With Franklin leading the way, Downton's cab pulled to a stop just short of the Iceberg Lounge—not at the entrance itself, but a block away.
The reason became clear immediately: three thickset men in dark jackets stepped into the street, blocking further approach. One of them rapped sharply on the taxi window.
When the driver rolled it down, the leader leaned in, eyes narrowing. "What're you doing picking up fares here? Don't you know the rules?"
He jabbed a finger toward the club's distant neon glow. "No drop-offs before 4:30. It's barely past 3:20."
As he spoke, he thrust a massive gold watch under the driver's nose—less to tell time than to assert authority.
But the driver didn't flinch. Instead, he smirked and flicked something metallic toward the thug's face—a wristwatch, glinting in the afternoon light.
"Take a real look at that," the driver said, nodding toward Downton in the back seat. "And take a real good look at who I'm carrying. That tip alone was over three grand. You wanna guess how much more he's got?"
He turned in his seat with theatrical deference and gave Downton an exaggerated bow. "Boss Downton—don't mind me calling you 'rich guy.' These boys hate that word. But hey, I delivered you right where you asked. Just follow these fine gentlemen—they'll get you to the Lounge."
Then, with a wink: "And if they give you trouble? Show 'em what's in your bag. You know… the mannequins."
Downton chuckled, then shoved the car door open with arrogant flair. He straightened his coat, lifted his chin, and addressed the thugs like they were hired help.
"Quit standing around like statues," he drawled. "Take me inside. And while you're at it, round up a dozen girls—curvy, confident, preferably with enough charm to wash my face in something better than Gotham tap water."
He pulled a thick wad of bills from his inner pocket and tossed it into the air. The notes fluttered down like confetti.
The lead thug instinctively clenched his fist—ready to swing—but froze when the crisp scent of new ink hit his nostrils. Another man leaned in, whispering urgently:
"That was at least eight grand. And I saw more in his bag—maybe two hundred K, all cash."
The leader exhaled sharply, suddenly sober. "Alright… it's 3:30. Club doesn't open till 4:30. But…" He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "I can get you into the prep area. Dancers are getting ready back there. No booze, but you'll see more legs than at midnight."
He stepped closer. "Just—don't tell anyone you're here for fun. If Cobblepot's crew finds out, say you're my cousin. I'm showing you the family business. Got it?"
Downton slapped him on the shoulder with a grin. "Cousin, huh? I like it. And I like girls. Let's go—my patience is wearing thinner than your wallet."
He'd never met a real Gotham gangster before—but between the swagger and the stacks of cash, he knew these low-level goons wouldn't ask questions. Not when money paved the way.
Satisfied, the thug gathered the scattered bills with his two partners and led Downton toward the club's rear entrance.
At the door, a sharper-dressed guard—tattooed knuckles, cold eyes—frowned. "Batel? Who's this?"
Before Batel could answer, Downton slipped another bundle of cash into the guard's jacket pocket.
Batel quickly chimed in, voice tight with forced pride: "My cousin. Told you I had family money—you thought I was bluffing. Well? Look at that!"
The guard weighed the cash in his palm, then gave a slow nod. "Fine. But keep him quiet. And if Penguin hears about this, I didn't see a thing."
Batel ushered Downton through a narrow, unlit corridor that spiraled down two flights of stairs. The thump of bass grew louder with every step.
"Before opening, it's just us crew hanging back here," Batel murmured. "Lights stay low—stick close."
He led Downton to a corner table where a wiry man with a scarred lip sat nursing a whiskey.
"Cheney," Batel called out, tossing a few crumpled bills his way—"Eight hundred. Guard duty. My cousin's here to 'broaden his horizons.'"
Cheney counted the money, then grinned. "Eight hundred? From you? Must be your wedding night."
The others around the table laughed, clinking glasses.
"Alright, alright," Cheney said, standing. "We'll watch his back. But if he touches a dancer without paying triple, he's on his own."
Downton just smiled. He wasn't here for dancers.
He was here for the mannequins in his bag—and what they'd make the Iceberg Lounge remember.
The men pocketed their payment and ambled off to take up positions as guards for Batel and his two companions.
With the arrangement settled, Batel exhaled in relief and led Downton toward the dancers' dressing room.
Their sudden entrance didn't startle the women. If anything, a few of them leisurely slipped off their stockings and pulled them back on—performing a casual display of indifference at the sight of another man.
A statuesque woman at the center of the room fanned herself slowly. Her eyes locked onto Downton's face, lingered a beat too long, then curled into a sneer.
"Batel, is it?" she drawled. "Oswald's little errand boy. Consider yourself lucky I even remember your name."
She took a step forward, voice sharpening.
"And you know this isn't a place for gutter rats like you—much less for dragging strangers in. Have you lost what little sense you had?"
"You—!" Batel flushed, jaw clenched. Shame burned in his chest, but worse than that was the humiliation of hearing his own truth spat back at him.
He knew he was nothing—a nameless cog in Falcone's machine, unworthy of stepping into the Iceberg Lounge's inner sanctum, let alone its dressing rooms. Only high-rollers, enforcers, and family captains belonged here.
But he refused to let her define his worth.
He grabbed Downton's arm and thrust him forward.
"Sister Liv," he said, voice strained but defiant, "I told you once—I won't always be a nobody. And I've got a cousin who is somebody!"
He jabbed a thumb at Downton.
"I may not belong here, fine! But he does. So I'm leaving—but you'll treat him right. You'll see for yourself whether he's 'qualified' or not."
Face burning, Batel gripped Downton's sleeve tight before letting go.
"You'll have fun here. Sister Liv's one of Falcone's favorites—she and her girls know how to keep a man happy. I'll be outside drinking. Call if you need anything!"
Downton gave a calm nod. Then, without fanfare, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a thick wad of cash. The dancers gasped—some giggled, others leaned in with wide eyes—as he pressed the bundle into Batel's palm.
Batel stared, stunned, then broke into a disbelieving grin.
"You don't look like you're enjoying yourself," Downton said quietly, "but I owe you. Your help meant something."
He paused, voice lowering with quiet certainty.
"I haven't been in Gotham long—but my name will be known. If you ever want more than carrying messages for Oswald… seek me out. Stand beside me, not behind. I'll remember the favor you did tonight."
Then, with a faint smile, he added:
"Oh—and I'm Downton. Of Downton Manor."
Before Batel could reply, Downton gave him a light shove toward the door, ushering him and his brother out. The trio vanished into the dim hallway.
Silence settled—then a dry chuckle.
"Cousin?" Liv shook her head, lips twisting in amusement. "What a sad little fairy tale."
She stepped closer, eyeing Downton with renewed appraisal.
"You've got money—that's plain. But if you let some two-bit messenger gift-wrap you an invitation to this room, you've already wasted it."
She leaned in, voice honeyed but edged.
"A man's worth isn't just in his wallet. It's in who vouches for him. No proper matchmaker? No respect. And without respect…" She gestured to the dancers, already pocketing stray bills. "Who'd kneel for you?"
Downton didn't rise. Instead, he walked past her and sank onto the room's most opulent sofa.
From his travel bag, he pulled out another stack—this one thick enough to choke on—and tossed it skyward.
Bills fluttered like dying moths. The dancers scrambled, tucking cash into garters, cleavage, hair.
Downton caught Liv's wrist and tugged her onto his lap. She didn't resist—but her eyes stayed sharp.
"The matchmaker's name?" he murmured near her ear. "Irrelevant. Generosity opens doors. And I intend to be very generous—tonight, and beyond."
He loosened his grip just enough to let her breathe.
"So… may I ask you a question?"
Liv smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "As long as it's not too difficult."
"I won't test your patience," Downton said. "I only want to know—where is the Sabatino family's hideout?"
Liv went rigid.
Her smile froze. The room seemed to hush.
She searched his face—calm, amused, utterly unafraid—and her brow furrowed.
"That…" she said slowly, "is a very difficult question."
"But you know the answer," Downton pressed. "This is the Iceberg Lounge—the heart of Falcone's empire. A woman who commands this room, even over dancers, hears everything."
His hand drifted to his open satchel. Not to pull out more cash—but to reveal what lay beneath the top layer of bills.
Liv's breath hitched.
Half the bag held wealth.
The other half held power.
And power, in Gotham, always carried the scent of gun oil—and blood.