Rain had been falling for three days straight, turning Gotham into a cold, grey mess. The kind of weather that seeped into your clothes and stayed there, no matter how many layers you wore.
Three black Cadillacs moved in a slow convoy along the road leading out of the city. The route took them past warehouses and loading docks that had once paid tribute to the Roman. Now they were just empty buildings watching him leave.
Falcone sat in the back seat of the middle car, eyes closed like he was napping. He'd changed out of his usual tailored suits, now he wore a plain dark jacket and slacks, his grey hair uncombed and slightly damp. In the front passenger seat sat his driver, an old man who'd been with him for thirty years and hadn't said a word since they'd left the manor. On the other side of the back seat was a middle-aged man with a hard face, gripping a leather briefcase. In the other two cars were fewer than ten loyalists willing to follow the Roman into exile.
That was all that remained of the Falcone empire.
When Zsasz had fallen, Falcone still had money and soldiers. But a lion past its prime can't fight off a pack of hyenas forever. Better to leave while you still had the choice.
"Don," the man with the briefcase said quietly. "Once we get through the industrial district, we're out of Gotham."
Falcone just gave the faintest nod.
Gotham was in his blood, bones, and curse. Away from this city, he was nothing. The screech of tires cut through the rain.
The lead car slammed on its brakes, fishtailing slightly on the road. From the gate of an abandoned factory ahead, two filthy panel vans roared out and skidded sideways, completely blocking the narrow street.
"Don!" The driver's voice carried an edge of panic.
Falcone opened his eyes slowly. There was no surprise in his expression. Through the rain-streaked window, he watched figures emerge from behind trees, shipping containers, the shadowed doorways of empty warehouses. Each one carried a submachine gun. At the front of the group, a man limped forward, sheltered under a black umbrella. Even from this distance, he could see the smug grin plastered across his face.
The car doors opened. Falcone's remaining men climbed out quickly, using the vehicles as cover as they drew their weapons. But the math was bad. Outnumbered three to one, maybe worse.
Cobblepot, flanked by armed thugs in cheap rain jackets, walked to a spot about twenty meters from the convoy and stopped. He took his time, savoring the moment. The umbrella kept the rain off his suit.
"Don Falcone," he called out. "Leaving so soon? Off on a vacation, perhaps? You should have told your friend. I would have prepared a proper send-off."
Falcone opened the car door and stepped out into the rain. Water soaked through his jacket immediately, plastered his hair to his skull, but he didn't flinch. He stood straight, shoulders back, and met Cobblepot's gaze.
"Oswald." His voice was quiet but clear. "You're confused. Even at the end, I wouldn't call a guy like you a friend. Especially not a penguin. If it weren't for me, Maroni would've fed you to the fish years ago. Or Mooney would've done it herself."
Cobblepot's smile vanished. His face went dark, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
"Penguin? All of you calling me Penguin, Penguin, PENGUIN! My name is Cobblepot! Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot!" He was almost screaming now, spit flying. "You forgot something, Carmine. Gotham doesn't need you anymore. Your time is over!"
He gestured sharply. His men stepped forward in unison, weapons raised, muzzles trained on Falcone and his remaining guards.
"Leave the briefcase," he said, pointing at the man clutching the leather case. "Leave everything you're taking. Then I'll give you a dignified end. Or at least, an end fitting for you."
Falcone looked around at his men. He let out a long breath.
"You can take whatever you want, Oswald. Just let them go. They're no threat to you."
"You want to negotiate?" Cobblepot raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "When did you become so naive? You don't leave loose ends." A smile spread across his face. "As for you... I'll send you off personally. Consider it my final tribute."
Before the sentence was finished, his expression shifted. The smile turned feral. He swung his hand down like a conductor dropping the baton.
"Light them up!"
The gunfire erupted.
Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack...
Muzzle flashes lit up the rain-soaked street. Bullets tore through the air in a hailstorm, pinging off car doors and piercing through flesh. Falcone's men returned fire, but they were drowning in lead. One by one, they went down, bodies jerking and collapsing into the mud.
"Protect the Don!" someone shouted.
The man with the briefcase took three rounds to the torso and kept moving, throwing himself in front of Falcone and using his own body as a shield. He lasted another five seconds before the bullets shredded him, and he crumpled to the ground in a spreading pool of blood and rainwater.
The whole thing was over in less than two minutes.
When the gunfire stopped, only Falcone remained standing. He was alone in the middle of a pile of bodies, leaning on his cane.
Cobblepot walked forward. One of his men retrieved the blood-smeared briefcase and handed it over. He didn't even look at it, just tossed it to someone behind him. He stepped closer, close enough to press the barrel of his cane-gun against Falcone's chest.
"Goodbye. I'm going to be the king of Gotham."
Falcone closed his eyes.
Cobblepot's finger tightened on the trigger.
Crack!
A single gunshot rang out.
Cobblepot's right hand exploded in a spray of blood and bone fragments. The cane flew from his grip, clattering across the pavement. He screamed and doubled over, clutching the mangled mess where his fingers used to be.
"What the fuck?!" He spun around, eyes wild, blood dripping between his fingers.
His men scattered, raising their weapons and scanning the area in confusion.
On the roof of a nearby three-story factory building, several figures appeared. At the front stood a woman in a tailored black coat, sunglasses covering half her face despite the overcast sky. Behind her were four gunmen in tactical gear, rifles already shouldered and aimed.
Cobblepot looked up, squinting through the rain. When he saw the woman's silhouette, his pupils contracted.
"It's you? How..."
The woman didn't answer. She raised one hand.
The gunmen opened fire.
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
Three of Cobblepot's men dropped instantly, heads snapping back, bodies hitting the ground before they could process what had happened. The rest dove for cover, firing wildly up at the rooftop. Bullets ricocheted off brick and metal, but the elevation gave the shooters a massive advantage.
Cobblepot glared up at the woman. Then he looked at his own men. He made a decision.
"Fall back!"
Under covering fire from his remaining thugs, he scrambled back to his car, half-running, half-limping, his ruined hand leaving a trail of blood. The convoy peeled out in a spray of mud and water, crashing through a gap in the ambush and disappearing into the maze of the industrial district.
The gunfire tapered off. Silence settled over the street, broken only by the steady patter of rain.
The woman on the rooftop made a hand signal. The gunmen melted back into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as they'd appeared. She descended alone, taking the rusted fire escape one step at a time. Her heels clicked against the metal grating.
She stopped in front of Falcone and slowly removed her sunglasses.
The face beneath was beautiful. She had his eyes. His cheekbones. The same hard line of the jaw.
"Father."
"Sofia..."
Sofia Falcone. His daughter. The one he'd sent to Europe years ago and half-forgotten in the chaos of running an empire.
"I'm back." Sofia stepped forward and embraced him, pressing her cheek against his. "I'll get you somewhere safe. You can rest. I'll handle the rest of this slowly."
Falcone looked into her eyes. After a long moment, he nodded.
---
"How is she back?!"
Cobblepot sat in the back of the car, cradling his bandaged hand. The hospital had done what they could, but he'd lost two fingers. He hadn't just failed to finish Falcone. He'd lost men. Lost a chunk of his hand. And worst of all, the Falcone family wasn't dead. Not by a long shot.
"She doesn't have many people," he muttered, trying to convince himself. "She can't have many... I can go to the cops... get them to help... what the hell is that?"
The car pulled up outside the Iceberg Lounge. Parked in front were two black SUVs with large IRS logos on the doors.
"Hey, officer!" He climbed out, forcing a smile. "What's, uh... what's going on here?"
A middle-aged man in a dark blue suit stepped forward. He had the look of a corporate accountant. He smiled pleasantly.
"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Cobblepot. Just taking a look around."
He waved his hand. A team of agents in black tactical vests marked IRS-CI filed into the Iceberg Lounge, spreading out with clipboards and cameras, inspecting every corner of the building.
"We're just taking a look," the man said, still smiling as he looked at Cobblepot's stunned expression.