Night was settling in. The lights came up slow, and the Roman — its entrance carved into the shape of a lion's open jaw — swallowed its first guests of the evening.
Jewels caught the chandeliers. Suits moved through the floor with the practiced ease of men who spent money without thinking about it. Will stood near the wall with his back aching, watching it all, and a lyric from some half-forgotten song came to him unbidden.
Seventeen, the school dance, standing against the wall like hired muscle.
Except back then he'd only looked the part.
"Will, loosen up. We're not here to stand at attention."
Oswald materialized with two glasses of champagne and pressed one into his hand.
Simple pleasures, Oswald. An attractive woman walked by and both eyebrows went up like he'd just been paid.
"Don't let the expensive clothes fool you into thinking these people are better than us. Most of them are running the same games we are. Some of them have more blood on their hands than we ever will."
He sipped the champagne.
"I should clarify — more than I ever will. You, on the other hand, are basically Jesus."
"I'll kill when I have to." Will didn't love the comparison.
"When you have to." Oswald smiled. "You don't even know what that means yet. Everyone has a threshold, but in Gotham, two types of people will find yours faster than anyone else — and if you ever have to deal with either of them, go in ready to finish it."
He held up a finger.
"First type: drunks."
Will didn't need to think about that one.
His father had been one. The kind who didn't know his own strength after a few drinks, which meant Will had spent most of his childhood learning when to disappear. He'd endured it until he was seventeen, when something finally snapped and he put the old man in the ICU with a kick to the ribs. The man had stayed there for a week. After that he'd learned to be careful.
Oswald bent double laughing when he heard it.
"In some ways you're more dangerous than I am. If I ever got a second shot at my childhood I'd follow your exact approach."
"So what's the second type?" Will steered away from the subject.
Oswald's smile went out.
He tilted his head back and took a long pull of champagne, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set the glass down.
"More accurately — one specific person. The former leader of the Red Hood Gang. A genuine lunatic. Knew the Romans had a bounty on him and still walked straight into Mr. Falcone's private residence in disguise, alone."
"He didn't die?"
"He came in wrapped in remote-detonated explosives and took Mr. Falcone hostage. Nobody could touch him."
Will turned that over. Something about the description pulled at him — the theatrical entry, the bombs, the hostage taken not for money but for effect.
"Then what?"
"He drove off with Mr. Falcone. They found the car abandoned in North Harbor later. Mr. Falcone was inside. Completely unharmed."
"Unharmed. Then what was the point of taking him?"
"Fun, probably. Don't try to understand a lunatic's logic." Oswald set his glass down. "Unharmed, yes — but wearing a bomb vest. The detonator cord was tied to the car door handle. When Maroni's men arrived and opened the door, a five-minute countdown started."
He paused to let that land.
"Then the lunatic called. He told Mr. Maroni there were two options: sever his own left hand to remove the trigger mechanism and save his boss, or do nothing and wait for the explosion — and inherit the empire by default."
Will had it before Oswald finished.
"Maroni did nothing. The bomb was fake."
Oswald looked at him.
"You've heard this story before?"
Will shook his head. "Just a guess."
Oswald studied him for a moment, then let it go with a slow exhale.
It tracked perfectly. The Red Hood hadn't wanted Falcone dead. He'd wanted to watch Maroni choose. The whole production — the infiltration, the vest, the countdown — was a stage. And the best possible ending for that show wasn't an explosion. It was the underboss sitting on his hands while his boss bled out, then having to live with what that meant.
A surgeon who cut nerves instead of flesh. The Joker, whether he had the name yet or not, was already the Joker.
The floor filled. The tables started moving.
The casino's other security detail worked for Richie Panto — Maroni's man, senior to Oswald by several years, and surrounded as always by his crew. Carlo was somewhere in there, along with a handful of others Will didn't know by name.
Will had read Richie's fate in the comic. Right hand shattered by Batman at the docks, then torn apart by Strange's augmented men after he tried to collect a debt at the wrong time.
But Richie's right hand was fine. No cast, no bandage, nothing. He was gesturing with it right now as he walked over laughing.
No Batman. No broken hand. The comic had been right about that too, just not for the reason Will expected.
"Well look at this. If it isn't our little—"
He reached for the top of Oswald's head.
Oswald's hand came up and knocked his arm away before it landed.
"Say that name and see what happens."
Oswald's face was stone. He had his chin up, which didn't close the gap much — Richie had half a foot on him, and the effect was a little like watching a kid square up to an adult — but the look in his eyes was another thing entirely.
Richie backed off with a grin and spread his hands.
"Alright, alright. No nickname." He looked around the floor. "Maroni sent you for security? I'd think we've got it covered already."
Richie tossed the opening. Carlo caught it without missing a beat.
"Mr. Maroni probably wants someone to check under the tables. We might miss things from up here — but Mr. Oswald shouldn't have any trouble."
Oswald bit the inside of his cheek. One slow breath out through his nose.
He put a hand up to stop the nearest Roman from stepping forward, and turned back to Richie with the first smile he'd ever given the man.
"You're right. We'll divide the work. I'm sure the results will be excellent."
Richie walked away laughing.
The smile left Oswald's face before the sound did.
"Will. We're taking the second floor."
In a bathroom stall on the second floor, Oswald kicked the toilet until the porcelain cracked and the pipe behind the wall groaned and split. He kept at it until water was misting across the tiles and there was nothing left worth kicking.
Then he stopped, breathing hard, and combed his wet hair back behind his ears with his fingers.
He and Richie went back a long way.
Oswald had come up under Richie when he first joined the Romans. Richie was the kind of boss who treated his people like furniture — useful until inconvenient, and expendable after that. Oswald, being the shortest man in the crew, had been a particular favorite target. The nickname had come early. The rest followed.
Maybe that was why Oswald ran his own people differently. He knew exactly what it felt like from the other side.
The water kept running. The light overhead was dying at one end of its flicker cycle.
"Will." Oswald's voice came out low and even. "I want to kill Richie. Any ideas?"
He was looking at the broken pipe. The intent in his eyes caught the dim light and didn't let go.
"You're asking me?" Will said. "I've never killed anything. Best I can do is wish him dead and hope Gotham handles the rest. Hopefully before tonight's over."
He meant it more literally than it sounded.
The games had been running for a while. Hugo Strange and his augmented men could arrive at any point, and Will still hadn't figured out how to get Oswald out of the building before it happened.
He was still working through it when Oswald's hand came up, fingers pressed flat.
"Quiet." A pause. "You hear that? Something's moving in Maroni's room next door."