Afternoon sunlight slanted through the glass façade of the Continental's mezzanine lounge, throwing warm gold across the marble floor. It was a rare day for sun to be out in Gotham, taxis streaking past below, street vendors shouting to each other over the fading morning chill — but up here, everything was quiet, insulated, and refined.

Kieran Everleigh sat across from Councilman Kinsey, a neat breakfast spread between them: untouched toast, steaming coffee, and a small plate of fruit.

"So the permits have all gone through?" Kieran asked, tone even but polite, as he stirred his coffee.

Kinsey grinned, clearly pleased with himself. "They did. The city finally stopped dragging its feet. Construction crews can start prep by the end of the week. If everything goes smoothly, the orphanage should be open in about a month."

Kieran nodded once, offering a small smile. "That's excellent news. Gotham's long overdue for something good in that district."

Kinsey chuckled, leaning back with his cup. "You've done a good thing here, Mr. Everleigh. The city doesn't see enough private donors willing to put their money where their mouth is."

Kieran gave that practiced, subtle smile — the one that warmed his face but not his eyes. "I'm just glad to help. Children deserve a chance before Gotham hardens them."

There was a brief lull, the clink of a spoon the only sound, before Kinsey's expression brightened again — a familiar look of inspiration that Kieran had learned to dread.

"You know," the councilman said, "once the orphanage's foundation is ready, we should celebrate the milestone. A gala — something elegant, visible. It'd be great for awareness… and fundraising, of course."

Kieran's fingers stilled around his cup. He already felt the direction of this conversation sliding somewhere uncomfortable.

"And where better to host it," Kinsey continued with an easy smile, "than right here at the Continental? Your hotel's the most prestigious venue in the city."

Kieran's expression didn't falter, though a faint tightness touched the corners of his jaw. A gala at his own hotel — politicians, donors, press — all crawling through the one place he actually considered his refuge. Refusing would raise eyebrows. Accepting meant playing the part.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, then lifted his eyes back to Kinsey's. "Of course," he said smoothly. "That sounds… wonderful. Have your office contact my staff and we'll make arrangements."

Kinsey's face lit up. "Knew you'd say yes, Everleigh. The city could use more men like you."

Kieran smiled again — that polite, carefully measured smile — and took another slow sip of coffee.

As the councilman went on about invitations and donor lists, Kieran's gaze drifted toward the city skyline, the distant haze rising over the waterfront. Somewhere out there, the world was still moving according to his quieter, darker plans — and this performance, like all the others, was just another mask he had to wear.

***

The elevator chimed softly as Councilman Kinsey disappeared behind polished steel doors, still humming to himself about seating charts and guest lists. Kieran stood there for a moment in the quiet that followed, fingers brushing the cuff of his suit jacket before he turned back toward the window. The city was alive again below — cranes moving along the skyline, trucks roaring through the industrial district, sunlight crawling over rooftops like it was trying to make Gotham look alive.

His phone buzzed. Dre.

Kieran slid a finger across the screen. "Talk to me."

"Boss," Dre's voice came through, low but energized. "We locked in the deals. Every storefront along Pier Forty through Forty-Five's signed up for protection. Some of 'em even begged us to move in after last night. Didn't think it'd go this smooth."

Kieran smiled faintly, walking back toward the lounge table, setting his coffee cup down with a soft click. "You doubted yourself?"

Dre laughed. "I doubted the idea, not me. But yeah, you were right again. I'm thinkin' we should start pushing out. Maybe East Pier next, maybe the warehouses near Riverside. While the city's still shaken, we could—"

"Stop."

The word was quiet, but it carried a finality that made Dre pause on the other end.

"It's too early," Kieran said, pacing slowly to the window again, his reflection staring back — calm, unreadable. "Expansion spreads us thin. We hold what we've taken, fortify it, make sure our people get paid on time and don't get sloppy. Reliability to our customers is the most important factor right now."

"Yeah, but boss—"

"If we reach too far, we bleed. That's how the Odessas fell," Kieran said, voice firm but even. "Patience is what separates survivors from corpses in this city. Let everyone else rush to fill the gaps. When they're fighting each other over scraps, we'll move in clean."

A silence hung for a moment, then Dre sighed. "Got it. You're the boss. We'll hold our ground."

"Good." Kieran glanced toward the city again, the faint curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. "And Dre—nice work."

The line clicked off.

Kieran stood alone in the mezzanine's quiet, the mask of the hotelier slipping for a moment. The morning light glinted off his glass, the calm surface of the city stretched before him — a city in chaos, rearranging itself piece by piece into his design.

***

The low amber light of the backroom glowed off decanters of whiskey and the sheen of sweat on foreheads. Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling fans, slow and ghostlike. Carmine Falcone sat at the head of the table, eyes like polished coal, his suit immaculate even as the vein in his temple pulsed with fury.

"They broke the cardinal rule," he said finally, his voice carrying that low, gravelled weight that made even seasoned killers shift in their seats. "You never bring him down on our business. Never. The goddamn Batman took out our whole strike team when we went to take the sewers."

One of the lieutenants—old Benny Marone, scarred and heavyset—cleared his throat. "Boss, they hit us hard down there. The tunnels were supposed to be safe territory—"

"I don't want excuses," Falcone snapped. "Scarecrow's freaks were supposed to hold the line, and what'd they do? Ran like rats soon as the heat came down." He leaned back, rubbing his jaw, eyes narrowing. "I gave Crane a chance. Maybe I was wrong."

Across the table, underbosses exchanged looks. Enzo Corti, who handled the waterfront rackets, spoke up next. "It's not just the underpass, Carmine. We're stretched thin. The Russians are sniffing around the East Market again. And the Triads—they've been pushing from Chinatown, testing the edges since the infighting occurred."

Falcone listened in silence, the tick of the wall clock the only sound for a few beats. Then he leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "We've handled Russians, Triads, and clowns in masks before. But this—" He jabbed a finger against the table. "This underpass problem? That's different. They're not just street trash anymore. They've got structure. Command. If we let them build like they have been we will soon have another penguin!"

"Word is," Enzo added, "they've started taking territory down by the docks too. Odessa territory, what's left of it. They're moving fast."

Falcone's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then we snuff them out before they start thinking they can stand at my table."

Silence again. The weight of it settled in, the kind of silence that came before blood spilled.

"Put eyes on every warehouse they've touched," Falcone said coldly. "I want names, faces, routes, everything. When we hit back, I don't want to send a message—I want a massacre."