The city slipped away behind tinted glass as the car rolled north, Gotham's jagged skyline dissolving into stretches of guarded roads and old money seclusion. Nolan sat back in the leather seat, his posture was relaxed as he tried to ignore the small tinge of nerves coursing up his spine. His suit was immaculate—custom charcoal, cut to hide the last traces of injury and to suggest a man entirely in control. Cufflinks caught the low light with restrained elegance. Kieran insisted upon them.
The charity invitation rested on the seat beside him, embossed and understated. A private estate. Bristol Township. The kind of place where wealth didn't announce itself because it didn't have to.
As the car slowed and turned through wrought-iron gates, Nolan exhaled softly and blinked.
The shift was seamless.
Kieran Everleigh straightened in the seat, rolling one shoulder with a faint wince before smoothing it away. His expression settled into something warmer, more approachable—an expression practiced in mirrors and boardrooms alike. He glanced at the reflection in the window, adjusted his tie by a millimeter, and nodded once, satisfied.
The estate emerged ahead of them, lights glowing through manicured trees, the driveway curving toward a grand but tasteful manor. Valets moved with quiet efficiency. Security was present, but discreet—men in suits, not uniforms. Old money preferred the illusion of safety over its spectacle.
The car came to a smooth stop.
The driver stepped out first, moving around to open the rear door.
Before he could speak, Kieran leaned forward slightly.
"Stay sharp tonight," he said quietly, voice calm but edged with intent. "I want you to mark down the name and face of everyone entering and exiting."
The driver met his eyes, recognizing the tone beneath the politeness. "Yes, sir."
Kieran stepped out onto the gravel drive, the night air cool against his face. The sounds of the event drifted toward him—soft music, polite laughter, the murmur of power conversing over charity and champagne.
He adjusted his cuffs once more, lifted his chin, and walked toward the estate.
Whatever game was being played tonight, Kieran Everleigh intended to see the board clearly.
The estate opened to him in layers.
Warm light spilled from tall windows onto polished stone, the glow softening the edges of the night. Inside, the air carried the faint scent of citrus and expensive perfume, the kind carefully chosen to suggest generosity rather than indulgence. Servers moved smoothly through the space with silver trays, crystal glasses chiming softly as they were lifted and set down. Conversations overlapped in practiced tones—measured laughter, philanthropic concern, strategic familiarity.
Kieran Everleigh stepped inside and was immediately intercepted by a woman in her late forties, composed and brisk, her smile genuine but sharpened by responsibility. She wore a tailored navy dress and carried herself like someone used to keeping powerful people on schedule.
"Kieran," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Elaine Whitmore. I'm organizing the event. Thank you so much for coming."
"The pleasure's mine," Kieran replied easily, taking her hand. "And thank you for the invitation. You've outdone yourself—this place is beautiful."
Elaine smiled, a touch of relief flickering across her face. "I'm just glad you could make it, especially with the orphanage opening tomorrow. I imagine that's been… a lot."
"It has," Kieran said, without complaint. "But it's the good kind of pressure."
She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "Be honest—are you nervous?"
Kieran's smile softened, becoming something real. "Not really. Excited, more than anything. Gotham doesn't get better by accident. Someone has to decide to make a change."
Elaine nodded, clearly pleased by the answer. "Well, we're honored to be part of it. Enjoy the evening. I'll be calling everyone together shortly."
As she moved off, Kieran accepted a glass from a passing server and began to circulate. He exchanged pleasantries with donors, listened more than he spoke, asked the right questions. Real estate magnates, foundation heads, old families with new pet causes—each conversation was brief but deliberate. He was present without dominating, attentive without seeming hungry for approval.
It didn't take long before he settled near one of the central tables, close enough to the heart of the room to be seen without appearing eager. From there, he watched the flow of the event, noting who spoke to whom, who avoided whose gaze, where the security lingered just a second too long.
A subtle shift in the room signaled the transition.
Elaine stepped onto the small dais near the fireplace, tapping the microphone gently until the hum of conversation faded.
"Good evening, everyone," she began, voice warm and practiced. "Thank you all for coming tonight to support an initiative that means a great deal to this city…"
Applause followed, polite and sustained.
Kieran listened, glass resting loosely in his hand, eyes on the speaker as she spoke about civic responsibility, about investment not just in infrastructure but in people. About the orphanage opening the following morning, about second chances and stability.
It was then he felt it.
Not a hand on his shoulder. Not a touch at all.
Just a presence stepping into his space, close enough that their arm brushed his sleeve as if by accident.
A man's voice slid into his ear, low and conversational, carefully timed to be lost beneath Elaine's speech.
"It's good to see you out enjoying yourself, Mr. Everleigh," the man said. "Gotham needs success stories. Your hotel, for instance—flourishing. And it can continue to do so."
Kieran didn't look at him right away. He kept his gaze forward, expression neutral.
"Cities are fragile things," the voice continued, pleasant on the surface, iron beneath it. "They respond well to cooperation. Less so to… disruption."
Kieran finally turned his head.
The man beside him was unremarkable by design—mid-fifties, tailored suit, the kind of face that slipped easily from memory. His smile never reached his eyes.
Kieran's lips curved into a faint smirk.
"I appreciate the concern," he replied quietly. "But I've found Gotham throws a lot at you. You learn to handle it."
The man's smile tightened, just a fraction.
"I'm sure you do."
Kieran lifted his glass slightly, a casual, almost friendly gesture. "Still, I've never been one to confuse guidance with threats. If there's a problem, I prefer it stated plainly."
For a moment, the man studied him, as if reassessing something he thought he understood.
Then Elaine's speech reached a natural pause, applause rising again, and the man stepped back into the crowd as smoothly as he'd arrived.
Kieran faced forward once more, his smile unchanged.
But his eyes were sharp now.
And very, very awake.
The applause swelled and then ebbed, polite and controlled, giving the room permission to breathe again. Conversations restarted in low waves. Crystal chimed. Somewhere a string quartet adjusted their tempo.
The man didn't leave.
He shifted closer instead, angling his body so to anyone watching it looked like nothing more than two benefactors sharing a quiet aside. His voice dropped another register, smooth as oil.
"You're doing important work, Mr. Everleigh," he said. "Visible work. That kind of attention has… consequences. Zoning delays. Inspectors who suddenly find irregularities. Partners who grow hesitant. All very mundane things, really. They pile up."
Kieran turned back fully toward him now, eyebrows lifting just slightly.
"You know," Kieran said lightly, "I find it fascinating when people talk in riddles at charity events. It really brightens the evening. I thought I already told you to speak directly."
The man's smile didn't waver. "I'm only saying that momentum is a gift. It can be encouraged. Or it can be… interrupted. Gotham has a way of snuffing out growing flames and I would hate to see yours dimmed so early Everleigh."
Kieran studied him for a beat longer, then leaned in just enough that the intimacy of the gesture flipped the dynamic. His voice stayed calm, almost amused.
"There you go buddy," Kieran said. "At least have the decency to own your threats now."
For the first time, something flickered behind the man's eyes—irritation, perhaps, or recalculation.
Before he could answer, Kieran laughed. Not sharp. Not mocking. A warm, easy sound that drew no attention and disarmed the moment entirely. He reached out and clapped the man on the shoulder, the gesture friendly enough to look sincere to anyone glancing their way.
"I appreciate your concern," Kieran said, already stepping back. "Truly. But my life's been difficult for a long time. I've found it builds character."
He raised his glass in a casual salute and turned away, melting back into the crowd as if the exchange had been nothing more than idle small talk.
The man remained where he was, watching Kieran's back disappear among donors and patrons, his smile finally fading.
And for the first time that night, he looked uncertain.
the organizer stepped down, accepting compliments with practiced ease. Her smile was polished, controlled—exactly the kind worn by people who curated rooms like this for a living.
Kieran approached her without hesitation.
He applauded once, slow and deliberate, then offered a pleasant smile. "An excellent speech," he said. "You know how to speak to a room."
Her eyes flicked over him, assessing, before she returned the smile. She laughed softly, relief in her expression. "Thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot."
Before she could step back, Kieran closed the distance and pulled her into a brief embrace.
Her body tensed immediately. This wasn't familiarity—it was intrusion. But the room was full of eyes, and she adjusted just enough to make it look acceptable.
Kieran leaned in, his voice low, intimate, and calm.
"I appreciate the invitation," he murmured. "Your friends were… enlightening to speak with tonight."
Her eyes narrowed instantly, the smile on her lips freezing in place.
Kieran continued, his tone warm, almost gentle. "Charities like yours attract attention. The wrong kind, sometimes. Gangs in this city can be vindictive. They take things very personally sometimes and it worries me."
He paused, letting the implication breathe between them.
"It would be a shame," he added softly, "if something happened because you didn't think of your safety first."
They separated.
Her face had gone noticeably paler, irritation and calculation warring behind her eyes now. The polite smile returned, but it no longer reached them.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said coolly.
Kieran gave her a courteous nod, as if the exchange had been nothing more than professional concern, and turned back toward the crowd.
Behind him, the organizer watched him go, jaw tight.
As Nolan passed the man he talked to previously he laughed and whispered, "That's how you make a threat, learn a little."
'How are you going to tell someone to be direct when you are the most indirect person imaginable' Quentin sad in irritation, 'Shoulda just told that bitch you were going to kill her, did she really think we wouldn't know she set this up.'
Kieran rolled his eyes, 'Don't be silly I just dislike when other people are vague, I can be vague all I want though.'
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A/N: Merry Christmas don't be alarmed if I don't post a chapter I have a lot of Christmas stuff to do!