7. The Empire Is Dead, Long Live The Empire
[February 14, 2015]
Carla Viti was a plump, comfortable-looking woman whose round face used to give her a cheery look. Since losing her son, Johnny Viti, last Halloween, anger and drink had taken its toll upon the woman: her face was pale and doughy rather than robust, deep scowl lines had been etched at the corners of her darkly-painted lips, and her big brown eyes were glossy from drunkenness. The woman scowled at her old face in the mirror after she made it up as best as she could, blaming Carmine for it. She blamed Carmine for her son's death, for her sorrow, for her pain, and why shouldn't she? All of this was her brother's fault, for being such a soft, stupid man.
I don't run things like this in Chicago, Carla thought as she struggled her girth into black slacks. She buttoned them up and slipped on a crisp but plain white shirt. She was in no mood for the soft fabrics and furs that she normally attired herself with. The Falcone name is still strong in Chicago, and why? Because of me, that's why! Always been just a woman, just Carmine's sister—ha! Like Sofia is just his little girl? Please! The Falcone women have always had more balls than the men. They're too used to being perceived as strong, that's it. They're spoiled by the respect they think that dangling thing between their legs commands. Well, I have news for them, the poor things: there are a lot of men in the world now, and most of them are meaner, smarter, and hungrier than them! My Johnny was never spoiled, he knew he had to fight for his strength and the boy fought, God rest his soul.
Carla wiped a tear delicately from the corner of her eye, so as not to smudge her mascara. She took a deep breath and poured herself a glass of the first bottle that came to hand at her bar cart. Johnny was her only son, and what a son he had been: big, strong, maybe not too bright but he made up for that with his loyalty. She would never forgive her brother for letting him be killed by that Holiday freak, or for letting that same freak run around for so long. True, Carmine had lost a son by now too, but that did not even the scales, that was only another unnecessary tragedy.
Carla drove herself through Gotham impatiently. She never liked Chicago, ever since marrying a local boss out there to bring a new ally to the expanding Falcone family way back when. Yet upon returning to Gotham, Carla had been shocked to find that it was dirtier and eviler than Chicago could ever aspire to be. Corruption was rampant in Chicago (which was good for her business interests) and the people were gun-crazy, but there was an extra layer of malice in Gotham's denizens. The criminals in Gotham did not follow any rules, did not have a single shred of respect, they were like animals. Violence was a business, like any other, and it should be regulated, taxed, controlled by cause and effect, not unleashed like the wrath of God on the whims of circus freaks like the Joker and this Holiday.
(Bam!)
(Bam!)
Carla had been doing a lot of shooting lately. She was in the basement shooting range her brother's people used for practice at one of Carmine's gentleman's clubs. She went here almost every day, imagining that the paper target was Holiday. Sometimes she saw Carmine in the faceless outline, as well.
"Carla."
Carla did not turn around, thinking that she might shoot Carmine if she saw his face in actuality.
"Carmine."
(Bam!)
"Why are you doing this, Carla?" Carmine asked, putting a hand on his sister's shoulder. "Carla, look at me."
Carla set the gun down. Carmine picked it up.
"Are you sick in the head, Carla?" Carmine asked, not unkindly. "Why would you use this gun?"
Carla snatched the .22 caliber pistol away from him.
"Because I am going to find this Holiday mafankulo and kill him with it," Carla said. She lifted the gun up before her face, the smell of smoke still wafting from it. "I am going to shoot Holiday the way he shot my son."
"Carla—"
"What? Should I just sit around and do nothing, Carmine?" Carla asked furiously. "Should I let all of our people be picked off one by one? Should I do nothing, like you are?"
"Holiday is not … a paper target!" Carmine shouted with uncharacteristic fury. He slammed a fist down on the counter. "Do you think that if I had that son-of-a-bitch in front of me, I wouldn't kill him? I would strip a piece of him off for each man I've lost, and a dozen more for my Alberto! Do you think that I wouldn't do something if I could?"
"You CAN!" Carla shouted up at her much taller brother. She gave him a hearty shove. "You can, you can act like a man, like papa always told you, Carmine! Do you need Holiday wrapped up like a neat little present? FIGHT BACK!"
"I AM!"
Their shouts echoed around the basement, and the silence that followed was fraught with anger. Carmine drew a breath to collect himself, straightening his jacket and smoothing back his hair.
"I was going to hit Maroni before they arrested him," Carmine said. "It has to be his people behind this thing. Without Sal, they're weak now. I'll strike as soon as this new holiday is over. But tonight, Carla, mia sorella … stay inside tonight. Please. Come to the apartment with Sofia and I. Let us be safe."
"Let us hide from Holiday, you mean," Carla said bitterly, shaking him off. "What kind of man are you?"
"A man that has overestimated his empire," Carmine admitted. "Gotham City has gotten away from me, I admit. I thought that the rational people could hold this place together. We have a rule, even Sal follows it: no freaks. But if Sal has created this Holiday menace, then the order has fallen. Evolve or die, isn't that what they say?"
"What are you saying, Carmine?"
"I'm saying that if striking Maroni's people doesn't work, then perhaps it may be time to consider another strategy," Carmine said. "Do not worry, sister. I will do whatever I must to end this Holiday menace, even if it means fighting fire with fire."
"You do that, Carmine," Carla said. "I don't care if you have to burn the city down. You do it."
Luis Castell was a wreck. After being exposed by Selina Kyle, he had driven as fast as he could to Gotham City. Panicking at the idea of having an enemy as powerful as Bruce Wayne, Luis had taken what he could from his brownstone and run to the Falcone organization. He had been locked in an abandoned tenement building for a day now, with only an old mattress, radio, and a bathroom he felt he should don a biohazard suit before entering.
All I've accomplished, all I've worked for, and I end up like this, Luis thought miserably, watching roaches crawl up the opposite wall. I used a good man, an innocent man that only wants to better Gotham, and for what? To appease the goddamn Falcone family! I say it's to save my parents, but who am I kidding? They won't let my parents live as witnesses to their crimes. They won't let me live once my usefulness dries up. We're all already dead, for no more reason than that Falcone needed a new tool. I should have let them kill my parents and I before letting it go this far. I would be dead and that terrifies me, but I'd rather have died a decent man than become this rat.
The door opened. Luis was hugging his knees to his chest, but he lifted his face from his arms now. Sofia Gigante blocked most of the sunlight dully filtering into the room, her shoes clomping loudly on the old floorboards. Luis did not stand, did not move. Sofia knelt before him, looking like a gorilla hunching next to a small dog.
"You're not looking yourself, Luis," Sofia said, still using the accent on his name mockingly. "What happened?"
Luis stared at her ugly face, washes of hatred flowing through him dully. He had a very clear vision of taking a sharp object and putting it through her eye before using it to slice her throat from ear to ear. He thought of his mother, so strong but so warm, and wondered how a woman could be colder than so many men. It was a stupid thing to think, he knew, but there was a deeply ingrained expectation of a maternal instinct, some spark of warmth that Luis knew men were lacking. There was none of it in Sofia, however, not a shred of sympathy or mercy. It had nothing to do with gender, Luis realized, but simple, basic humanity. There was nothing human in Sofia's eyes when she looked at him.
Sofia was merely amused. She had been taught very early on what made a man, and Luis had none of the masculine stuff in him. She had targeted Luis simply because of what he was: a pompous, righteous idiot who had more interest in his designer suits than helping his people, a so-called man that did not even have the fortitude to desire a woman properly.
I was never much of a woman, Sofia thought, but I am still a woman. I'm not one of those butch whores that is too cowardly to find a man. If I could do that much, this mewling little coward has no excuse to be such a bitch.
"I did what I could with Bruce Wayne," Luis said. "What can I say? He got tired of me. You know how these entitled heirs are."
Sofia had to allow that much was true. Still, she wrapped a hand around Luis's throat, taking a perverse pleasure in seeing the man's eyes widen in fear. He grabbed her hand, but both of his hands barely covered her own.
"And all the money you spent trying to seduce him?" Sofia asked. "Did my family get nothing for that cost?"
"Urk—no," Luis gasped. "No, he signed it! [Cough] Bruce signed the bank papers! He retracted his vote!"
Sofia let him go. Luis fell to his knees, rubbing his throat and choking.
"Really?"
"Yes," Luis rasped. He reached into the pockets of the coat he had hung on a broken radiator and tossed a stack of papers at her. "He signed them the day before he decided that he had had enough of me. I left before he could take them back. Look at the last page, you'll see, that's his signature. Your father will be able to have his seat on the bank's board now, Bruce Wayne was the only one holding the others against him."
Sofia read through the documents and spent a minute staring at Wayne's signature. She folded them and put them in her own pocket.
"All right, Luis, that's a start."
"A start?" Luis exclaimed. "Are you kidding me? Bruce Wayne will be furious at me for getting that signature out of him! The money I spent, that was because I drugged him! I manipulated him! HIM! The most powerful man in Gotham! He'll be after me! Why do you think I'm here?"
"So what?" Sofia asked. "You think this is enough? You think I'm done with you?"
"I can't give you anything else," Luis said. "Wayne will probably file charges against me. I called the DA's office to take emergency leave, but I'm finished in Gotham. I'm done."
"What can Wayne prove?" Sofia shrugged. "You're fine."
"I can't let him find me," Luis stressed. He hated himself for it, but the pleas poured out of his mouth before he could stop them, "Please, Ms. Falcone, please! Let my parents go. I'll go with them, we'll leave the country."
Sofia looked at him. It was a good time to kill the ADA and his parents, to make a clean break. She knew that Luis despised her, and she did not blame him for it. The longer an enemy lived, the greater his threat to you became. Yet despite her derision of the man, Sofia almost sympathized with him. Even now at his lowest, Luis held his face up, kept his eyes clear and cold, tried to cling to some semblance of pride. She thought that if it were only his own life at stake, he would defiantly let his pride lead him to an honorable end. Seizing his parents had been a stroke of brilliance, the only weak spot that Luis would give up even pride to protect.
"Not yet."
Luis opened his mouth, then closed it. He sat back, hugging his knees tightly as rage blazed in his eyes. Sofia enjoyed seeing him react, she understood now why cats toyed with mice before eating them. If she were not in love with Sal Maroni, she thought she might have enjoyed batting Luis about in her bed. She could never respect him, but he was attractive, and the idea of dominating a man sometimes tickled her imagination …
"You don't have any of that pheromone poison in you now, do you, Luis?"
"No, why?"
"Just wondering," Sofia said. She stood. "Come on. Stand up. Let's get you out of here."
"Why?" Luis asked suspiciously. "Where are we going?"
"To my father's building," Sofia said. "I might have a use for you again. Until then, you'll lie low with our people."
Luis tried to work up the nerve to make a stand and force her to kill him, but he could not. It looked so easy in fiction, to put your honor and faith about you like armor and walk willingly into death. In reality, Luis's internal organs were twisting painfully and his heart was racing at an unhealthy pace, his skin had broken out into a cold sweat, and fear had seized every nerve ending in his body. Luis was mentally ready to die, but his body was screaming out for more life: his lungs sucked down air in a pant, his stomach cried out for food, his heart ached with the ridiculous desires to see daylight or rain or any element that would tether him to the living world. He wanted to live, and nothing else seemed quite so important as that.
How easy it had been to stand up to criminals when they were chained and subdued in the courtroom. How easy it was to say that he did not care about the death threats when no one had acted upon them. Was morality so thin that it evaporated in the face of survival? In the end, were humans nothing more than animals scrabbling at the gates of life, snapping at each other for crumbs of security?
Maybe all those boys I grew up with were right, Luis thought as he submissively trailed after Sofia. The boys that swore to get power through the barrel of a gun, the thugs and the gangsters and all of them … were they right? I thought that they were chasing false idols, that morality and respect were the only true paths out of the self-defeating spiral of urban Darwinism. They said I snubbed them, and maybe I did. I did think I was somehow better, more knowing, more decent. But I'm nothing. Good men are false coin in Gotham City.
Luis reached into Sofia's coat on the street. He took the gun from her holster, clicked off the safety, and put it to his temple. Sofia looked mildly impressed—before she elbowed him in the forehead and knocked him out.
"At least he tried," Sofia told the Falcone thugs standing in front of her car. "That's something, right?"
Sofia picked Luis up herself, threw him in the car, and shut herself in. She shook her head at the unconscious man, ruffling his silky black hair a little, thumbing some blood off the gash his fall to the pavement had cut into his forehead. She was reminded suddenly of her younger brother, Alberto, who had always been smaller than her.
Sofia turned her face to the window, though her hand absently stroked Luis's hair. She had not mourned her brother as a woman should, throwing herself into plotting revenge against Holiday and her organization's machinations. She would not mourn now, would not even let herself cry, but she felt the hole burrowing deep into her heart. She had held Alberto like this when they were very young, before her father had forbidden her from babying him. It was maudlin, holding this stranger and thinking of her brother, but here she was.
All we did was try to protect Alberto, the way Luis's parents left their country to protect him, Sofia thought. Both boys are going to end up dead in the same river, though. It's a cold world, a cold, hard world.
Bruce Wayne did not intend to let the Holiday killer strike again on Valentine's Day. He woke up early and made preparations for the day and night in the Cave over breakfast. He lamented the two weeks that Luis had cost him, but he had no time to confront the ADA over that today. Despite his many personal concerns, he had minimal time to deal with them if he wanted the time to catch Holiday.
One personal matter did hold his attention. He looked up Bobby's address in Gotham and had Alfred drive him to the building. He was buzzed up by his friend. Bobby's loft took up the entire top floor of the renovated old building, looking imperiously out at the city without causing the vertigo that the newer skyscrapers did. The apartment was decorated tastefully, modern with touches of Art Deco and using the same sparse palette that the Black Glove used.
The shower in one of the bathrooms was running, but Bobby appeared from the bedroom. He was rubbing his eyes with a hand, apparently having just woken up, and wore only a rather short dark purple silk robe. The sight of his ex-lover nearly naked made Bruce's lonely plans for Valentine's Day feel emptier than they already did.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Bobby grumbled, stomping over to the kitchen. "What do you want?"
"I wanted to talk to you," Bruce said. "About this man you're seeing, Simon Hurt."
"What? Daddy Bruce doesn't approve?" Bobby scowled as he slammed cabinet doors open and close in his quest to make coffee. "Save it, Bruce, I don't want to hear it."
"Simon Hurt didn't exist ten years ago," Bruce said. "It's an alias, a false identity. I couldn't find anything about who he was or where he came from."
"He isn't the first mysterious man I fell for," Bobby said. He met Bruce's eyes. "Or the first liar."
"So it's fine for Dr. Hurt to lie to you for no reason at all, but not for me to keep a few secrets to protect you?"
"Simon told me that he was an orphan, all right?" Bobby said. "He doesn't like to talk about his past because no one wanted him, no one took him in. He changed his name to make a new start for himself after graduating from college. He didn't lie to me about his past."
"Then who was he?" Bruce asked. "Before?"
"Who cares?" Bobby shrugged. "I'm with him now, and I'm happy with him. I'm sorry if you can't stand to see me happier with him than I was with you, but you're just going to have to deal."
Bruce turned him to himself by the arm. Bobby glowered at him sullenly, but he did not resist. Bruce looked at his pupils, then lifted up the back corner of his robe. His pupils were contracted, and Bruce could see the distinctive linear welts of a belting on his upper thigh.
"Are you happy, Bobby?" Bruce asked. "Or are you just staying too high to feel again?"
Bobby hit him off and finished battling his espresso machine to get a cup. He did not offer Bruce anything.
"You were doing well the last time I saw you," Bruce said. "You had gotten HalloTech under control and you were running the Black Glove. What happened to you?"
"What happened? What happened?" Bobby echoed incredulously. "I watched my father put himself into cryogenic sleep to preserve his life, if it even can be preserved! I had to lose the last piece of family that I had, and where were you, Bruce? Where were you?"
Bobby slammed down his cup so hard that Bruce was surprised that it didn't shatter. There was so much anger and hatred in his eyes that Bruce scarcely recognized his friend. There was something off about him, an immaturity that went beyond even his usual.
"You've always left me when I needed you the most," Bobby said. "You're just like mom and dad, you're never there when I need you!"
"Bobby, calm down," Bruce said uneasily. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I didn't know."
"Well you should have!" Bobby shouted at him. "You should have, Bruce. You know everything, right? You can find out anything! You just didn't bother to check on me."
"I'm here now."
"I don't want you here now," Bobby said. "My life has nothing to do with you. I don't want to see you anymore."
"Robert—"
"Go away!" Bobby shouted. "I don't care what you think about me or my life anymore, Bruce. I just want you to leave me alone."
Simon Hurt had come out of the bathroom, fully bathed and dressed in a smart slate gray suit. He crossed the open loft to the kitchen and put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. He seemed protective enough of Bobby, but Bruce did not trust the inexplicable hatred that flashed in Simon's eyes when he met Bruce's gaze.
"Are you all right?" Simon asked.
"No," Bobby said, gripping the man's arm. "I don't know why I let him up. I'm sorry."
"I think you should leave," Simon told Bruce.
"This has nothing to do with you," Bruce said coldly. "What are you giving my friend? He's stoned almost out of his mind, isn't he?"
"Bobby is in therapy with me, and his prescriptions are none of your business," Simon said, equally cold. "He's a grown man, he doesn't need your approval."
"He isn't acting like a grown man," Bruce said. "What are you giving him?"
"What's the matter, Wayne?" Simon asked, possessively holding Bobby to his side. "He can play the child for you, but not for me?"
"All I've ever done is protect him," Bruce said. He turned to Bobby. "You know that, Robert."
"All I know is that you've hurt me, again and again," Bobby said. "Go away, Bruce. I don't want to see you. I'm tired of being controlled and hurt by you. I don't love you anymore, I … I hate you. I hate you for what you've done to me."
"How long are you going to use me as an excuse to ruin your own life?" Bruce asked him. "You can't keep blaming your mother, your father, me, anyone that you can! You're choosing to live like this, no one's making that choice for you, no one is forcing you to be anything that you don't want to be."
"Fine, so it's my choice," Bobby said. "If you have any bit of respect for me, if you ever cared about me at all, you'll at least respect that."
Not having the time or patience to go around in the circles Bobby dragged every argument through, Bruce turned to Simon. It took a great deal of restraint not to tear his hands off of Bobby and punch the smug smile off of his face.
"He's a recovering addict, he shouldn't be medicated," Bruce told Simon. "I don't care if it is my business or not, if you hurt him, I'll end you."
"He'll never hurt me the way you have," Bobby murmured. "You're the only one that could ever mess me up that much, Bruce."
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did," Bobby said hollowly. He turned his face from Bruce, repeating softly, "You did."
"I'm not going to tell you what to do with your life, Bobby," Bruce told him. "Just think about the son your father will want to see when he wakes up again."
Bobby looked uncertain for the first time. Though it pained him to do so, Bruce left him. Bobby had always been a needy boy, and he had a tendency to latch onto men with strength, even if they were arrogant. Bruce did not feel that he even had much right left to judge him, given the fact that he also had a tendency to treat his friend like a two-year-old at times. Simon was unprofessional at best, and if he was using illegal treatments, then Bruce would ruin him—later. For the moment, Bobby needed time to recover from temporarily (perhaps) losing his father, and Bruce needed time to find Holiday.
"Shall I drive you elsewhere, sir?" Alfred asked at the car.
"No," Bruce said. "Take the rest of the day off, Alfred. I'm going to call the other car around and suit up."
"So early, sir?"
"It isn't early," Bruce said grimly. "I only hope that it isn't too late."
"I'm sick of him!"
Bobby put his espresso cup out of its misery finally by flinging it across the kitchen. It hit the white marble counter and shattered. Simon rubbed his temple, trying not to let a headache overcome him. He had succeeded perhaps too well in regressing Bobby to a manageable state of immaturity, and he was growing tired of the man's histrionics.
"Forget Bruce Wayne," Simon said, taking up a dish towel to clean up the glass. "He only has the power to upset you if you give him that power. You never should have let him up."
Bobby went to get more coffee, but Simon stopped him. He brought him to the kitchen island and sat him on a stool, poured him a glass of water. When he was sure that Bobby was not going to smash this glass, Simon pressed a pill into Bobby's hand. Bobby tossed the pill into his mouth and washed it down.
"Come on, let's get you together," Simon said, taking him by the hand. "You have that meeting at the Black Glove today, remember?"
Bobby was still a little distracted by the unexpected visit from Bruce, but he let it go for the moment. Whatever the pill had been, it soon left him in a pleasantly numb state. Simon got him into a shower and helped him dress.
"I want you to come with me," Bobby said, brushing his thick brown hair back from his face. "You already know Cobblepot. I want you involved in our plans."
"I never intended not to be."
Bobby gave him a quizzical frown, but Simon only smiled at him. Shrugging the remark off, Bobby followed Simon out of the loft. They got into Simon's car and made the short drive down to the club.
Bobby hated it when the club was empty and quiet, and he saw that he was not the only one. His friends had music beating through the place, quieter than it played when the place was open but loud enough to give the place life. Roman Sionis was cuddling with his model girlfriend Circe on a lounge sofa, barely noticing Bobby's arrival. Oswald Cobblepot was at the table beside them, fondling a blonde's leg while he discussed things with a few of his lieutenants. Victor Zsasz was at the bar, drinking despite the early hour. Anton Knight was on the dance floor with his adopted sister, showing her around a few lethal martial arts moves.
"Guys, I thought I told you this wasn't a gym," Bobby called over.
"No, it's better," Natalia said cheerfully. She had her long black hair tied up and wore black athletic gear. She turned to the standing punching bag that they had brought onto the floor.
"Just make sure that thing is out of here before we open tonight," Bobby said. "The last thing we need is a dance-off turning into Mortal Kombat."
Soon, everyone was settled at a VIP table. It took some persuading and made Roman unhappy, but Bobby suggested that Circe leave, and Oswald insisted. Oswald sent his lieutenants and his escort away as well. Drinks were handed around the table, for anyone that was not opposed to drinking before noon—everyone took one.
"So, what brings us all together so early?" Natalia asked.
"I think that you all know that the Black Glove aims to be more important than any old night club," Bobby said. "Mr. Cobblepot has interests here, and will be a third owner once we manage to track down Thomas Blake and buy his shares back from him."
"So, this is a launching pad for the Penguin's empire, great," Zsasz said. "What does this have to do with us?"
"Whatever you want it to," Bobby said, turning to him. "Mr. Cobblepot, Roman, and I have invited you all here to be a part of the future we're starting here. As you all know, the old mob families of Gotham City are done: the Holiday killer is only the nail in their coffin. You've been bored, Victor, haven't you? Mr. Cobblepot thinks that you might want to try your hand at being his new enforcer."
"Really?" Victor said, eyes lighting up. He turned to Oswald. "Is that right?"
"You strike me as a man that would appreciate having a certain kind of outlet," Oswald told him. "Am I mistaken?"
"No, sir," Victor said. "Not at all."
Bobby took a key card out of his wallet and tossed it across the table to Victor. He picked it up and turned it over. The card was white, with the club name and a glossy graphic of a black glove reaching outward. Instead of merely stating the club's name, the writing beneath the glove stated, 'The Black Glove Society'.
"These cards will allow night and day access to every corner of the club," Bobby explained. "Only business associates will have them."
"Do we get a cute little card, too, Bobby?" Natalia asked.
"Everyone knows that the Knight family was a powerful organization once," Bobby addressed the Knight siblings. "With your father dead, I think that by now you both are aware of the kind of organization he built his fortune on?"
Natalia looked at Anton in concern. They shared an unspoken word with glances, then Anton spoke.
"Yes, we know," he said. "Our father was an associate of the Maroni family, before all the old families went to shit. But we don't have much of anything now, hardly enough money to maintain our lifestyle."
"You still own many key properties, and your name commands some loyalty among the old guard," Oswald pointed out. "I also hear that you've a very talented fighter, Anton, and that your sister is adept at handling finances. I could use the both of you, and the people you still have. All I ask is that you bring me your loyalty."
Bobby held up two cards in offering. The Knights shared another of those looks that made one think they were psychically linked, and then nodded. Anton took one card, and Natalia took the other, giving Bobby's cheek a kiss.
"Roman, Mr. Cobblepot, and I already have cards, of course," Bobby said. He removed the last extra card from his wallet. "I think that Simon should be a member of this society, as well."
"Hold on there, lad," Oswald said, snatching the card before Bobby could give it to Simon. "We're chums and all, Simon, but what exactly do you bring to this table?"
"You mean, other than my sparkling personality and good looks?" Simon chuckled. "The fact of the matter is that many of the most powerful and important people in Gotham are my patients. I bring influence, friendships, and, let's say, a certain insight."
"Dirty little secrets and bargaining chips, let's say," Oswald said in amusement. "I like it. All right, Dr. Hurt, we'll give you a go at it. There, now it's settled."
"The Black Glove Society," Bobby confirmed.
"So we're a society now," Zsasz said, tossing his card up and catching it. "Sounds classy."
"Classy enough to drink on," Oswald said. "Let's have a toast on it, shall we?"
Champagne was brought over and poured, glasses were raised.
"To the new order," Oswald toasted.
"To running the streets," Roman added.
"To taking down the old families," Bobby said. He thought and spitefully added, "And the Batman."
"To the Penguin's Empire," Zsasz chuckled.
They drank to their new start together, each dreaming of the place they planned to forge for themselves in the ruins of the mob families' war. We're vultures plucking flesh from a corpse, Bobby observed. The Falcone and Maroni families aren't even cold in their graves yet, and we're celebrating. We're sitting here celebrating so many people being killed, so much violence that will inevitably erupt when the Penguin cements his place in Gotham's underworld. We're drinking to the end of dreams … and the end of you, Bruce, the end of Batman.
Bobby emptied his glass and refilled it. I'm not afraid of you anymore, Bruce. I will certainly drink to that.
"Hear anything interesting?"
Catwoman jumped to her feet and whipped around, the claws sewn into her gloves arched like talons in the air. The shadows moved and then Batman stood before her. She remained wary, but lowered her hands. She turned down the long-range microphone that she had been listening to the activities inside the Falcone penthouse with.
"Not really," Catwoman admitted. "Have you happened upon anything interesting?"
"Not yet," Batman said. "You shouldn't be here. No one near the Falcones is going to be safe tonight."
Catwoman walked up to him, drawing a talon lightly down his chest. "Including you."
"I'm not afraid of Holiday," Batman said. He grabbed her wrist, holding her hand off of himself. "You should be."
"How do you know that I'm not Holiday?" Catwoman pointed out, snatching her hand away. She walked around Batman, looking him up and down. She could very well see the lines of Bruce Wayne's body beneath the suit, recognized the part of his face that was exposed, the blue, steely eyes beneath the mask. "I'm a woman, a .22 caliber pistol would fit my hand—" She took Batman's gloved hand into her own. "—don't you think? And I do have an interest in Carmine Falcone."
"You could be Holiday," Batman said, stopping her circling by gripping her shoulder. "What is your interest in Falcone?"
Catwoman said nothing, striding away from him. She put her goggles down over her eyes and peered into the Falcone penthouse window opposite her rooftop.
"Could it have anything to do with this?"
Catwoman turned to him, removing the goggles again. Her green eyes went wide and she snatched the object Batman had been holding out to her. She cradled the small gold locket in the palm of her hand, opening it and looking at the picture of a beautiful woman that shared her eyes.
"Where did you get this?" Catwoman hissed at Batman, drawing her whip. "Did you take it from me?"
"You dropped it," Batman said. "When you had the struggle at Bruce Wayne's manor."
Catwoman fastened the necklace around her neck, where it hung beneath the collar she wore.
"Your mother?" Batman asked.
"Yes."
Batman was decent enough not to voice the obvious conclusion. Selina was a bit amused to see that he shared her belief that knowing was enough.
"You're not Holiday," Batman said.
"How do you know?" Catwoman asked, not looking at him. "How could you possibly know?"
"You were dancing with Bruce Wayne at the Gotham Regal that night," Batman said. His voice softened as he added, "Selina."
Catwoman turned to him, smirking. She crossed her arms.
"And how do you know that?" she asked. "Batman?"
She thought that Batman's lips twitched with the urge to smile.
"I was in the neighborhood," was all he said.
Catwoman made a small, amused sound. She turned her head, touching her hood where it fell over her ear. She listened for a minute, then smiled ruefully.
"Well, while I've been trying to prove that I could be Holiday, Holiday has been giving me an alibi," she told Bruce. "Several of Maroni's top men have been shot outside his restaurant, by Holiday."
"Maroni's men?"
"I guess you've been watching the wrong building," Catwoman said, packing up her gear. "You'll have to leave Falcone to me, if you want to have any chance of catching Holiday."
"You should still stay away from Falcone," Batman told her.
"I'll take it under advisement," Selina lied. She stepped onto the ledge behind her effortlessly. "Ta, Bats."
Catwoman flipped back off the roof, falling down into the city. Bruce was uneasy leaving her free to provoke Falcone, but he had to trust her to take care of herself. He was losing Holiday, could feel him slipping through his fingers, and he was determined not to let the murderer escape to kill another day.
