The round table was large enough for eight, but tonight it held only five men. Penguin sat at the head, with Vincent Torrino to his right, Marcus Bertinelli to his left, and Tommy Falcone across from him. The fifth chair belonged to Sal Maroni's representative, a thin man with nervous eyes who kept checking his watch.
"Gentlemen," Penguin began, adjusting his monocle, "I believe we can all agree that recent events have changed the landscape of our business."
"Five more bodies this week," Torrino said grimly. "Including my nephew's crew at the warehouse."
"And that museum doctor," Bertinelli added. "Word is this Saguro freak is targeting anyone he thinks is corrupt."
"Which could be any of us," Maroni's man muttered.
Penguin smiled coldly. "Exactly my point. Individually, we're targets. Together, we're a force he can't easily eliminate." He gestured to a stack of files at the center of the table. "I've been tracking his pattern. He strikes at isolated targets, people who work alone or in small groups. He avoids direct confrontation with organized resistance."
Tommy Falcone leaned forward. "So you want us to pool resources?"
"I want us to survive." Penguin opened one of the files, revealing surveillance photos and police reports. "This man isn't just killing criminals—he's dismantling the entire power structure of Gotham's underworld. If we don't act together, he'll pick us off one by one."
Torrino studied the photos. "What are you proposing?"
"Shared security. Coordinated operations. Instead of competing for territory, we divide responsibilities and watch each other's backs." Penguin's voice was matter-of-fact. "The Hangman—that's what the press is calling him—he wants to clean up Gotham. Fine. We give him targets he can't refuse."
"Meaning?" Bertinelli asked.
"Meaning we feed him information about our competitors. The Russians, the Triads, independent operators who've been cutting into our business." Penguin's smile widened. "Let him clean house for us."
The men around the table exchanged glances. It was ruthless, even by their standards, but it was also practical.
"And after he's done?" Maroni's representative asked.
"After he's done, we'll control everything he's left behind. A unified Gotham underworld, stronger than it's ever been." Penguin raised his glass. "Fear makes people desperate. Desperate people make mistakes. And we're going to make sure we're the only ones left standing when the dust settles."
One by one, the other men raised their glasses. It wasn't trust that bound them—it was mutual terror. But in Gotham, that was often enough.
...
Bruce Wayne sat in his corporate office, but he wasn't reviewing quarterly reports. Spread across his desk were shipping manifests, customs documents, and financial records that painted a disturbing picture of Gotham's import business.
The pattern was subtle but unmistakable—over the past six months, weapons shipments had increased by three hundred percent. Not military hardware, but small arms, ammunition, and tactical equipment. The kind of gear used by private security firms or mercenary operations.
All of it was flowing through companies with connections to the major crime families. Shell corporations, offshore accounts, and carefully laundered money trails that led back to a single source: Gotham International Shipping, a subsidiary of Cobblepot Industries.
Bruce pulled up satellite images of the docks, focusing on warehouse complexes that had been built or renovated in the past year. Three facilities, all strategically located, all with enhanced security and minimal oversight.
...
The drug dealer's name was Marcus Webb, and he'd been selling to kids outside Gotham Elementary for six months. Social services knew about him, the police knew about him, but somehow he kept slipping through the cracks of the justice system.
Saguro found him in an abandoned building, counting money from the day's sales. Webb was young, maybe twenty-five, with the hollow eyes of someone who'd been using his own product.
"Marcus Webb," Saguro said, emerging from the shadows.
Webb spun around, reaching for a gun, but Saguro was faster. The weapon clattered across the floor, and Webb found himself pressed against the wall, a rope already around his neck.
"Please, man, I don't know what you want—"
"I want you to think about the children," Saguro said calmly. "Eight-year-old Sarah Martinez, who bought your pills thinking they were candy. Ten-year-old David Chen, who's been missing school because of the addiction you gave him."
"I never sold to kids, I swear—"
"You sold outside their school. You put poison into their community." Saguro tightened the rope slightly. "Tell me, Marcus, do you have children?"
"A daughter. She's three."
"And what would you do to someone who gave her drugs?"
Webb's eyes widened as he understood. "Please, I can stop. I can get clean. I can make it right."
"Can you bring back the children who've overdosed? Can you undo the families you've destroyed?" Saguro's voice remained eerily calm. "Can you give Sarah Martinez back her childhood?"
The hanging was quick, but Saguro's work wasn't finished. He strung Webb up in the schoolyard where he'd been dealing, with a sign around his neck: "This is what happens to those who poison our children."
It was a message that would be impossible to ignore, broadcast on every news channel in Gotham by morning. Saguro was no longer just targeting the organized criminals—he was declaring war on anyone he deemed unworthy of life.
And the list of people who qualified was getting longer every day.