanted to hear, rather than the ones that she'd already accepted with great disappointment.

Running an empire wasn't easy, even with Oswald by her side. Or maybe, with her by his side. In all fairness, Sylvia never wanted to rule. She hadn't believed she could—running a club seemed far-fetched, but then she was given Mooney's club, and she'd run that sucker so well! Money was pouring in, the business was doing greater than ever, even when Mooney was running things.

Still though.

Delegating tasks to the underlings, walking around Gotham, doing rounds….that wasn't her cup of tea. Sylvia much preferred to be the one operating on the ground, not in a tower. Mr. Bell could offer her that reassurance, that she was doing a superb job at running things….to his credit, it helped knowing people were looking up to her, but it made the responsibility to never fail that much heavier.

"Come home, Oz." Sylvia mumbled, closing her eyes. One hand on the mantle, her thumb rubbing the white-painted, marble edges.

She couldn't care if he came home and she was arrested for harboring and abetting a known criminal. She'd gotten into worse scrapes than that, survived them, and was proud of it. Being away from him served to be a lot more painful than any sentence to Black Gate could have ever been.

"Mrs. Cobblepot?" squeaked a voice.

Sylvia blinked, straightened her back, and turned to see Brittany standing half-way between the two double doors that led to the living room. Her body from the waist up was leaned forward to talk to Sylvia privately, while the other half was planted firmly in the living room.

"Yes?" Sylvia asked.

"How much….How much longer are you going to be? They're getting impatient."

"Would it be too bold to tell them that I'm waiting for my glass of tea?" Sylvia said half-seriously.

Brittany blinked, uncertain whether Sylvia was being humorous or she was actually serious. The dilemma of laughing when she could have and laughing when she shouldn't seemed to give Brittany the twitches, because her left eye tweaked a little.

"I was joking," Sylvia reassured.

"Oh, ha…." Brittany nervously laughed. "Well, I…."

"Just let them in. Have the wolves come." She said, gesturing to her. "There's no point in making them wait any longer, is there?"

"I suppose not."

Brittany opened the doors. All of the families were there. However, because this was a meeting for only the Heads of the Families, the invited had only brought their bodyguards—that was about two people per Head.

The Andersons' Head was originally the Don, but because the Don was retiring soon, he'd allowed his son, Drake, to come for the meeting. He was a great deal taller than Sylvia—he was nearly six feet whereas she was barely 5 feet. He'd once tried crossing Sylvia before, and it provided a comedic scene that his family would never live down. Being yelled at halfway across the room by someone who was nearly half his size was a memory no one planned on forgetting anytime soon.

Drake Anderson was probably the most aggressive of the Five Families, and that was if you included the Maronis.

Since their boss had been shot dead in a garage by Fish Mooney, they had to scramble for the next made man. The lucky soul just so happened to be Sal Maroni's next kin, his niece, Maria. But Maria was a lot like Falcone's son in that regard. Like Mario Falcone, Maria insisted on not becoming a part of the trade. After Maria's declination, the job of being Don fell to Maroni's Uncle: Ron.

Just as the name suggested, the man was simple. Ron Maroni was pushing into his late forties, but thanks to a life history of smoking big, drinking big, and just general bad eating habits, he looked like a 50-year-old Semi-Truck tire: big and round. Compared to his brother, Ron wasn't a fella who could move very fast. For him, it was a bad thing; for Sylvia, it was an advantage. She needn't be so vigilant on his movements when he seemed to take a millennia just to say a few words.

For all of Salvatore Maroni's hotheaded talk, Ron wasn't as impetuous. He was just as civil, but calmer than the rest of his family. Another advantage, to say the least.

The head of the Dray Family was a sixty-year-old man, Max (Maximillian) Dray. A mane of gray hair that used to be there when he was a decade younger had now all but receded. His face was elastically long, eyes sunken in from years of stress. Aside from being mistaken for a Halloween decoration, he was a pleasant man to do business with. Out of the Five Families, the Drays were the most patient and civilized—even compared to Sylvia.

The Belichs (pronounced Bell-CHECKS) were of Russian and French descent. They were one of the two reasons why Sylvia had started learning French. She could speak their language, sure, but now she could hear what they were saying about her. It was also the same reason Oswald had learned the language. Head of the Family was Frenchman, Jock. His last name was so hard to say that Sylvia had just taken to calling him 'Monsieur Jock', or just 'Monsieur'. Leave the correct pronunciation and proper gentleman talk to Oswald, she thought. Jock was smooth talking, a sycophant. He was young, late twenties, wore a symbolic brown leather jacket, had a nicely shaven head, and always had a five o'clock shadow. Other than that, not a memorable guy.

The last Head of the Five Families was Isaac Paddock, a man (See a pattern here?). Isaac had to be one of the most intriguing bosses Sylvia had ever encountered. Contrary to the fact that Isaac looked like any other average man residing in Gotham, Isaac's men dressed in far fancier suits. At best, the Head of the Family wore jeans, a white shirt with a clip-on tie….and that was Fancy Isaac. His casual demeanor threw off a lot of unsuspecting people.

Forget the fact that this man was running one of the most reputable businesses on the coast. Forget that this man had once served under the President of the United States when he was still in the Air Force. Forget all of that.

The most intriguing fact about Isaac was that he was deaf. And he communicated in Sign Language. To keep things from getting spicy, Sylvia regularly spoke while she signed so all the parties in the Meeting would understand what was being said (or at least what was allegedly being said).

It wasn't a secret that Isaac looked on Sylvia with more favor. Even when Oswald was running things, the Paddock Head still favored Sylvia on a grander scale. After all, she'd gone above and beyond to make him feel included, learning his own language and culture—and also saved him some money since Isaac was paying out the nose to find a translator of his own.

Isaac was patient, calm, mostly obedient, and because he favored Sylvia over the rest, he did what he could to make sure she didn't encounter as many problems from his people as she did with the other families.

It made things easier, at least.

Now with all the Heads gathered in the room, and seated, Sylvia remained standing, glancing to the double doors for Chilly and Dagger to close them. They remained alert and vigilant, constantly searching the room for any antagonists.

Shortly after the doors were closed, Mr. Bell entered, looking less than happy that the door nearly slammed on his face. He strode through the room in bounding foot falls, and placed a fresh glass of tea on the table in front of Sylvia's spot; she smiled gratefully at him, although she remained standing.

The men greeted one another in that over-the-top friendly gesture: handshakes here, half-meaning hugs there.

"Gentlemen." Sylvia greeted, smiling at them all. "Before we begin, I must apologize for the grieving oversight. I know I've been putting you all off for a fair while. Let's just all agree that Galavan was a pain all of our asses. Now that's he's gone for good, we can continue working together as we always have."

"Working together?" Ron Maroni piped up, leading the other men in a titter of agreement. "When have we ever worked together?"

"You're alive, aren't you?" Sylvia reminded.

"Very much so."

"Then we've been working together." She said smoothly. "If we weren't, you'd be six feet under the ground."

"Is that a threat?"

"A promise, Mr. Maroni."

Ron Maroni looked at her with a cool facade, even though he knew she meant well. Before Sal's untimely—if not sudden—death, Sal's people left a bad taste in Sylvia's mouth. Twice, they'd sexually assaulted her, and twice, she'd made them pay for it. And while the bastards were dead and their carcasses had long been eaten away by moths and god-knows-what-else, Sylvia still shuddered in disgust at the sound of Maroni's surname.

Isaac Paddock signed, immediately pulling Sylvia's attention to him. Isaac looked a great deal concerned as he used his hands to communicate. He was a quick one, and Sylvia caught every word.

As she signed back, Sylvia answered: "I'm not angry. No. Galavan" (she finger spelled the names) "disrupted a lot of the businesses, but I think once people realize he's been taken care of, things will start going back to normal. Or" (she chuckled) "as normal as they can be in Gotham."

Isaac returned a sign, and Sylvia said gently, "I know. I hope so too."

"Have you met with the Commissioner yet?" Ron Maroni questioned.

"No. That's this evening." Sylvia returned.

Thankfully, Isaac wasn't getting lost in the translation. He could read lips.

"And what are you going to tell him?"

"What I'm telling you." Sylvia said calmly. "The Commissioner wants to renegotiate terms. He thinks that Galavan's intrusion—his whole thing with Bruce Wayne—has upset the foundation. He is wrong. I am prepared to tell him that the terms are as they stand, and if he wants to renegotiate, then he can retire. I'll be more than happy to talk to the next one that takes his place."

Ron Maroni said calmly, "He wants to talk about a bigger paycheck."

"What he gets from his dirty cops and from me is more than enough," Sylvia abstained.

"Ten percent," Ron chuckled darkly. "Ten percent. Do you know how long it took for us to get to that percentage. Hours, Sylvia. Hours."

"I'm not disagreeing, Mr. Maroni. The Commissioner is just looking after his people. With Gotham's new lunatics out to cause mayhem, I can't really blame him."

"Jerome certainly had them flying on the seat of their coattails," chuckled Maximillian Dray. He let out a cough, rubbing his elastic face momentarily, adding, "I apologize. I've been fighting a cold for the past month or so."

Suddenly, Drake Anderson stood, gaining everyone's attention, including Sylvia's. His abrupt movement made Mr. Bell cringe behind Sylvia, who gave him a meaningful glance. The gun that Mr. Bell was about to pull from the holster around his belt slacked back into its sheathe; everyone was tense—Mr. Bell was no exception.

"Something you want to say, Mr. Anderson?" Sylvia asked coolly.

"You've been putting us off for a while now, Sylvia. Me, included. I'm not talking just days, or weeks. You've been putting me off for months."

"I suppose I should apologize for that?"

"I think you should." Drake insisted, gesturing violently to her. "You've been dodging me."

"Not that it's any of your business, but I've had a lot on my plate," Sylvia said firmly. "I'd invite you to run this thing yourself, but I'm sure you'd leap at the opportunity, wouldn't you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Drake strode around the table, towards Sylvia. Dagger and Chilly cocked their shot guns, warning him. Drake heard the sound, glanced over his shoulder at the massive body guards then slowly glared at Sylvia. He put his hands on the table, bearing his weight.

"There's talk, Sylvia. Lots of talk."

"Talk about what?" Sylvia questioned. "Everyone in Gotham is hungry. I know that. People want to take my place, just as they all wanted to take on Falcone. If you're applying for this job, young Anderson, you might want to consider other half-time jobs before taking on this one."

"You don't think I'm capable?"

"I know you're not capable."

Drake bared his teeth, and pointed harshly at her, "You don't know half of what I know."

"Well, you're wrong." Sylvia answered. "Mr. Bell?"

Mr. Bell left shortly through the double doors as though on cue. He returned with a vanilla-colored envelope, handing it straight to Sylvia, who took it gingerly and thanked him.

"What is all this now?" Ron Maroni questioned.

"Proving a point." Sylvia answered politely.

Ron Maroni nodded, and he remained content to sit and watch the display. Drake, however, looked punitive. His lips twitched, trying to move into syllables that could then produce sounds of dismay, but none came out. Sylvia held the file out to him, showing the profile of Detective James Gordon. This display made Drake's face become a shade of gray.

"You've been trying to get this," Sylvia said darkly. "Haven't you?"

"No."

"No?" Sylvia repeated incredulously. She stood. "Not a month ago, shortly after I declined your request to see me, you put one of your men up to the challenge of breaking into my office and getting this file on my brother. Yes, Drake, I know it was you."

Drake frowned saying, "You're paranoid."

"May be," Sylvia agreed. "But I have good reason to be. After all, you hired your men to break into my office. You have been trying to find dirt on my family to use against me...even though blackmail never suited you. I bet it was your father that came up with the idea, huh? You are the only person who seems to have a problem with the way I run things."

Sylvia handed the file back to Mr. Bell.

Drake breathed in deeply through his nose and out of his mouth, glancing at his fellow Families but realizing none were going to stand up and take his side. Quite the opposite; most of them looked livid that Drake had gone as far as breaking into Sylvia's territory to find a file on her own kin.

"Sure," Drake said finally, raising his hands in front of him. "You know, you caught me. You're right. I don't like you running things."

"Well, we can both agree on something now. But suck it up, buttercup."

"I'm sorry, but Madame, if you don't like running this operation," said Jock Belich calmly. "Why do you still continue to do so?"

"I have my reasons." Sylvia answered. "And for now, those reasons are mine and mine alone. Let's make something clear, shall we?—Sit down, Mr. Anderson—I am not going to give anything up. Not to you" (she gestured to everyone in the room) "and not to anyone else that thinks I'm weak. I've brought you here for one reason only. And that's to clear the air."

"Clear the air?" Max Dray repeated.

"Figuratively speaking, of course." Sylvia said with a small smile.

"That's disappointing," Max Dray returned. "The Smog is killing my lungs."

"Yeah, no kidding," chuckled Jock Belich. "I can't ever tell if it's fog or smog…."

Drake Anderson mumbled, "Fucking weather talk…."

Sylvia continued calmly, "I will do my best to accommodate all of you. But if you want to maim anyone, kill or kidnap—what have you—I need to be notified. Especially if it concerns matters with the GCPD." Sylvia glowered pointedly at Anderson. "Am I clear?"

There was a mumble of agreement.

"Any questions?" Sylvia offered. "Statements, complaints, equivocations?"

Everyone shook their head.

"You're all free to leave then."

The double doors opened and mostly everyone left. Sylvia smiled when Isaac Paddock remained. Although, her happiness faltered when she saw just how concerned he appeared. She approached him.

Slowly, he signed to her.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself, signing back as she said, "I'm doing as well as I can. Oswald" (she spelled his name with her fingers) "has been gone for a month.'

Isaac frowned and signed to her, 'I'm sure he's doing well. He's been through worse before. Please, though, talk with your hands. No one needs to hear us.'

She nodded.

Isaac said: 'What was the real reason you brought us here?'

Sylvia replied, 'I needed to know who was against me. Obviously, it's Drake Anderson. He's a pain in the ass.'

Isaac let out a smooth chuckle, patting Sylvia on the shoulder. He signed, 'My dear woman, that boy has always been like that. Aside from him, who do you believe is against you?'

Sylvia shrugged uncertainly.

Isaac glanced around the room, and he sent her the gravest of expressions. Sylvia furrowed her eyebrows curiously at him.

'There are rumors.' He signed. 'Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean.'

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Isaac touched her shoulder, insisting she listen to him.

Isaac signed more urgently, 'There's talk on the coast. They're going to recruit people, and once they get enough people, they will try to take over.'

Sylvia spoke calmly, forgetting her hands, "Tabitha is the reason Butch is the way he is. I doubt they'd be working together."

'You'd be surprised', Isaac returned. 'Love is a powerful thing.'

"Love is a powerful thing," Sylvia returned gently. "If it's reciprocated."

'I don't know how deep their love is...but I do know—for a fact—that they are working together. In whatever terms, it won't be good for you. Or any of us.'

Sylvia nodded in agreement while Isaac smiled sadly. He reached around and hugged her; she let him do so, but didn't return the display of endearment. He shook her hand; she shook it back, and he clicked his tongue; on command, his two associates followed him out of the mansion.

Gabe approached her from the sidelines, and said curiously, "What was that all about?"

"A conversation about the weather," Sylvia half-joked.

"Must be a bad one then," Gabe said.

Sylvia glanced at him, uncertain as to whether he was seriously playing dumb or just joining in on the inside joke. Earning not a helping clue from him, Sylvia assumed the best that he was joking with her. He could be a source of entertainment, even if things were looking down.

As the Families dispelled, Sylvia drank her tea. She felt a hand on her shoulder; she turned and smiled when she saw that it was Victor Zsasz.

"I guess I missed the show," Victor drawled monotonously.

Sylvia placed her cup of tea on the table, saying, "There wasn't any show."

"True. But anytime you give it to the youngest Anderson, I think it's pretty funny," Victor admitted, smirking at her. He leaned against the fireplace, in his black attire with his arms crossed over his chest. "How did it go?"

"Like you said it would." Sylvia answered.

"Did he 'fess up?"

"He folded like a towel."

"I'm not shocked." Victor sighed, rolling his eyes. "The man's a weasel."

"I agree. And thanks again," Sylvia said, grinning widely. "I figured he was another who was trying to weaken me, but I had to be sure."

"You've never needed validation before doing something." Victor chortled. "Having a little self-doubt, are you?"

Sylvia lifted a marble statue from the mantle, took the hundred dollar bill that was underneath, and handed it to Victor, saying, "Normally, Oswald would be here to tell me whether I should or should not kill. With him gone, I need to be more certain of things. Here…."

"You're paying me?" Victor asked incredulously, looking at the money.

She nodded. "It's the agreed amount. You broke into my office on a day I wasn't expecting you to."

"Because you asked me to."

"And I'm giving you something for helping me out."

"I thought I was just doing you a favor, but thank you" (he pocketed the cash). "You know, you could have just told Anderson that someone broke into your office….without having someone actually break into your office."

"I wouldn't have been nearly as pissed off."

"You could have lied. Gotten away with it."

"Yes, I could have," said Sylvia, shrugging a shoulder carelessly. "But the emotion wouldn't be there."

Victor took a seat in Sylvia's (and what could be Oswald's) chair, sitting in it backwards. He grinned up at her when she stood in front of him; her back to the fireplace, her eyes meeting his directly.

"He admits to doing something he knows he didn't do," Victor said lazily. "Sounds like someone has a guilty conscience."

"He may never have done it, but he's thought about doing it."

"Just to get his hands on Jim's folder?"

"Mm-hm."

"It wouldn't help him."

Sylvia chuckled, "I know, right? Half of the crap Jim has done isn't even written down."

Victor watched Sylvia move throughout the room. She was searching for something. As though he read her mind, Victor called her name; she turned and he threw a pack of cigarettes to her.

"Thanks," Sylvia said gratefully, breathing out a deep sigh. "Mr. Bell has taken to hiding them from me."

"Can't say I blame him. You've been going through those pretty fast."

"Not without good reason."

"Have you tried just killing someone? That's what I normally do when I feel tense." Victor offered. "Well…." He smirked. "That and a few other things."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Victor." Sylvia chided, but she had a hard time suppressing her own smile. "If I could, I'd kill a lot of people, but I'm flying below the radar at the moment. And sex is off the table."

Victor shrugged, saying, "Well, if you're ever taking volunteers…."

"I'll be sure you're no where near me."

Victor and Sylvia exchanged knowing smiles.

Sylvia pulled a stick from the pack, placing it between her lips. She handed the pack to Victor, who took it gracefully and placed it inside his inner pocket. He never smoked a cigarette in his life; he just liked having them in any case he needed to assuage his work-wife of the more minor conflicts in her life—like having no cigarettes. She placed the cigarette briefly against the flames in the fireplace and when the embers smoked, she withdrew it and took a long, deep drag, smiling a little when the nicotine filled her system.

"Have a seat, Liv. Take a breath," said Victor as he stood from the chair he was sitting on so she could have her seat back. It was his turn to lean against the fireplace.

His laugh sobered as she did.

"So…." Victor began. "Breaking into your office was easy enough a task. What's next?"

"Nothing for you, at this moment."

"Drake admitted to conspiring against you. That warrants a killing, doesn't it?"

"So eager," Sylvia teased. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Victor accepted her soft criticism, however cared to emphasize: "But he is a problem."

"Yes. He is."

"So?"

"'So' nothing. I could strip him down, show him what I have on him, but that'll only cause the other families to become paranoid—and the Andersons will grow bitter. Bitter enough to hold up arms and come after me. And I don't need that kind of toxicity just yet. I don't need another gang war. I've already been through one of those, and it wasn't pleasant."

"So you're not worried about Anderson? 'For the moment'. Got it. But I saw you miming with Isaac Paddock. Wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"The weather."

"I call 'bullshit'," Victor declared. "Paddock's smart. For one thing, he has no ears" (he touched his own) "so he's observant."

Sylvia remained silent, taking another long drag of her cigarette. She flicked the ashes into the tray in front of her while the hitman maintained nonchalance. It was a known fact that the two of them used to conspire together; once upon a time, they were contract buddies. They shared a work relationship, and that friendship had been established and deeply rooted. It was only a matter of time before Sylvia confessed to what was really eating her on the inside. Victor was patient enough to wait.

"He told me a rumor." Sylvia finally spoke.

Victor sat down beside her, in one of the chairs, scooting it forward to the table.

"Rumors are fun," Victor said with a hungry gaze. "What has he heard?"

"Tabitha Galavan."

"The sister?"

"Mm-hmm. Her and Butch. They're trying to recruit people, and then—allegedly – they'll come for me."

"Galavan and Gilzean," chuckled Victor. "That's not a match made in heaven."

"I wouldn't have believed it. But considering the source…."

"Yeah, Paddock isn't one for gossip."

"Yeah, and he wouldn't have told me if he didn't think it was true."

"Can't really say it is true until you see it for yourself," Victor reminded. "You know Gotham."

"Better than anyone, I daresay."

"So what's the plan for them?"

"I don't have one."

"I have one," Victor suggested.

"You can't kill them."

"It'd save you a lot of time and energy."

"Yes, but it would also make me look like a paranoid psychopath if I just killed everyone."

"Liv, Tabitha Galavan killed your mother-in-law, and Butch Gilzean is….well, Butch Gilzean." Victor mused carefully. "Murder seems justifiable."

"I'm not looking for justice right now. I'm looking for balance. For control. That's what I need. The others can wait."

Victor sighed, "Come on, Liv. Let me go to work. I can clear this up for you really quick. You know me."

"I said the others can wait. Don't do anything." Sylvia ordered.

Victor sat back in his chair: "You're a lot less fun since you've taken over."

"Trust me. If I could give it up knowing the empire wouldn't crumble under someone else's control, I would do it in a hot second."

"Anderson seems like he's prepared to take it over."

"Anderson is hotheaded."

"So are you."

"I'm hotheaded but smart," Sylvia reminded, winking at him.

"You never used to be so tactical."

"You're right. I have Oswald to thank for that. He's taught me a great deal."

"Hopefully, he's taken a few things from you too."

"Such as?"

Victor smirked, "Killing people in general."

"He's killed people before."

"His killing people isn't the same." Victor said, sounding disappointed. "He does it out of impulse."

"So do I."

"But you do it beautifully. It's an art show; you are the artist, the blood of your enemies is the medium, and Gotham….that's your canvas."

"Stop buttering me up, Zsasz. We're not having sex."

Victor stood up, shrugging carelessly as he said, "Worth a shot."

He moved behind her chair and kissed her briefly on the exposed skin of her shoulder. She smiled at him.

"If you need anything, call me." Victor offered. "You know where to find me."

"Thank you."

"No problem, Liv."

He patted the same shoulder and then left the mansion, leaving Sylvia alone to gather her thoughts. She put the cigarette out, throwing it into the fireplace. The embers barely recognized the intrusion, only glowing a minute brighter before dulling back to its usual orange flame.

Tabitha Galavan and Butch Gilzean. If they dared to contest her for the empire that she and Oswald had built, let them. Sylvia would be more than happy to give them a taste of their own medicine.