The black sedan rolled to a smooth stop beneath the stone archway of the original Continental. Rain from earlier in the afternoon still clung to the pavement, turning the street into a mirror that reflected the hotel's warm golden lights. Beyond the security barricades, a crowd of reporters waited with cameras already raised, their voices muffled through the sedan's tinted windows but no less eager. Nolan barely had a moment to brace himself before flashes of light began exploding against the glass.
He closed his eyes for a second.
It would have been easier to let Kieran take over.
Kieran thrived in moments like these. Cameras adored him, investors trusted him, and reporters somehow left interviews believing they'd learned something despite him revealing almost nothing. A smile from Kieran could redirect an entire conversation without anyone realizing it had happened.
Nolan, on the other hand, would have preferred almost anything else.
Still, they had agreed.
If Nolan intended to become more than the frightened busboy he had once been, he couldn't hide behind Kieran forever. Public appearances, interviews, charity galas—none of them carried any real danger. They were the perfect place to practice.
Kieran had called it confidence-building.
Nolan privately considered it a particularly creative form of torture.
He wasn't entirely sure which of them was right.
The rear door swung open.
The noise hit him immediately.
Camera shutters erupted in rapid succession as flashes painted the evening white. Reporters surged against the barricades, each one trying to shout louder than the next while Nolan stepped onto the curb. Two members of Continental security fell into formation beside him without a word, creating just enough space for him to move toward the entrance.
"Mr. Everleigh!"
"What are your plans for the Continental? Are you planning to continue expanding across America?"
"Mr. Everleigh! Is it true the Metropolis location will open before the end of the year?"
"Reports suggest Wayne Industries is competing with the Continental over several key properties. Has your friendship with Bruce Wayne deteriorated?"
Questions flew from every direction, overlapping into an indistinguishable wall of noise.
Nolan resisted the urge to quicken his pace.
'Slow down,' Kieran's voice reminded him from the back of his mind. 'If you rush, they'll smell blood.'
'Easy for you to say,' Nolan muttered internally.
He stopped just long enough to turn toward the gathered reporters. The cameras intensified immediately, flashes strobing across his face. Nolan forced a smile onto his lips, feeling every muscle in his cheeks protest. It wasn't effortless like Kieran's. It felt practiced, almost stiff, and he couldn't help wondering if everyone watching noticed.
Hopefully they didn't.
"The Continental has always been about bringing exceptional service to new cities," Nolan said, projecting his voice over the crowd without singling out any particular reporter. "We're excited to continue expanding, both throughout the United States and eventually abroad. Metropolis has been an incredible project, and we're looking forward to welcoming our first guests in the coming months."
A dozen more questions followed before he'd even finished speaking.
He caught one above the rest.
"What about Bruce Wayne?"
Nolan couldn't help but chuckle.
"I actually read those headlines on the drive over," he replied. "Bruce and I had a good laugh about them. Healthy competition is part of business, and I have nothing but respect for Wayne Industries. If we're both interested in the same property, I'm sure we'll survive the experience."
The answer earned a ripple of laughter from the crowd, exactly as Kieran had taught him. Defuse the tension, answer just enough to satisfy them, then leave before anyone could ask a meaningful follow-up.
Nolan offered a polite nod before turning toward the hotel's entrance.
The revolving doors closed behind him, and with them came blissful silence.
He exhaled, shoulders relaxing for what felt like the first time in several minutes.
"I'll never understand how Kieran enjoys that," he muttered under his breath.
The concierge, who had somehow managed to appear the instant Nolan crossed the marble threshold, offered a courteous smile.
"Welcome back, sir."
Nolan returned the greeting with one of his own, this one far more genuine than the smile he'd worn outside.
"Thank you. Could you have Naima and Marcy meet me in my office as soon as they're available?"
"Of course, Mr. Everleigh."
The concierge reached for the telephone before Nolan had even finished speaking.
As Nolan crossed the lobby, guests continued about their business without so much as a second glance. Businessmen checked into their suites. Bellhops wheeled polished luggage carts across the marble floor. A pianist played softly from the lounge, filling the air with music that almost drowned out the muted conversations around him.
To the ordinary eye, it was simply another evening inside one of the finest hotels in America.
To those who knew better, the Continental had never been just a hotel. Nolan spotted at least five mercenaries as soon as he walked in.
And Nolan had far more important meetings waiting for him than the reporters outside could ever imagine.
***
Quentin was already on his feet when the office door opened.
A rare smile crossed his face as Naima and Marcy stepped inside. He pulled each of them into a brief embrace, one after the other, before motioning toward the chairs opposite his desk.
"It's good to see you both again."
Marcy smiled warmly as she set her tablet on the polished oak desk. "It's good to see you too, boss. I hope your business trip was productive."
"It was…" Quentin replied, loosening his jacket as he lowered himself into his chair. "Though not quite in the way I expected."
Naima took the seat beside Marcy, her sharp eyes scanning the room before settling back on Quentin. "Is Terrell joining us?"
Quentin shook his head.
"No. I have another assignment for him. What we're discussing today requires a different set of hands."
Neither woman questioned the decision. They had worked with Quentin long enough to know that every assignment was deliberate.
He reached into a cedar humidor resting in the corner of his desk and selected a cigar with practiced care. A silver cutter clipped the end cleanly before he struck a match, the flame briefly illuminating the room as he lit it. The first slow draw filled the office with the rich scent of tobacco.
"I'll hear everyone's reports later," he said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Right now we have more pressing matters."
His expression hardened.
"Someone attempted to assassinate me during the flight back."
The room instantly fell silent.
"I survived and changed planes. finishing the trip aboard Ra's al Ghul's aircraft." Quentin gave a dry chuckle devoid of humor. "That conversation created its own collection of problems, but we'll deal with those in time."
Naima leaned forward, concern replacing her usual composed demeanor.
"We heard something happened," she said. "Are you alright? Do we know who sent them?"
"I have theories."
Quentin rotated the cigar between his fingers, watching the ember glow.
"The fortunate thing about conspiracies is that people inevitably become proud of them. Someone always talks. Confirming my suspicions won't be difficult."
He took another measured puff before changing subjects without warning.
"Bruce has decided to make his move."
Marcy didn't seem surprised. She simply unlocked her tablet and brought up several spreadsheets, graphs, and highlighted acquisition reports.
"It's exactly as you predicted," she said while scrolling through the data. "Wayne Industries isn't trying to outbid us directly. They're applying financial pressure from every angle. Property acquisitions, supplier contracts, construction firms, lending institutions…" She looked up from the screen. "He's squeezing the network instead of attacking the hotels themselves."
Quentin smiled approvingly.
"He's trying to make us desperate."
Marcy nodded.
"If we're forced to move too quickly, we'll make mistakes. Mistakes leave evidence."
"Exactly."
There was genuine admiration in Quentin's voice.
"Bruce isn't chasing profits. He's creating stress. The more pressure he applies, the more likely someone beneath us slips. One forged signature, one frightened accountant, one careless payment…" He tapped ash neatly into a crystal tray. "…and Batman has his thread to pull."
Naima frowned.
"So what do we do?"
"We stay patient."
Quentin's confidence never wavered.
"Bruce believes he's dictating the pace of this game." A faint grin spread across his face. "He's forgotten that pressure works both ways."
He turned toward Marcy.
"You scheduled the bump-in?"
"I did."
She reached into her purse and produced an ivory envelope embossed with a gold seal before sliding it across the desk.
"Bruce Wayne has confirmed he'll be attending the Gotham Children's Restoration Gala tomorrow evening. Your invitation arrived this morning."
Quentin picked up the envelope, turning it over thoughtfully before setting it beside the ashtray.
"Perfect."
His smile grew ever so slightly.
"The situation isn't ideal, but it isn't critical either. Bruce is probing for weaknesses. That means he doesn't have any yet."
The room fell quiet once more.
Naima finally broke the silence.
"And the assassination attempt?"
Quentin's smile widened into something far colder.
"I want eyes on the Iceberg Lounge."
Neither woman spoke.
"I don't care if Cobblepot had anything to do with it," Quentin continued. "The Lounge is where Gotham's underworld breathes. If someone was bold enough to hire professionals to kill me, word will drift through those walls sooner or later."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
"I want bartenders paid, dealers questioned, waitresses listened to, and every doorman with loose lips finding extra money in his pocket. Don't ask direct questions. Don't let anyone know we're looking."
His eyes moved from Naima to Marcy.
"Tomorrow I'll meet your new find, he better be good."