The smoke curled and drifted between them. For a while, the only sound was the faint drip of water from the broken ceiling, the distant rattle of Gotham's decaying bones.
Penguin tapped ash neatly into a small silver tray his men had laid down with the table. His voice came smooth, almost cordial, but the edges were sharp enough to cut.
"You've been making noise, Everleigh. I'll give you that." He gestured lazily with his cigar. "But let's not pretend you're more than what you are. A new face, some loud friends, a few… what? Tunnels and old houses filled with vagrants?" He gave a dry chuckle, eyes glinting. "This city chews people like that up and spits them into the river."
Dre shifted at Quentin's shoulder, jaw tightening. Naima's expression didn't change, but her gaze flicked briefly toward Penguin's guards, measuring.
Quentin just grinned. He let the insult hang, as if savoring it, then leaned forward across the table. "That's one way to put it," he said. "Another way is—" he blew smoke deliberately into Penguin's space "—an ever growing group of highly motivated individuals that have already taken apart one organization."
Penguin's smile faltered for a second, his eyes narrowing. Quentin caught it and chuckled deep in his chest.
"Tell that to joke of yours to Roman," Quentin said softly, tapping his cigar against the edge of the table. "Ask him how many of his boys limped home last time he came sniffing around my turf, ask him how much of his business he has left?"
Silence settled. Penguin shifted in his chair, but didn't look away.
Then he leaned back, puffing his own cigar, regaining his composure with a smug little sniff. "Black Mask is sloppy. Always has been. Hardly a measure of strength. You and your… underpasses, was it? You'd do better under my wing. I take care of my people. In return, I expect loyalty. Tribute. A share."
He snapped his fingers, and one of his men leaned down to murmur a figure in his ear. Penguin smirked, then said aloud, "Seventy percent." Thɪs chapter is updated by NovᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt
Dre swore under his breath. Even Naima's head turned sharply at the number.
Quentin stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed again, a deep, rolling laugh that filled the hollow station. He slapped the table once, hard enough to rattle the ashtray.
"Seventy? You're a funny man, Oswald." He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. "Here's the truth. I don't need your wing. What I need what we need is understanding. We'll cut you in, sure, but not for scraps off our table."
He lifted a finger, wagging it as though correcting a child. "We'll handle our business. Our routes, our people. In return, you get priority with us. Someone needs hiding? We make it happen. No questions asked. Even your boys, if it comes to it. We're faster, quieter, cleaner than anyone else in Gotham and we will even provide our services at a discount!"
He flicked ash onto the floor, gaze never leaving Penguin's. "That's worth more than a seventy-percent leash."
The words hung heavy, the smoke between them now thick enough to sting the eyes.
Penguin's laugh was short and humorless, like the snapping of a beak. He leaned forward, the tip of his cigar glowing, smoke curling around the sharp line of his nose.
"You've got brass ones, I'll give you that. But let's not get sentimental about your little… discount courier service." His smile stretched thin. "You think the rest of Gotham's players will smile and nod while some band of tunnel rats carve out lanes under their feet? Maroni's people, Two-Face's strays, even the scraps of what's left of Black Mask's crew they're not fond of encroachment. And when they come knocking, what do you think you'll do? Hide in the dark?"
He jabbed the air with his cigar. "Without me, Everleigh, you don't get to breathe long enough to make promises. You don't get routes. You don't get protection. You don't get survival. Gotham has rules. And every man who thought he could bend them…" Penguin spread his hands, mock-innocent, "…is bones at the bottom of the river."
Dre muttered, "We're not scared of your river," loud enough for the guards to hear. One of them stepped forward, hand twitching near his jacket, but Naima shifted her stance calm, centered, her eyes cutting through the tension like a blade.
Quentin didn't move. He exhaled a slow plume of smoke that drifted across the table and smiled, teeth white in the dim light.
"Rats." Quentin twisted the word around his tongue, "Rats survive, Oswald. Rats multiply. Rats chew through wood, stone, steel things you think are permanent. Ask Roman what happens when you try to stomp on them."
Quentin's grin widened, sharp in the half-light. "Same thing will happen to Maroni. I promise you that."
Penguin's eyes narrowed, but Quentin leaned forward, tone shifting, more measured, more pointed.
"But listen if you think, for a second, I'll concede ground to anyone, you're mistaken. That's not why I came here today." He tapped ash from his cigar, his voice steady. "I came here to propose a neutral pact. Between your people and mine. We don't need to fight. Hell, we've no reason to. Our businesses don't clash they complement. You help me a little there, I help you a little here… guess what? Both our businesses grow fatter."
Quentin spread his hands, calm, almost persuasive now. "This city doesn't need another war. And I don't need another enemy. So what if Maroni's family doesn't like it? Let them grumble. If we stand together, if we keep this as cooperation—not competition then we both come out stronger."
For a moment, the station filled only with the sound of dripping water and the faint hum of the city overhead.
Penguin sat back, the ember of his cigar glowing as he studied Quentin across the table. His expression softened into something sly, calculating the look of a man who had just been handed a puzzle, and was deciding how best to solve it.
Dre made eye contact with one of penguins men, both of them looked tired of standing but sadly it seemed their bosses were content with negotiating for however long is needed.