It was around 3 PM, and the Iceberg Club was mostly empty except for a group of Italian-American gangsters flirting with the prostitutes.
Unlike thugs from smaller gangs, the Italians—being the most dominant criminal group in Gotham—were known for their lavish spending. Even their lower-ranking members were generous, which made them popular with the working girls. And really, what difference did it make who they flirted with? Before heading out to serve actual clients that night, most of the prostitutes didn't mind earning a little extra from the thugs.
Even if some show-offs preferred to get freebies, being around them still provided the prostitutes with a sense of security. So why not?
In this cheerful atmosphere, members of the Sabatino family—who had been at war with the Russian mafia earlier that day—arrived.
Instantly, a clear division spread across the Iceberg Club.
Although all the thugs present were Italian-American and nominally under Don Falcone's command, their loyalties were split into factions.
Sal Maroni, Johnny Sabatino, and Fish Mooney.
These three were the major Italian mafia bosses, second only to Falcone himself.
On the surface, they were united behind Falcone, their shared heritage helping them dominate both Gotham's underworld and its legitimate enterprises. But privately, they were anything but united—especially as Falcone grew older. The power struggle between the three intensified year by year.
And as for Oswald Cobblepot, the current manager of the Iceberg Club—well, he wasn't even Italian.
Just two years ago, this man had been nothing more than one of Fish Mooney's underlings. Yet through the vicious power struggles between Fish, Maroni, and Sabatino, Oswald had risen to become Falcone's fourth boss.
Oswald's rise inspired new ambitions within the Italian ranks—voices hungry for chaos and opportunity in a family once firmly controlled by Falcone. Yet so far, only Oswald had actually reached the top.
After securing the job of managing the Iceberg Club, Oswald replaced the staff with his own loyal men. Which meant that, during the day when the club wasn't officially open, most of the thugs lounging around were his people.
But now, with the Sabatino family barging in—fresh off a fight and eager to vent—the atmosphere naturally tensed.
Upon hearing of Sabatino's arrival, Oswald approached with a grin.
From a distance, he spread his arms toward the leader, Johnny Sabatino.
"Johnny! I heard the good news a while ago. You beat the Dimitrov family to a pulp. For at least three months, they won't dare interfere in our ports anymore."
"Of course! Those Russian bastards are no match for me. Falcone's decisions are always so rational. I'm their nemesis!"
Oswald and Sabatino seemed ready to embrace, but just as Oswald leaned in, Sabatino suddenly stopped. He turned toward Oswald with a cold, mocking smile.
"Damn, I forgot to squat! Oswald, hugging you always requires bending over. Feels like I'm hugging a dwarf."
He smirked cruelly.
"Falcone should've sent you to deal with the Dimitrovs. Your short, limping appearance alone would've made them laugh to death!"
Sabatino then turned and waved at his men, inviting them to stare at Oswald.
"Come on, take a look! This guy limps around—doesn't he look like a penguin? Aside from being a bit skinny, I don't need to watch Animal Planet: Arctic Edition anymore!"
"What? Penguins are in Antarctica, not the Arctic?"
He spread his arms theatrically.
"No, no, no… penguins are in the damn Iceberg Club! Hahahahaha!"
While Sabatino burst into arrogant laughter, Oswald's smile didn't change.
Behind him, his men raised their pistols in anger, but Oswald lifted a hand, stopping them.
Meeting Sabatino's smug expression, Oswald smiled back and nodded with the elegance of a nobleman.
"Let penguins manage icebergs—what could be more fitting?"
He took a step closer.
"Sabatino, just as you said, Mr. Falcone is always wise. Because his decisions have never been wrong… it's me managing this place. Not you."
As he finished, Oswald raised his hands. His subordinate placed a cigar and a cigar cutter into them. Oswald calmly cut the cigar, his eyes never leaving Sabatino.
"Mocking me? Provoking me? What are you trying to prove? That Mr. Falcone was wrong?"
He smiled softly.
"You should trust Mr. Falcone as much as I do. I truly feel sorry for you… Sabatino."
"Tch. Sharp-tongued trash," Sabatino sneered, jabbing a finger toward Oswald's chest. "Everyone knows you clawed your way up by stabbing both sides in the back."
He took another aggressive step forward, voice thick with contempt.
"Even if you butter up every word, do you honestly think Falcone sees you as a confidant? After what you did to Maroni? To Fish?"
His lip curled. "You're a target, Penguin. The only one who thinks you matter is you."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"Best thing that's ever happened to me? You haven't betrayed me… yet. So do us both a favor—stay the hell away."
Then, with a cruel chuckle, he added, "Or your corpse won't end up in the harbor. I'll ship you back to Antarctica myself—let you guard those icebergs like the damn penguin king you pretend to be."
Oswald didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, he placed a cigar between his lips. One of his men stepped forward, lighter flaring in the dim club light. Oswald inhaled, exhaled a lazy plume of smoke, and shook his head with faint amusement.
"Sabatino," he said, voice smooth as velvet over broken glass, "I doubt you were born leading your family. So—who did you step on to get there?"
He flicked ash from his cigar. "Words won't break either of us. If you've got real bones to pick—with Falcone's choices, with me—then draw your piece and settle it."
He snapped his fingers.
Behind him, a dozen henchmen cocked their pistols in unison, barrels glinting under the Iceberg Club's chandeliers.
Oswald stepped closer—not threateningly, but with the quiet confidence of a predator circling wounded prey. He reached out, patted Sabatino's forearm like an old friend.
"Tell you what," he murmured. "Let's make a wager. I bet you won't shoot me right here." His smile was razor-thin. "Or… is your courage smaller than a penguin's?"
He pulled a sleek pistol from behind his back and pressed the muzzle gently—almost affectionately—against Sabatino's ribs.
"The chips are on the table. So… call? Or shall I go all in?"
Sabatino's men reacted instantly, raising their weapons. The room crackled with lethal tension.
But Sabatino only laughed—a loud, forced bark that echoed off the ice sculptures.
"Stand down," he ordered, waving a dismissive hand. "You really think this bird's got the stones to kill me here?" He smirked at Oswald. "Maybe he's got guts. But not today. Not in Falcone's house."
He straightened his coat, stepped forward until the gun dug into his sternum, and met Oswald's gaze head-on.
"Go on, Penguin. Show me your 'all-in.' This is the Iceberg Club. This is Falcone territory…"
"And I," Oswald cut in softly, "am Oswald Cobblepot."
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire erupted—wild, chaotic—but not from Oswald or Sabatino. One of the henchmen, nerves shredded, had fired first. In an instant, both sides were shouting, weapons raised, fingers tightening on triggers—
—until Oswald threw back his head and laughed.
Not a chuckle. A full-throated, theatrical laugh that cut through the panic like a blade.
Still gripping his pistol, he shoved it harder into Sabatino's chest.
"You're afraid," Oswald hissed, eyes gleaming. "Having flashbacks, aren't you? Good. Listen close—this is your first lesson:
Just because the road always leads where you expect… doesn't mean thorns won't grow right beneath your feet. And one will trip you."
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper laced with venom.
"When you mock the way I walk, do you know what I'm thinking?"
A pause. A smile.
"I'm laughing at your bluster. Your cowardice."
He straightened, sweeping a hand toward the room.
"Let's speak plainly. I'm not a penguin. I'm not in Antarctica. I'm sitting in a club—my club—making more money in an hour than you see in a month… without throwing a single punch."
His eyes narrowed.
"And here are the truths you dare not face:
That the 'little rat' you used to kick aside? He's now someone you won't lay a hand on.
That I'm still young—and you? You're already rotting.
That one day soon… I'll get the call that you're dead."
Oswald let the silence hang, watching Sabatino's jaw twitch, his eyes flicker with rage and something worse—doubt.
When Sabatino finally opened his mouth to retort, Oswald cut him off with a sharp, silencing gesture.
"Since you know I'm sharp-tongued," he said coolly, "do us both a kindness—keep your mouth shut in my presence."
He holstered his weapon. "Now. Enough theatrics. You didn't come here to trade insults. Let's discuss business."
A final, icy look.
"Assuming you haven't pissed yourself yet… you still remember how that works, don't you?"