Floyd lounged back in the leather like he owned the chair. Deadshot's easy posture never quite hid the chiselled readiness beneath. He gave Nolan a sideways look that said he'd rather be anywhere else, then let out a low chuckle.
"I'm surprised you asked me to come all the way up here," he said. "You still owe me a favor, Everleigh. Last I checked, you had a tab outstanding. I bring the word about your little business and now you call me here like I'm your charity case."
Kieran's smile was thin and perfectly polite. He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward, charm turned up a fraction. "I thought we might kill two birds with one stone, Floyd. Business and protection, together. You've seen what's happening in Gotham hard not to. My people can use a steadying hand."
Floyd scoffed, one corner of his mouth lifting. "You have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to see what's happening. Every bar, every backroom people talk. People are counting down the days. I'm surprised you'd put your group in that spotlight."
Kieran's expression didn't flicker; it was the actor's mask, smooth and rehearsed. "I hope you don't think about taking contracts on me or my people," he said, voice soft. "I'm not in the habit of making the Continental a war zone."
Floyd barked out a laugh that had no warmth. "Listen any real pros who take a hit on a high-priority target know better. Either it's me, someone like me—or a very large, very professional organization. The wrong kind of contract will leave you worse off whether they succeed or fail. If an amateur pulls it off, your gang hunts them to the ends of the earth to prove they aren't weak. If they fail the hit? Dead by the morning. The League of Shadows? They fox around Gotham, sure, but they don't sign up for turf wars on day one. They wait and move when a foothold is worth the risk."
Kieran's jaw loosened imperceptibly. Nolan felt it before he registered it: the quiet, inward relief like a breath easing out. He let the thought sit a second and let Kieran answer with that same velvet patience. "That's… reassuring," he said silently, then let his voice carry the assurance outward. "I didn't realize they operated that way."
Floyd shrugged, loud and unconcerned. "So if you wanted me to just refuse contracts that name you, is that it? Because you could've sent a runner for a note. You've got me here; you must want something more if you dragged me out of my lane."
Kieran's eyes sharpened. He didn't sit on niceties. "I'm looking to hire you for an extended period," he said. "Two things. First: train my staff. Not to make them professional killers necessarily. Proficiency. Hand-to-hand, defensive drills, basic firearms competence so our people can survive a scuffle and protect the place. Not overnight, but competent. Second: be our discretion arm. If I come across a rule-breaker who crosses certain lines targets that endanger the Underpass, that target innocents, or that endanger our infrastructure I want you to handle it. Under your terms, of course."
Floyd's eyebrows climbed. "So basically, you want me to be your teacher and your bouncer with a price tag."
"Something like that," Kieran said. "A retainer. On-call for matters that can't be handled quietly by our people. You pick your hours, your rules, your fees. I'm asking for loyalty, yours when I need it."
Floyd let the offer roll over him like a wave. He whistled thinly. "Two birds, one stone, huh? Sounds mostly beneficial to you."
Kieran let the smile press into something harder. "You'll be paid well, Floyd. Retainer plus per-job. Room and board at the Continental while you're in town. Discretion guaranteed. You'll get the dignity of your checks and the privacy you prefer."
Floyd's face split with a grin that didn't warm his eyes. "Free room? You're bribing me with hospitality now? That's cute. But sure I like the money angle. I like being paid, a stable income in one place will help with some things. You want me training your concierges and bouncers so they can put down a backyard scuffle without embarrassing me? Fine. And you want me to handle the stick when someone pushes too hard at your people or breaks the rules? Fine but I'm not your lapdog."
Kieran nodded. "You'll operate under your own rules. If it's messy, it's messy on your terms. We don't want publicity. You don't want constraints when you work. That's the trade."
Floyd let out another low laugh, then sat forward, both hands steepled. "All right. I'll do it. I'll train your people a step above the normal henchmen maybe they can start being people who can clear a hallway." He laughed, "I'll be around to send a message if someone tries to skirt you. But I can leave when I want, also if I judge a job too much trouble for the what it's worth then I'm not doing it."
Kieran's smile was all courtesy. "Understood." He reached to the drawer, pulled out a slim envelope, and slid it across the desk. "Quarter up front, remainder after the initial training rotation. Rooms available immediately. We'll arrange secure lines for your communications. We'll keep it as quiet as it needs to be."
Floyd picked the envelope up, weighed it between thumb and finger, then tossed it back with a slight smirk. "Conversation starter. Don't insult me with a down payment and expect me to work for the rest. But I like the access. Give me the schedule for your staff when they're on and where—and I'll tell you what I can do in a week, what takes longer, and what I won't touch."
Kieran's eyes were bright with calculation, Nolan's heart beat steady in the background as all three men negotiated the edges of a contract that wasn't only business it was protection, deterrent, and threat rolled into one. They set hours, safe words, a preliminary list of personnel to be trained, and a clause about refusal of jobs naming the Underpass as sanctioned targets.
When the formalities wound down, Floyd rose, smooth and ready. "I'll be around. You give me access to the people and the privacy, I'll make the rooms less murder-friendly for the amateurs and less profitable for the smart-ass crews who think they can buy the city." He paused, then looked Nolan in the eye. "One favor on your tab? Don't expect me to forgive if you stiff me on this."
Kieran's hand closed in a firm, gentlemanly shake. "You'll be paid. And I'll send a runner the rest once we're agreed." He let his smile return, practiced and gracious. "Welcome aboard, Floyd."
Floyd's laugh was short, dry. "You don't know what you're getting into Everleigh."
Kieran calculated the cost of the man before him and weeped for his bank account.
***
Falcone's office was dim light filtered through thick cigar smoke and the faint jazz spilling from an old phonograph. The walls were paneled mahogany, the desk a slab of black oak littered with open files, photos, and maps of Gotham's underbelly. A single red marker circled the Old Gotham sewer junction.
Carmine Falcone sat behind his desk, a half-finished glass of bourbon trembling slightly in his hand. The muscle in his jaw flexed as his underboss, a heavyset man named Rocco Maranzano, stood stiffly across from him.
"You told me it would be easy," Falcone said at last. The words came out quiet, almost calm but they hung in the air like the calm before a gunshot.
Rocco swallowed. "Boss, it should've been. They were street rats I know they took out the whispers but they are weak too. Homeless nobodies with guns. We sent a army—"
"An army," Falcone repeated, placing the glass down with deliberate care. "My men. Trained, armed, paid. And you're telling me a army of men went into a sewer and didn't come back."
Rocco's throat bobbed. "The reports are—"
Falcone's fist came down on the table, rattling the glass and snapping the cigar in two. "I don't give a shit about the reports!" he roared, rising from his chair. His voice cracked through the smoke like a whip. "You want to tell me what the hell happened down there?"
Rocco gulped loudly.
And prayed he would leave the room alive.