Chapter Sixty-Nine: Isaac's Final Hours


"We have the introduction, then the dance number where we'll combine the samurai swords and fireworks…at that point, we'll just…Miss Sylvia? Miss Sylvia."

Sylvia startled, glancing up from her to-do list to see Jack and Joel Kabuki watching her expectantly. She shifted her gaze between them, apologetically smiling before her notebook was pushed to the side.

"I'm sorry," She said softly. "You were saying?"

Jack and Joel exchanged knowing glances.

Her agenda of things to accomplish had only lengthened since their last rehearsal; with the addition of Margaret Hearst wanting to interview Oswald at City Hall, the lack of communication between them and Edward Nygma, and Isaac Paddock's diagnosis worsening all over the period of a week, Sylvia was exceedingly distracted as of late. Forget the fact that their next performance would be on the same day that Hearst wanted to interview Oswald, so her nerves were wracked enough. Hearst proved to be one of those few who could dig a little too deeply, and the secrets Oswald and Sylvia kept were more than just a few skeletons in the closet.

There were several, in fact.

"We were just going over the script," Jack continued modestly. "Our introduction, then the theatrics."

"Fireworks," Joel chuckled. "By the time we're finished, the next round of entertainment that isn't us is going to bore the room."

"Well," Jack reminded, "We're on the second tier."

"First tier of entertainment, now that we're adding our swordsmanship. Benson ain't half bad of a teacher; it'd help if he didn't clench his butt so tightly."

The twins laughed at that while Sylvia half-smiled at their comedic back-and-forth. For all their efforts, the only response they received was her smile before she asked that they go off on their own and leave her in peace. Jack and Joel did as she asked, quickly leaving her office and, consequently, alone.

At least, for a little while.

Ten minutes later, Victor Zsasz was knocking on the door frame before he walked right in, hopping onto the armchair so his knees bent to lie on either arm as if to perch rather than to sit. He waited for her to acknowledge his sudden appearance with the ostentatious glance that he'd normally receive from Penguin whenever he just casually entreated upon his territory, but Sylvia simply looked up with a mild pleasantry.

"Got something to say, Precious?" Sylvia joked.

"Actually, I do."

Hearing his serious tone, she reclined back in her chair and, as with the twins, she'd pushed her notebook to the side.

Evidently, today was a wash where accomplishing her tasks were concerned. For his benefit, Sylvia gestured to the door and Victor quickly moved to close it upon her silent request; whatever their conversation included, it seemed like privacy was a necessity. In this case, Victor knew it to be true.

"What's on your mind?"

At her business-like tone, Victor smiled. As informal as she proved to be nine out of ten times, Sylvia's predilection to detect a solemn moment regardless of his usual monotonous facial expressions was admirable.

"We have to talk." Victor told her coolly, sitting in the armchair like a normal person, with one leg crossed over the knee.

"What about?"

"Your brother."

"Ah." Sylvia sat back in her chair, crossing her arms lazily over her chest. Despite her attempt to seem nonchalant, Victor heard the subtle catch in her voice. "I see."

"You know what I'm about to say."

"I do."

"And you know I'm good at what I do."

"Yep, and I know there's nothing I could say to make you change your mind. Nothing I could offer?"

Victor leaned forward: "Not unless you want to do the deed yourself."

"Impossible."

"Is it?"

"You think I could kill my own brother?" Sylvia asked dryly.

"Not for Falcone, but I have an idea that—given the right circumstances—you might."

"Well, there's your answer then."

"I just wanted you to know that it isn't a matter of 'if', but 'when'. Falcone is angry; I've never seen him like this."

"I know."

"Jim killed his son. You know Falcone isn't the type to let bygones be bygones. For Falcone, this will be personal. For me, it's just business."

"I get it!"

Victor didn't flinch at her tone like others might. He watched her carefully, as if she might draw her gun on him without him expecting it. It hadn't even been a few months since they'd finished a contract together; he knew her strengths, how fast she was when it came to drawing her weapon, and how sadistic she could be when it came to avenging and protecting her family. While she and Jim were usually at odds with each other, there were times when she was there for him when no one else—not even his own cop buddies—had been.

He understood her waspish response, knew that she wasn't irritated with him, knew that she wasn't indignant towards him for what would come about when Falcone finally gave the word.

As it was whenever she encountered a stressful situation, Sylvia reached into the drawer of her desk, fumbling around through its contents before she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She muttered under her breath as she lit one, throwing the lighter carelessly onto the surface of the desk before she placed the cancer stick in her mouth, dragging deeply.

"Those are going to kill you one day," Victor stated, eyeing the cigarette.

"Add that to a list of my worries. Lowest priority, let me tell you what."

"Liv."

"What."

"I don't want to kill your brother. He's a good egg. He's been a worthy opponent. Several times, actually."

"But far be it for you to turn down any contract that comes down from Falcone," Sylvia murmured resentfully, giving him a once-over look of spite before she exhaled deeply, the smoke surrounding her before ascending to the ceiling and disappearing soon after.

"I hear you earned a favor from him."

Sylvia cracked a smile, seeing Victor's obvious satisfaction about that: "Yes, I did."

"Was it for throwing the engagement party?"

"Yeah. He wanted to give me money, but I wanted something far more valuable."

Victor nodded agreeably: "Well, he certainly gave you that."

"Uh-huh. So why bring it up?"

"Well, you can call in that favor. To save your brother."

"I could."

"But you won't?"

Sylvia smiled solemnly, tapping the cigarette over an ash tray so the filtered ash flitted downward; the ember glowed once it was in her mouth; once it left, there was a light peach crème circle, the transference of lipstick left from where her lips pressed down a little too hard. The brightness of her cerulean eyes became nearly glossy, as if she might cry.

While her eyes betrayed her sadness, her words came out harsh: "Jim knew that by killing Mario, he'd fall out of Falcone's graces. Out of respect for Carmine, I wouldn't rob him of his closure."

Victor raised a hairless eyebrow at her response. She noticed.

"I want to save my brother." Sylvia admitted. "If honor among criminals did not exist, I'd kill Falcone in a heartbeat" (Victor frowned.) "and you, before you ever left this office. Because when it comes to my family, I would have no one touch a single hair on any of them: My brother, my husband, no one. But sadly, there is such as a thing as honor. Demetri took my daughter away from me; I killed him. Jim took Falcone's son away from him; Falcone reserves the right to do the same."

"Where will that leave us?"

"What do you mean?"

Victor smiled half-heartedly: "I'll be killing your brother. You won't want to come after me once I do?"

She sternly put out the cigarette in the ash tray, standing up. Victor stood, meeting her height.

"Falcone, Mario, Jim…it's personal to them."

"So, are we good?"

"It's like you said," Sylvia uttered starkly. "It's just business."

"Good to hear."

"Hm."

"I'll see you later, Liv." He moved to leave.

"Victor?"

He turned on his heel, back straightened as he peered at her inquisitively.

She bit her lip and said wistfully, "Make it quick. Please?"

Victor nodded somberly. His promise, unspoken.

She mouthed, "Thank you."

He bowed before he left her office. Sylvia sat back down in her chair, looking at her notebook for only a second before she pushed it off onto the floor. Her arms crossed on the desk, and she placed her head on them, crying quietly so no one could hear.


She was almost home at the mansion before she received an important phone call. This phone call led her to the Paddock's household; when she came inside the two-story home, Benson urged her (in his own calm way) to head upstairs where Isaac was currently resting.

Hospice care had been provided throughout. A few dozen flowers were sent on behalf of several condolences. In Isaac's bedroom, which was the second largest room to the living room, was decorated with flowers, which were a happier sight than that of the bags hung delicately on the I.V. rack.

This rack held three different fluids, two of which were assorted painkillers with the third holding saline to keep Isaac fully hydrated. It had been a couple weeks since Sylvia had seen him, and he appeared disturbingly worse; the happier lines of his face were sagged downwards, liver spots had come to life as his skin had become much sallower.

Upon her entry, the few Family members in his crew quickly pardoned themselves as she sat down on the edge of his bed. Isaac opened his eyes slowly, smiling at her despite his morbid situation. He couldn't sign with both hands since he was weaker than before, so his one hand moved while the other remained quite still.

Sylvia smiled at his inquiry: "The doctor called me."

Isaac nodded, gathering the reason as to why she'd come unannounced. His eyes flickered to the door then back to her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Charleen in the doorway.

Her dirty clothes were dirtier; her auburn hair more tangled than before, and there were fresh bruises on her face as well as dark smudges on her knees as if she'd been kneeling down for a longer period of time than little girls would normally do. Isaac held out his hand and Charleen quickly moved towards him, sitting on the other side of the bed; she angrily peered over at Sylvia before her eyes glossed over with fresh tears.

"I'm sorry, Isaac," Charleen whispered, her face breaking into a tearful cry. "I'm sorry, I'm…"

Isaac shook his head and patted her cheek, consoling.

"Why are you sorry?" Sylvia asked. "You didn't do this to him."

"Shut up, you old cow!" Charleen snapped, glaring at her. "It's none of your fucking business!"

Surprisingly, Isaac smacked her firmly on the cheek with the back of his hand. It wasn't hard enough to leave a mark, but just firm enough to catch her off guard. Charleen appeared shocked by his sudden discipline, only because she might've thought he hadn't the strength to carry it out.

Isaac signed, 'You mind your manners, Charlie.'

Charleen nodded quickly, anything to appease him during his final hours and to keep the peace. Now wasn't the time to stir the waters and create unnecessary reasons to feel guilty if he passed before she could apologize.

Isaac continued: 'This isn't your fault. I was dying long before this. Of boredom.'

His joke made Charleen laugh, but her tears only fell harder. Her bright green and bright blue eyes alike were drowning in them. She leaned over, harrowing her body over his as though hoping his sickness might take her instead.

"What am I gonna do?" She cried. "What…?" Her words were still spoken, but Sylvia couldn't understand them. Neither could Isaac, as he quickly stroked her back, hoping to calm her down.

Isaac hugged her with both arms and patted her head. He pretended to get his hand tangled in her curly hair and she giggled as he made a whole spectacle; when she sat up, he smiled warmly at her.

He signed gently, 'Would you mind stepping out for a second, Charlie? Sylvia and I need to talk. You can come in after.'

Charleen gave Sylvia the ugliest glare before she nodded reluctantly. After she left, Isaac exhaled deeply, his voice came out shaky—he wasn't trying to talk; he was crying. He looked at her imploringly, using his one hand to sign as he tried to sound out some of the words so Sylvia could fully understand his meaning.

'Take care of her while I'm gone. She has no one.'

Sylvia smiled sadly: "She acts as if she doesn't need anyone, either."

Isaac chuckled warmly as he responded with his hand: 'She wants people to think that. But once I'm gone, she'll need someone more than ever. Please, take care of her.'

"I will."

Isaac grabbed Sylvia's wrist, his grip a lot harder than she expected as he squeezed.

'Promise me.'

Sylvia nodded: "I promise, Isaac."

Isaac smiled thankfully at her. He knocked on the dresser beside him and it was his signal for Charleen to come back in. When she did, Isaac looked at her, hugged her one last time, and when Charleen pulled back, he was gone; he died with a small smile on his face.

"Isaac?" Charleen whispered fretfully. "Isaac!" She shook him, hard. "Isaac! Isaac! No, Isaac! Don't leave me!"

"He's gone, Charleen."

"Shut up! You're not a doctor!" She growled. "He's just resting. Isaac!"

Sylvia quietly sighed, getting up and walking over to the opposite side of the bed. Gingerly taking Charleen's shoulder, Sylvia attempted to move her out of the room, but Charleen batted her away.

"He can't leave me! He can't! He shouldn't."

"It wasn't up to him…"

"He can't! What am I gonna do!" Charleen cried, pushing Sylvia away. "No one else cares about me! I don't have anyone to talk to—I don't have anyone to…" She plopped down on her butt, bringing her knees into her so she broke down on the carpet.

Sylvia sat down with her. When Charleen's grief became too much for a fifteen-year-old to bear, Sylvia pulled her closer and, surprisingly, Charleen gave in. Her arms wrapped around Sylvia's middle, firmly holding her as if she was the paper weight keeping her down while the hurricane of emotion attempted to sweep her away. Sylvia didn't try to tell her that it was going to be okay; she didn't dare say everything was going to be better in the morning. Instead, she let Charleen cry out, scream even.

Benson stepped into the doorway, having heard the cries from downstairs. Sylvia met his eyes and she shook her head gloomily; Benson bowed his head and stoically gave a small nod before he left the room, closing the door in the process.


It was about thirty minutes later before Charleen had calmed down. Sylvia had talked her into going back to the mansion with her since she couldn't be there while Isaac's body was being prepared and sent off to the morgue for embalming nor did Sylvia feel comfortable sending her back to the Flea to be taken advantage of amidst her grief.

On the drive back, she sat in the passenger seat while Sylvia drove; the girl was quiet, glaring angrily out the window, furious about what had been taken from her. Once the car stopped in front of the Van Dahl Mansion, it was finally dark outside; the clouds had granted a single reprieve to disappear so that Charleen saw the stars dotting the sky.

"This is the first time I've seen them in a while," She said quietly, staring up. "I forget there're so many."

"Gotham City has too many lights," Sylvia explained, closing the driver's door, walking around the front of the car. "Sometimes, in order to see the beauty of something, you need to be shrouded in darkness first."

"Easy for you to say," Charleen muttered as she gestured to the mansion. "You live here."

"I never used to live in a mansion, believe it or not."

Charleen leaned her back against the passenger's side door, her glare stuttering at Sylvia's obvious voice of honesty.

"I can believe that." She said sarcastically. "You don't exactly scream 'posh side of town', with the way you dress."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sylvia said with a small smile.

"Why the fuck did you bring me here anyway? It's not like you care where I sleep tonight or something."

"I care that you've experienced a tragedy, and little girls are better off sleeping in a mansion."

"Better than sleeping in a place where you forget other people are suffering."

"I'd rather you forget other people are suffering than spend the night in a place that permits strange old men to have sex with teenage girls."

Charleen raised her eyebrows at Sylvia's last suggestion.

"How did you know?" She whispered.

"You have bruises on your face; and your knees are permanently darkened by ash and dirt from the grime in the alleys. You get defensive anytime I've asked about any of those things." Sylvia said softly, clasping her hands together in front of her. "I'd have to be an idiot not to notice the signs."

"Well, you gotta do what you gotta do to survive."

"I understand that."

"So, you know—it's what I gotta do."

"I get it," Sylvia reassured.

"You can't get it. You don't understand any of that. You don't know that kind of life, you don't know me."

Sylvia smiled sadly, saying, "You think I don't, only because you see where I live and to whom I am married, but I know that kind of life, and I, more than anyone, understand it."

"Fuck you, you don't know me."

"I should hazard a guess."

Charleen rolled her eyes and said harshly, "I dare you to even try."

"Fine then. You are a teenage girl, who casually sleeps with people to get by financially even while Isaac regularly offers you hand-outs, trying to keep you off the street. He knows what you've been doing, and he's tried to give you the resources to stop. You've not been too proud to take his money, because it helps with the debt of buying alcohol from your Fences in the Flea; it helps you forget what'll happen that following night. Am I right?"

Charleen shifted uncomfortably where she stood.

"Sometimes, you might enjoy taking money from powerful men who give it all up for a night they might not remember; that feeling is the only thing that keeps you from completely despising yourself. With the alcohol and promiscuity, a person can do it once and they'll feel terrible, degraded. Do it enough, you get to feeling nothing at all. Twenty years from now, you'll realize too late you've become an empty shell of a person. Am I close?"

Charleen's bottom lip quivered as if she might begin to cry.

"You know I'm right. I'm often right about these things," Sylvia said coolly, but her tone lightened. "When it comes down to it, you're sorry you've taken his generosity for granted, knowing he isn't around anymore to offer that kindness. The kind of generosity that comes but once in a lifetime." She tilted her head to the side. "So, what do you think? Did I hit the nail on the head?"

Charleen said despondently, "I don't have to take this shit. I'm leaving…"

Sylvia caught her wrist and brought her back; Charleen thrust her fist out of Sylvia's grip. Sylvia gave her a stern look, but it softened as she said softly, "Hey…Stay with me, at least tonight."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"It's dark out; it's about to rain," Sylvia persuaded. "Wouldn't it be better to sleep in a bed rather than in a cardboard box? Or in a gutter somewhere?"

Charleen considered this but said offhandedly, "You're not gonna talk to your bird husband or something beforehand?"

"He'll accept it. Or he won't."

"So, what are you pitching me?"

Sylvia smirked at her negotiating tone and said smoothly, "Shower, dinner, a bed, and if you don't want to talk to me for the remainder of the night, there's a spare bedroom no one is currently using if you'd prefer to put distance between us. I can drive you back to the Flea in the morning, if that's what you want."

Charleen crossed her arms stiffly: "We're not friends, you know."

"I know that."

"And you're not my fucking mother."

"I didn't claim to be."

"I don't really like you that much either."

"I gathered that."

"And you don't care to have a fucking whore in your pretty little home."

Sylvia smiled sympathetically: "Your choices were made in light of survival. I've made similar decisions at some point…minus the promiscuity. I didn't lose my virginity until I was twenty-one. Anyway, you'll receive no judgment from me."

She held up her hands, a gesture symbolizing surrender and a promise.

"You know all of that shit, and you still want me in your home?" Charleen inquired suspiciously. "Why?"

"Isaac cared for you. And I promised that I'd make sure you were okay."

"So, you only care because Isaac asked you to."

"I care about people, in general. That's why it's so easy for people to take advantage, which is something I wish you'd do already because, frankly, I am hungry, and I'd like dinner and a shower myself."

There was a small tug of Charleen's mouth as if she would crack a smile but her stubbornness to continue despising Sylvia made her keep a stern frown.

"Take my offer, don't take it. Either way, I'm going in. You can follow when you're ready."

Sylvia left to go inside. Charleen glanced back from where they'd driven. She couldn't find her way back to Gotham even if she tried. She felt the first sprinkle of rain on her face before the sky suddenly opened; the stars that were once there were now covered with dark gray clouds. Choosing between being able to find shelter or wear wet clothes, Charleen grumbled before heading inside the mansion.


Charleen sat in the dining room, eating a bowl of cereal. Ten minutes ago, Oswald had come home; when he saw Charleen, all his red flags and inquiries came up in a second's notice. Charleen had been dismissed to grab food in the kitchen so the adults could talk in the living room.

Meanwhile, Oswald stood in front of the fireplace while Sylvia sat on the couch, leaned forward and looking at him coolly.

"I just don't know why you brought her here." He said curtly.

"Where else could she have gone?"

"You could've put her up at a motel."

"She's heartbroken, Ozzie. I couldn't see her go back to the Flea after what she'd experienced. And I didn't want her to be alone after Isaac died."

"People die every day, literally."

"You're right, but not every kid sees someone pass away right in front of her eyes. She has no one else, and nowhere to go!"

"From what you've told me, she's made a pretty good nest for herself at the Fly."

"Flea. And it's not a home, it's a market for homeless people to rob and for teenagers to pawn off stolen things. It's not a home. In her fragile state, people will take advantage of her. Besides, she doesn't really care for the people there; they don't care about her; it's not exactly the safest place for a little girl."

"From what I can tell, she doesn't really care too much for you either," Oswald said sardonically. "Yet another stray of yours you picked up off the street."

"She's not some stray, Oswald. She was Isaac Paddock's ward."

"Legally?"

"No. Ethically."

Oswald rolled his eyes: "For all you know, you're harboring a fugitive. You mentioned she had an alcohol habit; odds are she's done a little more than—"

"Really?" Sylvia hissed. She stood and leaned into him so Charleen wouldn't hear them. "You literally gave me an order to kill your best friend's girlfriend, but sheltering an orphan girl, who just watched the closest thing she's had to a father die is too much for you?"

Oswald frowned and said strictly, "You don't know who she is."

"I do too!"

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Prove it, then. You said she's an orphan." He gestured in the girl's direction. "What happened to her parents?"

"Well…That's still up for debate."

Oswald's frown deepened as he stepped towards her: "You hesitated."

"Yeah, but…"

"Why did you hesitate?"

"Because…" Sylvia smiled nervously. "Well, according to Isaac, there's a possibility that Charleen may have possibly—"

"What did she do?"

"…She may have—but we don't know for sure—maybe…killed her own parents."

"Oh, for fuck—" Oswald said irately, throwing up his hands. "Are you serious!"

"She was five when it happened, allegedly—"

"—She's a murderer—"

"—She's a child. And she has nowhere to go, Oswald! And the things she's had to do to get by!"

"She's probably a thief too, on top of it all."

"Do you realize how hypocritical you sound? 'She's a murderer'? 'She's a thief'? I'm a murderer—as are you—and a thief, and half the crap I'm guilty of I've done because of you," Sylvia snapped, poking him hard in the chest. "She's a kid, who has been through a lot. So, what if she sleeps here? Because of what she's done, you're telling me she deserves to sleep in some fucking flea-ridden godforsaken place, keeping one eye open in any case some dickless motherfucker wants to rape her in the middle of the night once she's black-out drunk! Would you rather have that happen to her, Oswald? Would that be better for you!"

"Of course not!" Oswald retorted.

He looked torn between his own self-preservation and that of the teenager's well-being in the kitchen. His voice softened at the image of what life Charleen had to live as he said delicately: "Of course I don't want her to experience any of that."

"So, let her stay for a night, huh?"

She looked up at him desperately. Oswald glanced in the direction where the child was eating before he looked at and saw Sylvia's pleading eyes looking back at him. He bowed his head in reluctant agreement.

"Fine! Fine…" Oswald muttered. He cleared his throat and patted Sylvia on the arm. "You're a real empath, you know that?"

"I do."

"Good." He kissed her on the cheek briefly. "I'm going to bed. It's been a long night."

"Alright. Oswald?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you still going to do the interview with Hearst?"

"Yeah. Tarquin believes she can put me on a national scale."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow skeptically: "She can do all that, can she?"

"Your cynicism is noted, but she can."

"She's going to dig deep, Ozzie."

"Let her."

"Are you sure you want to take her on?" Sylvia warned. "We don't exactly have a positive background history."

"We'll be fine."

"All of this to reach a national scale?"

"It's even possible that, with her aid, I could reach an international scale—with as many viewers as she has."

"That's world domination, right there."

Oswald grinned mischievously, "You're only too right about that."

"You understand my concern though, don't you?"

"I hear you, Pidge. But trust me. It'll be alright."

Sylvia smiled when he kissed her softly on the lips; she returned it thankfully.

"Good night, sweetie." She whispered. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Oswald quickly left the room just as Charleen came in to ask if they had more cereal; she'd eaten through two full boxes, already. Afterwards, Sylvia showed her where the towels and soaps were in the bathroom so that she could take a shower, then guided her into the guest bedroom.

"This is huge." Charleen uttered, looking around and poking the bed.

"Yes, it is. I've put some of my clothes on the dresser so you can change into something more comfortable."

"Thanks, I guess. So, do you and bird boy use this room for, like, a sex dungeon or something?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Just curious what you, rich types, do with all these extra bedrooms. I'd make mine a dungeon," said Charleen mischievously as she jumped on the bed. "I'd put a few handcuffs in here" (She pointed to the end table) "and maybe a gun, for safety, you know. Anyway, I've noticed most of my clients like handcuffs."

Sylvia said dejectedly, "Most of your 'clients' are pedophiles. No one should be putting you in handcuffs except cops."

"Some of them are cops," Charleen said quizzically, stepping off the bed before she did a backflip onto the carpet, an action that was met with one of Sylvia's astonished gazes.

She gave the floor a mild look-over of entertainment: "Sometimes, they bring their own handcuffs. Anyway, can you close the door? I'm gonna get undressed and I don't want you to see me naked and shit."

"Charleen."

She answered distractedly, "Yeah?"

"Did these cops give you their names?"

"Probably. All of them gave me a name to call them," Charleen said carelessly, pulling off her gray, dirty sweater.

When she did, Sylvia's heart pang in the most egregious way when she saw the scratches on her shoulders, and the numerous bruises that covered her arms as if she'd been held down in place. Her T-shirt was slightly wrinkled and torn along the hem.

"What names did they give you?" Sylvia asked unhappily.

"I just know their last names."

"Give them to me."

"Why?"

Sylvia sent her a stern glance.

Charleen looked at her curiously but she said the names without missing a beat: "Officers Fritz, Miller, Richardson, Dock…and some guy that called himself Mr. Daddy."

Sylvia's lips curled at the last name: "Why did he make you call him that?"

"I don't know. I didn't think to ask. I'm done talking about it, so can you, like, leave so I can get dressed now?"

"Sure. You don't have to come down if you don't want to. If I don't see you before tomorrow, have a good night. I'll be across the way if you need anything."

"Well, I won't, so good night."

Sylvia closed the door.


Sylvia readied for bed, lying in it, but she couldn't get comfortable.

She didn't know which facet of Charleen's life disturbed her more: The fact that police officers and civilians alike had manhandled and raped her be it against her will or otherwise, or the fact that Charleen had learned to become standoffish as it was the only way she could get by. Evidently, her discomfort and constant toss and turning wasn't affecting only her; Oswald sat up with an exhausted sigh when she'd turned on her side for the umpteenth time.

"What's the matter, Pigeon?" He asked tiredly.

"What do you think?" Sylvia asked, glancing up at him from her side. "Isaac's dead. Ed's not talking to us. Tarquin is an idiot. Margaret Hearst is going to come for you, if not the both of us. My brother killed Mario so you just know Falcone is going to take his pound of flesh; and that little girl in the other room has a life I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Take your pick."

"I know you have a lot on your mind, but it's not doing either of us any good fretting about it."

"You don't think I know that?"

"Just pointing out the obvious."

"Obviously."

"Not to add more to your plate, but did you happen to talk to Beals?"

"Did I happen to find the time to fire him? No."

"I thought that's what you were going to do today."

"Well, I was. But then I got a bit distracted when Victor Zsasz informed me that when Falcone gives the word, Victor will assuredly kill my brother." Sylvia said snidely, glowering at Oswald from her side. "And just afterwards, Isaac died, so you'll forgive me for not being able to start on my to-do list."

Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He knew it was going to start an argument, yet he prodded the tiger. What else had he expected to happen?

While he had tunnel vision when it came to his own agenda, Oswald did notice how fretful she appeared, heard it in her tone too. He lied down beside her and lightly stroked her back with a consoling touch, smiling when Sylvia met his eyes with a doleful reproach. With his assurance, she moved closer, snuggling against him.

"I'm sorry for not having been attentive as I should've been," He uttered softly. "What you're going through isn't easy."

"Well, I've not made things easy for you either."

Oswald smiled at her attempt to assuage his guilt. He pulled her into him, and his smile widened when she grabbed the lapels of his pajama top, pulling him close so she kissed him. Sylvia slid underneath him, wrapping her legs around his waist, the hem of her night slip pooling above hers; he eagerly shifted his weight, bracing himself mostly to his side so he didn't crush her.

Their kisses became fierce and passionate; Sylvia let out an involuntary moan the moment his growing erection nudged the heat behind her black panties.

"You should consider lowering your voice," Oswald said impishly, "especially if you don't want your guest overhearing us."

"Or you can stop being so—" She began, but another moan escaped her when he rubbed his erection against her sex even harder.

"You were saying?"

"You're hopeless," Sylvia giggled.

Oswald kissed her neck, then licked her earlobe, nipping her playfully. When he did, Sylvia pushed her hips against his, causing his hard-on to grow and throb mercilessly.

His lust for her was always there and feeling her egg him on was forcing it to the surface. He pushed his pants down enough so he could free his cock, pressing it against the front of her panties so she could feel him. Sylvia persuaded him easily, lowering her hand between them, rubbing his shaft with a loose grip.

"You like feeling it, don't you?" Oswald said with a knowing smirk.

"All the time, and you know that."

"I do," He said sheepishly. "I just like hearing you admit it."

Sylvia wiggled her hips to move her panties down her legs, but Oswald stopped her. She sent him a curious glance, but her query was answered when he sifted her panties to the side and pressed his cockhead against her naked sex. He coaxed her to be still and silent; his cock moved slowly in and out, feeling her wet silk coat him by the inch.

"Oh fuck—"

"Hush, Pet. Remember…?" Oswald tilted his head to the side, indicating Charleen in the other bedroom across from them.

"Easier said than done…" Sylvia whispered desperately, her back arching as he deepened his thrust. "Fuck…Fuck!"

"God…" Oswald moaned quietly, feeling her fingernails dig into his shoulders. Even through the material of his pajamas, he could feel them.

When the slow pace became unbearable, Oswald quickened his rhythm, clamping a hand over her mouth when Sylvia's whimpers evolved into unrestrained heightened moans. She was breathing hard, doing her best to stifle her moans. She ended up having to do the same to Oswald as he became swept up into the heat of the moment. His ardent moans became more than fervent when he came inside her.

"I fucking love you," Sylvia said breathlessly.

He smiled at her, saying, "I love you too."

He moved to lie down beside her, catching his breath.

"Are you sure you still want to do that interview with Hearst?"

"National scale," He replied tiredly, but the contentment in his face from their lovemaking was palpable.

"And if she manages to find all the ghosts of our past?"

"We'll deal with that when the times comes."

"Our past or the ghosts?"

"Both." Oswald assured softly. He kissed her forehead: "For now, go to sleep. We'll deal with whatever comes in the morning."

"Okay." Sylvia returned with a small smile.

Oswald cuddled next to her, wrapping his arm around her waist and laying his head on her shoulder. He swiftly kissed her there before he fell asleep.