Albion means the world to Logan. If he'd been told he didn't belong there for ten years, it would have made him sharp too. Wary of anyone repeating the words that had caused so much pain.
"People aren't things," he tells her quietly but firmly. "If Albion wants people to return, the queen can command it. I'm only interested in items. Objects."
The people getting in his way won't be treated kindly, but it won't be what he sets out to do. There are enough murderers in the world, in Gotham, without him becoming one too.
Sofia goes quiet long enough that the restaurant noise sneaks back in around them. Sofia’s expression softens into something that could almost pass for polite, if her eyes weren’t so hard.
“People aren’t things,” she echoes, and the words come out like she’s testing the taste. “That’s adorable. Don’t say it too loud in this city.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if you’d said you were here to ‘remove’ people, I’d have taken that personally.”
She reaches over and hooks a finger against the edge of the bread basket, dragging it closer like she owns it. “Objects.”
Her gaze hardens. “You understand how that sounds here, right? Like you’re either lying—” a beat, “—or you’re naive.”
Sofia tilts her head. “So which is it, Logan? Are you hiding what you want… or do you honestly think an object can be separated cleanly from the bodies around it?”
She drums her nails once on the tablecloth. “Items. Fine. Then you won’t mind being specific. What items. What do they do. Who has them. And what happens to whoever’s holding them when you show up?”
People aren't things. It's something he's being very careful to remind himself as he tries to untangle the thinking he fell into while on the throne. Sofia wouldn't understand that. Who would?
He continues to watch and listen quietly while she judges him aloud, and asks questions he's not entirely sure she cares to hear the answers to. It's easier, he's finding, to just wait until she addresses him directly.
"I'm not going to tell you that." Partly because he still has research to do. Mostly because he doesn't want her interfering. She seems the type who would. "I will say that I intend to do things as cleanly as possible, because it's easier when it can be clean. If not?" He tilts his head in a shrug. "I will get things done regardless."
Then he fixes her with a look of his own, so she knows he's being entirely serious. "But whatever I do, it is in everyone's best interests that I succeed."
Sofia laughs—one hard bark—and a couple heads turn again. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice.
“You’re not going to tell me,” she says, savoring it. “But you are going to tell me it’s for my own good.”
She nods slowly, as if he’s finally spoken a language she recognizes. “Okay. So this is how it is.” Sofia wipes her fingers on the napkin and leaves it ruined. “You don’t want interference. You want access.”
Her eyes stay locked on him. “Then understand something: ‘clean’ is a fairy tale people sell to justify blood.”
She tilts her head, reaches for the wine bottle, finds it empty, and sets it down with a pointed little click. “You don’t want me interfering because you think I’m chaotic.” Her mouth curls. “I am. But I’m also local.”
Logan tops up his wine and then places the newer bottle closer to Sofia. He asked her here to thank her, after all. Making sure she has enough wine is the least he can do.
Besides, it gives her something to do while she talks, and she does like to talk. It's a curious thing, being spoken to as if he doesn't know how that the illusion of polite society is just that: An illusion. This is a different canvas, but the same painting.
"I don't want you interfering because you're chaotic," he confirms. "And because there's a chance that anyone who interacts with the objects I'm looking for will live a very short and painful death." He sips his wine, allowing a pause. "I don't particularly wish that upon you."
Sofia’s laugh doesn’t come this time. She just stares, unblinking, and the restaurant suddenly feels too quiet around them.“Aw,” Sofia says, deadpan. “Chivalry.”
His warning lands and she lets it settle, eyes narrowing—not fear, just recalculation. Short and painful. Objects. Death. So it’s not just theft; it’s a curse with teeth, or enemies with a policy.
“How considerate,” she says softly. “You don’t wish it upon me.”
She reaches for the wine and pours herself a glass for the first time—slow, controlled, almost ceremonial—then drinks, mannerly, Falcone prissy like the woman she was before she went behind bars. “I didn’t ask what you wish,” she says. “I asked what you’re doing.”
She taps the table once. “So you’re not protecting me. You’re protecting your plan.”
The switch-up is impossible to miss. Glaring like sunlight on the sea. He wonders if it's to distract him, or to try another tactic. Whatever it is, he doesn't react. Simply watches.
If she wants to hear his pragmatism, very well. "I'm protecting my plan. I'm protecting myself. I'm protecting a potential ally."
He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "I'm not sure what you hope to gain from knowing my plans. An upper hand? The first chance at an opportunity?"
Sofia’s eyes flick once, amused—at the word ally, and sets her glass down with the same careful precision she picked it up with.
"Protecting a potential ally," she says. "That's very tidy."
She picks up her glass again, takes a measured sip.
"What I hope to gain is simple." She leans back, swirling her wine. "I gave you something first, Logan. That's not desperation. That's investment." She drinks. "I want to know what it bought me."
"You're walking around Gotham with dangerous objects and no local knowledge except what fits on a map." Her tone is even. "Maps don't tell you who owns a building in practice versus on paper. They don't tell you which streets flood when it rains or which warehouses the GCPD pretend not to see."
Her eyes meet his directly.
"That's what you don't have. And that's what I'm deciding whether to offer."
She's right, of course. Local knowledge is invaluable. She might have given him academic information, but that doesn't provide an understanding of the living, breathing city.
Logan considers her carefully. His hand remains touching the base of his wine glass, but he doesn't move to lift it.
He could find out some of the information himself, through slow and painful trial and error. The alternative would be to work with Sofia somehow. Which would mean trusting her. He doesn't. He doesn't know her enough to trust her. Can't predict her enough to trust her.
"What did you hope it bought you?" His eyes scan her face but it gives nothing away. "I'm not sure what I could offer you that would be of interest. I suspect that you're not looking for money, or that I have any influence you would be interested in."
Sofia's mouth curves. Not a smile exactly—something cooler than that. She shakes her head once.
“You really do that thing,” she says. “You act like the only currencies are cash and favors.”
"Money," she repeats, like the word tastes funny. "I'm a Falcone. I don't need your money."
She sets her glass down, the mannerly performance still intact but thinner now—something real underneath pushing against it.
"And influence." She tilts her head. "I've got influence. What I had taken from me was legitimacy." Her voice stays even. "Ten years in Arkham for murders I didn't commit. My name dragged through every paper in this city. My family, well."
She picks at an invisible imperfection on the tablecloth.
"So what did I hope it bought me?" Her eyes come back up to his, direct. “I hoped it bought me relevance,” Sofia says plainly. “I spent ten years being treated like a cautionary tale. I’m not doing that again.”
She takes another sip. “And I hoped it bought me safety. Not from you—don’t flatter yourself. From whatever you’re dragging behind you.”
She sets the glass down with a soft click. “You do have something I want: the chance to choose the shape of what comes next.”
“I want leverage. I want warning. I want a veto when your ‘clean’ turns into bodies on my doorstep.” A pause. “And I want to know what you’re taking out of Gotham, because if it detonates, it detonates here. Not in Albion.”
Sofia’s eyes narrow. “You can offer me honesty in increments. Start with one: what happens if you fail.”
He doesn't correct her. Doesn't point out all the things which he knows are useful in a trade. Let her think he knows so little, that works in his favour. It's more important that she latches onto those things. Money and influence. Easy things to trade. Things he has in abundance. Distractions.
The important thing is he doesn't give her ideas, and she focuses on what she wants, not what she could have. Whatever he does here, he doesn't want it to affect Albion.
Besides, this way he can find out what she's really hoping for. It's not what he expected... but Sofia doesn't care about expectations.
Logan considers her request quietly for a moment. There's a good chance she'll be the one thinking he should end up in Arkham if he's honest with her. But she did ask. And he might as well offer a warning.
"Perhaps nothing," he answers honestly. "Perhaps everything will continue on as it has always done, and nothing changes."
Then his voice and expression hardens. "But if it doesn't... If someone manages to use one of these items... Then either someone becomes very powerful, very quickly. Or they unlock a destructive power which will lay waste to Gotham, along with everyone in it, and continue to spread unless it is stopped."
Sofia stares at him with the stillness of someone who's learned not to react in front of witnesses. Even witnesses she half-trusts.
She looks down at the ruined napkin, the wine-stained tablecloth, the debris of a dinner that became something else entirely.
"Either someone becomes very powerful," she repeats, "or Gotham burns."
She sets her glass down. Folds her hands in her lap.
"You know what's funny?" Her voice is dry. "I thought you were a retrieval job. Complicated, dangerous, probably messy—but contained." She glances up at him. "But this isn't contained, is it. This was never going to be contained."
"And you came here alone." It isn't an accusation, exactly. More like she's reading a document and finding an error. "You came here alone, without telling anyone what you were carrying or what you were looking for, and you took city maps from a woman you'd never met."
Her voice stays even but something sharp is working behind her eyes.
"I've been called reckless." She shakes her head, one small movement. "Logan. That's not clean. That's not careful." A pause. "That's someone who doesn't actually expect to fail."
Someone who doesn't expect to fail. He could almost laugh. Failure is almost guaranteed. At some point. If he succeeds in finding the most dangerous items, there's always the possibility that he won't return.
He simply doesn't care.
Because it would be worth it. To rid the world of more of the Darkness. He cannot serve Albion from the throne, but he can like this. And just as when he was king, he'll accept the consequences.
"This needs to be done quietly," he says instead of answering her question. "If people here knew what I was doing, they would be compelled to prove me wrong. Which means they would do dangerous things. Better nobody know why I'm here, or what I'm looking for. A piece of art isn't dangerous if that's all people think it is. They look at it, they leave it alone."
He sips his wine, wondering if she'll understand when he says, "Sometimes the best course is not to say anything. Sometimes a gentle touch is safest."
Sofia listens without interrupting. That’s the only concession she makes: silence. Everything else about her stays pointed—posture too straight, expression too controlled, eyes too awake. She picks up her glass, doesn't drink—just holds it, looking at him over the rim.
"You didn't answer my question," she says.
Not aggressive. Just noting it. Filing it away.
She sets the glass down and looks at the table between them, thinking. When she speaks again her voice is measured, and the mannerly Sofia is all the way back now, precise and contained and more dangerous for it.
"You're right that loud gets people killed." She adjusts the stem of her glass slightly, a small, controlled movement. "I know that. I've watched this city eat itself over things people should have left alone."
She looks up at him.
"But you just told me Gotham could burn." Her voice stays even. "And you want me to trust that you're handling it quietly." A pause, deliberate. "With no backup. No one who knows what you're doing. And a map I gave you six days ago."
She folds her hands on the table. The ruined napkin sits just outside her careful posture like evidence of who she'd been an hour ago.
"A gentle touch," she repeats. "Fine. I can be gentle." Her eyes don't move from his face. "But I need to know you're not walking into something you can't walk out of. Not because I care what happens to you, Logan—" a beat, "—but because if you fail, that's my city."
He did not answer her question. Nor does he intend to unless pushed. Not when he knows she won't like the answer. Wouldn't like any answer he might give.
The shift is impossible to miss. Highlighting how much of what she presents is simply a tool to get what she wants. He can't begrudge her that. Doesn't he do the same with his mannerisms? How often does he glare or stay silent or arch an eyebrow to apply unspoken pressure to his companion? Too often to count.
There's no point using any of that on Sofia. She'd see right through it, he could tell from the start.
"There are only two people who have walked into the heart of this danger and survived. I am one of them. If I can find these objects, I can make sure they're destroyed or contained safely."
He tilts his head, gaze still locked on hers. "But there is no one else who can help. There is no backup. There is me, or no one."
"I can provide you with details, delayed so you cannot interfere but not so much that you are blindsided. As a courtesy. You can help as you wish, if you wish, or not at all. Gotham is not my city, but I don't wish for its destruction."
Sofia holds her composure like it’s something she can spend, and she doesn’t spend it yet. Two people survived. One of them sitting in front of her. The other one unspoken. She notes the shape of that omission and files it away beside all the rest.
“There is me, or no one,” Sofia repeats, and the words come out soft with disbelief—then sharpen into something uglier. “Ego with nicer lighting, then.”
She lifts her glass and finally drinks, a small, precise sip. When she sets it down, it’s perfectly centered. Controlled. Mannerly. A knife laid neatly on a napkin.She picks up her wine glass. Drinks. Sets it down.
"Delayed details," she says. The words come out flat, but she's thinking behind them, working the shape of what he's offering. "So I can't get in the way, but I'm not blindsided when your 'clean' turns into something I have to explain to the GCPD."
Her fingers rest against the stem of the glass without gripping it.
"Fine," she says. Not capitulation, assessment. "That's workable."
She looks at him directly.
Her gaze stays on him, unblinking. “You don’t get to call it a courtesy when it’s a leash.”
A pause—then her voice turns practical, almost bored.
“Fine,” Sofia says again. “You want quiet with structure? Here’s structure.”
She ticks it off with her fingers, counting like an accountant tallying a debt.
“First: you give me a twenty-four hour window and a neighborhood. Not an address. A neighborhood. So I can keep my people away and keep yours from getting lost.” “Second: if you’re compromised, you send one word, which we ca agree on, and you leave. I don’t care what you’re holding. You leave.”
“Third: if I hear about a ‘piece of art’ moving through the wrong hands, I act. Not to interfere. To contain the fallout. If I find out you've let something detonate in my city because you were too proud to ask for help in time, the details you give me become something else entirely."
She doesn't name what. Doesn't need to. Sofia’s mouth puckers, slightly.
“And in return,” she says, “you get what you actually came for: the living map. Judges, cops, flooded streets, whose warehouse is really whose, which corners are watched and which ones are hungry.”
She lets the silence stretch, then adds, quieter:
“You say you don’t wish for Gotham’s destruction. Great. Prove it.”
There are few people Logan has come across as cynical as Sofia. Everything he offers, even when shared honestly, is twisted into something ugly. She comments on his explanation being egotistical, and he raises an eyebrow. Would she think the same if she knew the price of being one of those two people? Would she understand how little a boast it was for him?
But there's no point trying to explain. She wouldn't understand, and she has no reason to care whether she makes him angry or not. Yet another person who speaks from a place of ignorance and insists on commenting anyway. Disappointing.
He breathes steadily as Sofia works through her thoughts, forcing himself to focus keeping it even so that his annoyance doesn't slip through. For a moment he debates pointing out the folly of threatening royalty, but opts against it. She wouldn't take it as fair warning. No, she'd consider it more ego. So instead he simply watches and listens.
After she's finished, Logan takes a sip of wine as he considers the offer. He mulls on it for a few moments and then nods.
She picks up her glass again, holds it for a moment, then sets it back down.
"Good," she says.
She straightens slightly in her chair, something settling in her posture. Not relaxed, never relaxed, but resolved. Like a decision that's been made and signed.
"One addition." Her voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "When this is done, whatever done looks like, you tell me what it was. All of it. Not a neighborhood. Not delayed details." She meets his eyes. "Everything. What you found, what you destroyed, what you couldn't."
She smooths the edge of the ruined napkin with one finger, an absent gesture.
"Not because I'll do anything with it. Because I let a stranger into my city and I want to know what walked out." She looks up. "I think that's fair."
A beat. Then something shifts. Not warmth exactly, but a deliberate return to manners, the way she'd worn them before Arkham. She reaches for the menu, opens it with both hands, sets it between them like a truce flag.
"We should actually eat something." Her voice comes out almost conversational. "You've been very patient with the bread situation." She glances up at him over the top of the menu. "Is there anything you don't eat? Allergies. Preferences. Things that remind you of home in a way you'd rather avoid."
Done. Will there be an end? Will he know what it looks like if there is?
Logan considers her final condition for a moment, and then nods. "That's fair."
Perhaps by then she might believe him. She might understand enough not to dismiss the truth. And if she doesn't? Well. It will be too late for her to cause a problem anyway.
He watches Sofia change her mannerisms, again, as she shifts the conversation. It's informative, the way she acts, and when she chooses to switch tactics. Logan has to wonder if he'll be able to understand it all better after a bit of time cooperating with one another. He's not so sure.
"No allergies, no." In truth, he's never had as large an appetite as she's demonstrated, but he's not going to tell her that. "Although the sea bass sounds nice."
Sofia glances down at the menu, finds the sea bass, and nods once like she's filing it away.
"Good choice," she says, and means it this time differently than she had about the restaurant, less performance, more reflex. The Falcone daughter who knew which dishes to recommend at which tables, who understood that a well-chosen meal was its own kind of language.
She flags down the waiter with a slight lift of two fingers. Precise. Unhurried.
"The sea bass," she tells him, "and the lamb. And another bottle--" she glances at what Logan and her had been drinking, "--the same."
The waiter disappears and Sofia sets the menu aside, folding her hands on the table in the ruin of the evening's earlier chaos. The feathers of her coat catch the light. The napkin stays ruined where it is.
"The lamb here is good," she says, almost conversationally. "My father used to bring clients here. Before." A small pause, neither nostalgic nor bitter. "The kitchen hasn't changed."
She picks up her water glass, which she hasn't touched all evening, and drinks from it.
"You should eat something substantial," she adds, matter-of-fact. "Whatever you're walking into this week, it won't improve on an empty stomach."
The menu had been studied the moment it was given to him, and a decision quickly made. It's curious that she feels the desire to comment on it, seemingly taking everything he offers as something to consider.
So many little gestures to seize the smallest amount of control, or establish her dominance. Making sure he knows just how much this is her city, and to remind him that he's an outsider. There's a tiny part of him that recognises that perhaps she isn't doing this on purpose, or at all, and that part is discarded quickly. It wouldn't do to underestimate her.
Although he won't he bending to even the smallest amount of pressure, either.
"Eating too heavily isn't advisable for someone who wishes to remain alert," he counters. "I'm sure the sea bass will be very nourishing. I shall enjoy the lamb vicariously through you."
Sofia's mouth curves. A real smile this time, small and dry, the kind that doesn't need an audience.
"Vicariously," she repeats. Like she's deciding whether she finds that funny or annoying. She decides on both.
“How very disciplined of you.” She says, aiming for pleasant, picking up the fresh glass of wine the waiter has just poured. "But the sea bass is light. You'll be fine."
She reaches for her water again, takes a small sip, and sets it down with care. The restaurant’s hush wraps around them; she fits into it perfectly now, as if the earlier mess had been a costume she’s already discarded.
She drinks, sets the glass down with care.
"My father used to say the same thing. Keep the mind sharp, keep the stomach light." She glances at the empty breadbasket (her doing) with something that might be faint amusement at her own expense. "He had a point. I spent a lot of time proving him right."
Her eyes come back to Logan, steady and assessing in the way they've been all evening, but with slightly less edge to it now. The deal is done. The territory is mapped.
"You'll have to tell me what Albion food is like sometime," she says. Casual. Filling the space while they wait. "If it's terrible, you don't have to be diplomatic about it. I've eaten Arkham food. My standards for horror are well established."
That's not the first time she's done that; Picked on his wording. The way he speaks annoys her, but he doesn't know any other way. He makes a note of it.
"I've always preferred lighter meals. No one ever told me it benefits the mind. It was only ever suggested that I eat more, as you just did." Something he doesn't hold against her, saluting her with his wine glass before taking a sip. Perhaps the more personal explanation will appeal to her, even if it makes a point of deviating from her father's way of thinking.
The watchfulness is to be expected, he returns it in kind, after all.
"I wouldn't suggestion Albion's food for anyone outside of Albion. It's not terrible, but there are cultures with more refined cuisine." Albion always had bigger things to focus on than making food taste better.
Logan tilts his head, considering the woman across from him. "Did your father teach you how to run your business?"
Sofia’s smile stays in place, but it goes tight at the corners.
Carmine taught her plenty. He was a stickler for manners, how to hold a fork, how to hold a room, how to make men feel safe. And then he taught her the last lesson by handing her to the city in chains, framing her for his own sins. The family went along with it. Of course they did. Arkham finished the education: trust is a liability; legitimacy is a costume; survival is a skill.
The trial or lack thereof, the newspapers, her father's silence when she needed him to speak. Her cousins' face. How easily they'd let her go.
"He tried," she says aloud. Her voice stays even. "The lessons didn't always land the way he intended."
She adjusts the stem of her glass slightly.
"I learned how to run a business. I also learned what happens when the people running it decide you're more useful as a liability than an asset." She doesn't elaborate. Doesn't need to. "The curriculum was comprehensive." She tilts her head, conversational. “Arkham taught me the rest.”
Her eyes come back to his, steady.
Then, she asks lightly, “Why? Are you trying to figure out what I’m capable of, or what I inherited?”
Sofia has his full attention. Every hesitation, every fluctuation in her voice, every work spoken and every one left unsaid. All of it taken in as Logan watches her explain her education.
Some of it he understands on a personal level. Some of it, he know from watching others in their own trials. It's as informative to him as the fact that she shares this much at all. Not everyone would.
"I'm trying to understand you." Another thoughtful pause before he shares, "Learning about someone like you helps me understand the city. As you mentioned before, I'm new here. I have plenty to learn."
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no subject
"People aren't things," he tells her quietly but firmly. "If Albion wants people to return, the queen can command it. I'm only interested in items. Objects."
The people getting in his way won't be treated kindly, but it won't be what he sets out to do. There are enough murderers in the world, in Gotham, without him becoming one too.
no subject
“People aren’t things,” she echoes, and the words come out like she’s testing the taste. “That’s adorable. Don’t say it too loud in this city.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if you’d said you were here to ‘remove’ people, I’d have taken that personally.”
She reaches over and hooks a finger against the edge of the bread basket, dragging it closer like she owns it. “Objects.”
Her gaze hardens. “You understand how that sounds here, right? Like you’re either lying—” a beat, “—or you’re naive.”
Sofia tilts her head. “So which is it, Logan? Are you hiding what you want… or do you honestly think an object can be separated cleanly from the bodies around it?”
She drums her nails once on the tablecloth. “Items. Fine. Then you won’t mind being specific. What items. What do they do. Who has them. And what happens to whoever’s holding them when you show up?”
no subject
He continues to watch and listen quietly while she judges him aloud, and asks questions he's not entirely sure she cares to hear the answers to. It's easier, he's finding, to just wait until she addresses him directly.
"I'm not going to tell you that." Partly because he still has research to do. Mostly because he doesn't want her interfering. She seems the type who would. "I will say that I intend to do things as cleanly as possible, because it's easier when it can be clean. If not?" He tilts his head in a shrug. "I will get things done regardless."
Then he fixes her with a look of his own, so she knows he's being entirely serious. "But whatever I do, it is in everyone's best interests that I succeed."
no subject
Sofia laughs—one hard bark—and a couple heads turn again. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice.
“You’re not going to tell me,” she says, savoring it. “But you are going to tell me it’s for my own good.”
She nods slowly, as if he’s finally spoken a language she recognizes. “Okay. So this is how it is.” Sofia wipes her fingers on the napkin and leaves it ruined. “You don’t want interference. You want access.”
Her eyes stay locked on him. “Then understand something: ‘clean’ is a fairy tale people sell to justify blood.”
She tilts her head, reaches for the wine bottle, finds it empty, and sets it down with a pointed little click. “You don’t want me interfering because you think I’m chaotic.” Her mouth curls. “I am. But I’m also local.”
no subject
Besides, it gives her something to do while she talks, and she does like to talk. It's a curious thing, being spoken to as if he doesn't know how that the illusion of polite society is just that: An illusion. This is a different canvas, but the same painting.
"I don't want you interfering because you're chaotic," he confirms. "And because there's a chance that anyone who interacts with the objects I'm looking for will live a very short and painful death." He sips his wine, allowing a pause. "I don't particularly wish that upon you."
no subject
His warning lands and she lets it settle, eyes narrowing—not fear, just recalculation. Short and painful. Objects. Death. So it’s not just theft; it’s a curse with teeth, or enemies with a policy.
“How considerate,” she says softly. “You don’t wish it upon me.”
She reaches for the wine and pours herself a glass for the first time—slow, controlled, almost ceremonial—then drinks, mannerly, Falcone prissy like the woman she was before she went behind bars. “I didn’t ask what you wish,” she says. “I asked what you’re doing.”
She taps the table once. “So you’re not protecting me. You’re protecting your plan.”
no subject
If she wants to hear his pragmatism, very well. "I'm protecting my plan. I'm protecting myself. I'm protecting a potential ally."
He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "I'm not sure what you hope to gain from knowing my plans. An upper hand? The first chance at an opportunity?"
no subject
"Protecting a potential ally," she says. "That's very tidy."
She picks up her glass again, takes a measured sip.
"What I hope to gain is simple." She leans back, swirling her wine. "I gave you something first, Logan. That's not desperation. That's investment." She drinks. "I want to know what it bought me."
"You're walking around Gotham with dangerous objects and no local knowledge except what fits on a map." Her tone is even. "Maps don't tell you who owns a building in practice versus on paper. They don't tell you which streets flood when it rains or which warehouses the GCPD pretend not to see."
Her eyes meet his directly.
"That's what you don't have. And that's what I'm deciding whether to offer."
no subject
Logan considers her carefully. His hand remains touching the base of his wine glass, but he doesn't move to lift it.
He could find out some of the information himself, through slow and painful trial and error. The alternative would be to work with Sofia somehow. Which would mean trusting her. He doesn't. He doesn't know her enough to trust her. Can't predict her enough to trust her.
"What did you hope it bought you?" His eyes scan her face but it gives nothing away. "I'm not sure what I could offer you that would be of interest. I suspect that you're not looking for money, or that I have any influence you would be interested in."
no subject
“You really do that thing,” she says. “You act like the only currencies are cash and favors.”
"Money," she repeats, like the word tastes funny. "I'm a Falcone. I don't need your money."
She sets her glass down, the mannerly performance still intact but thinner now—something real underneath pushing against it.
"And influence." She tilts her head. "I've got influence. What I had taken from me was legitimacy." Her voice stays even. "Ten years in Arkham for murders I didn't commit. My name dragged through every paper in this city. My family, well."
She picks at an invisible imperfection on the tablecloth.
"So what did I hope it bought me?" Her eyes come back up to his, direct. “I hoped it bought me relevance,” Sofia says plainly. “I spent ten years being treated like a cautionary tale. I’m not doing that again.”
She takes another sip. “And I hoped it bought me safety. Not from you—don’t flatter yourself. From whatever you’re dragging behind you.”
She sets the glass down with a soft click. “You do have something I want: the chance to choose the shape of what comes next.”
“I want leverage. I want warning. I want a veto when your ‘clean’ turns into bodies on my doorstep.” A pause. “And I want to know what you’re taking out of Gotham, because if it detonates, it detonates here. Not in Albion.”
Sofia’s eyes narrow. “You can offer me honesty in increments. Start with one: what happens if you fail.”
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The important thing is he doesn't give her ideas, and she focuses on what she wants, not what she could have. Whatever he does here, he doesn't want it to affect Albion.
Besides, this way he can find out what she's really hoping for. It's not what he expected... but Sofia doesn't care about expectations.
Logan considers her request quietly for a moment. There's a good chance she'll be the one thinking he should end up in Arkham if he's honest with her. But she did ask. And he might as well offer a warning.
"Perhaps nothing," he answers honestly. "Perhaps everything will continue on as it has always done, and nothing changes."
Then his voice and expression hardens. "But if it doesn't... If someone manages to use one of these items... Then either someone becomes very powerful, very quickly. Or they unlock a destructive power which will lay waste to Gotham, along with everyone in it, and continue to spread unless it is stopped."
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She looks down at the ruined napkin, the wine-stained tablecloth, the debris of a dinner that became something else entirely.
"Either someone becomes very powerful," she repeats, "or Gotham burns."
She sets her glass down. Folds her hands in her lap.
"You know what's funny?" Her voice is dry. "I thought you were a retrieval job. Complicated, dangerous, probably messy—but contained." She glances up at him. "But this isn't contained, is it. This was never going to be contained."
"And you came here alone." It isn't an accusation, exactly. More like she's reading a document and finding an error. "You came here alone, without telling anyone what you were carrying or what you were looking for, and you took city maps from a woman you'd never met."
Her voice stays even but something sharp is working behind her eyes.
"I've been called reckless." She shakes her head, one small movement. "Logan. That's not clean. That's not careful." A pause. "That's someone who doesn't actually expect to fail."
Her eyes narrow.
"Do you?"
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He simply doesn't care.
Because it would be worth it. To rid the world of more of the Darkness. He cannot serve Albion from the throne, but he can like this. And just as when he was king, he'll accept the consequences.
"This needs to be done quietly," he says instead of answering her question. "If people here knew what I was doing, they would be compelled to prove me wrong. Which means they would do dangerous things. Better nobody know why I'm here, or what I'm looking for. A piece of art isn't dangerous if that's all people think it is. They look at it, they leave it alone."
He sips his wine, wondering if she'll understand when he says, "Sometimes the best course is not to say anything. Sometimes a gentle touch is safest."
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"You didn't answer my question," she says.
Not aggressive. Just noting it. Filing it away.
She sets the glass down and looks at the table between them, thinking. When she speaks again her voice is measured, and the mannerly Sofia is all the way back now, precise and contained and more dangerous for it.
"You're right that loud gets people killed." She adjusts the stem of her glass slightly, a small, controlled movement. "I know that. I've watched this city eat itself over things people should have left alone."
She looks up at him.
"But you just told me Gotham could burn." Her voice stays even. "And you want me to trust that you're handling it quietly." A pause, deliberate. "With no backup. No one who knows what you're doing. And a map I gave you six days ago."
She folds her hands on the table. The ruined napkin sits just outside her careful posture like evidence of who she'd been an hour ago.
"A gentle touch," she repeats. "Fine. I can be gentle." Her eyes don't move from his face. "But I need to know you're not walking into something you can't walk out of. Not because I care what happens to you, Logan—" a beat, "—but because if you fail, that's my city."
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The shift is impossible to miss. Highlighting how much of what she presents is simply a tool to get what she wants. He can't begrudge her that. Doesn't he do the same with his mannerisms? How often does he glare or stay silent or arch an eyebrow to apply unspoken pressure to his companion? Too often to count.
There's no point using any of that on Sofia. She'd see right through it, he could tell from the start.
"There are only two people who have walked into the heart of this danger and survived. I am one of them. If I can find these objects, I can make sure they're destroyed or contained safely."
He tilts his head, gaze still locked on hers. "But there is no one else who can help. There is no backup. There is me, or no one."
"I can provide you with details, delayed so you cannot interfere but not so much that you are blindsided. As a courtesy. You can help as you wish, if you wish, or not at all. Gotham is not my city, but I don't wish for its destruction."
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“There is me, or no one,” Sofia repeats, and the words come out soft with disbelief—then sharpen into something uglier. “Ego with nicer lighting, then.”
She lifts her glass and finally drinks, a small, precise sip. When she sets it down, it’s perfectly centered. Controlled. Mannerly. A knife laid neatly on a napkin.She picks up her wine glass. Drinks. Sets it down.
"Delayed details," she says. The words come out flat, but she's thinking behind them, working the shape of what he's offering. "So I can't get in the way, but I'm not blindsided when your 'clean' turns into something I have to explain to the GCPD."
Her fingers rest against the stem of the glass without gripping it.
"Fine," she says. Not capitulation, assessment. "That's workable."
She looks at him directly.
Her gaze stays on him, unblinking. “You don’t get to call it a courtesy when it’s a leash.”
A pause—then her voice turns practical, almost bored.
“Fine,” Sofia says again. “You want quiet with structure? Here’s structure.”
She ticks it off with her fingers, counting like an accountant tallying a debt.
“First: you give me a twenty-four hour window and a neighborhood. Not an address. A neighborhood. So I can keep my people away and keep yours from getting lost.”
“Second: if you’re compromised, you send one word, which we ca agree on, and you leave. I don’t care what you’re holding. You leave.”
“Third: if I hear about a ‘piece of art’ moving through the wrong hands, I act. Not to interfere. To contain the fallout. If I find out you've let something detonate in my city because you were too proud to ask for help in time, the details you give me become something else entirely."
She doesn't name what. Doesn't need to. Sofia’s mouth puckers, slightly.
“And in return,” she says, “you get what you actually came for: the living map. Judges, cops, flooded streets, whose warehouse is really whose, which corners are watched and which ones are hungry.”
She lets the silence stretch, then adds, quieter:
“You say you don’t wish for Gotham’s destruction. Great. Prove it.”
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But there's no point trying to explain. She wouldn't understand, and she has no reason to care whether she makes him angry or not. Yet another person who speaks from a place of ignorance and insists on commenting anyway. Disappointing.
He breathes steadily as Sofia works through her thoughts, forcing himself to focus keeping it even so that his annoyance doesn't slip through. For a moment he debates pointing out the folly of threatening royalty, but opts against it. She wouldn't take it as fair warning. No, she'd consider it more ego. So instead he simply watches and listens.
After she's finished, Logan takes a sip of wine as he considers the offer. He mulls on it for a few moments and then nods.
"Very well. I'll accept your terms."
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She picks up her glass again, holds it for a moment, then sets it back down.
"Good," she says.
She straightens slightly in her chair, something settling in her posture. Not relaxed, never relaxed, but resolved. Like a decision that's been made and signed.
"One addition." Her voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "When this is done, whatever done looks like, you tell me what it was. All of it. Not a neighborhood. Not delayed details." She meets his eyes. "Everything. What you found, what you destroyed, what you couldn't."
She smooths the edge of the ruined napkin with one finger, an absent gesture.
"Not because I'll do anything with it. Because I let a stranger into my city and I want to know what walked out." She looks up. "I think that's fair."
A beat. Then something shifts. Not warmth exactly, but a deliberate return to manners, the way she'd worn them before Arkham. She reaches for the menu, opens it with both hands, sets it between them like a truce flag.
"We should actually eat something." Her voice comes out almost conversational. "You've been very patient with the bread situation." She glances up at him over the top of the menu. "Is there anything you don't eat? Allergies. Preferences. Things that remind you of home in a way you'd rather avoid."
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Logan considers her final condition for a moment, and then nods. "That's fair."
Perhaps by then she might believe him. She might understand enough not to dismiss the truth. And if she doesn't? Well. It will be too late for her to cause a problem anyway.
He watches Sofia change her mannerisms, again, as she shifts the conversation. It's informative, the way she acts, and when she chooses to switch tactics. Logan has to wonder if he'll be able to understand it all better after a bit of time cooperating with one another. He's not so sure.
"No allergies, no." In truth, he's never had as large an appetite as she's demonstrated, but he's not going to tell her that. "Although the sea bass sounds nice."
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"Good choice," she says, and means it this time differently than she had about the restaurant, less performance, more reflex. The Falcone daughter who knew which dishes to recommend at which tables, who understood that a well-chosen meal was its own kind of language.
She flags down the waiter with a slight lift of two fingers. Precise. Unhurried.
"The sea bass," she tells him, "and the lamb. And another bottle--" she glances at what Logan and her had been drinking, "--the same."
The waiter disappears and Sofia sets the menu aside, folding her hands on the table in the ruin of the evening's earlier chaos. The feathers of her coat catch the light. The napkin stays ruined where it is.
"The lamb here is good," she says, almost conversationally. "My father used to bring clients here. Before." A small pause, neither nostalgic nor bitter. "The kitchen hasn't changed."
She picks up her water glass, which she hasn't touched all evening, and drinks from it.
"You should eat something substantial," she adds, matter-of-fact. "Whatever you're walking into this week, it won't improve on an empty stomach."
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So many little gestures to seize the smallest amount of control, or establish her dominance. Making sure he knows just how much this is her city, and to remind him that he's an outsider. There's a tiny part of him that recognises that perhaps she isn't doing this on purpose, or at all, and that part is discarded quickly. It wouldn't do to underestimate her.
Although he won't he bending to even the smallest amount of pressure, either.
"Eating too heavily isn't advisable for someone who wishes to remain alert," he counters. "I'm sure the sea bass will be very nourishing. I shall enjoy the lamb vicariously through you."
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"Vicariously," she repeats. Like she's deciding whether she finds that funny or annoying. She decides on both.
“How very disciplined of you.” She says, aiming for pleasant, picking up the fresh glass of wine the waiter has just poured. "But the sea bass is light. You'll be fine."
She reaches for her water again, takes a small sip, and sets it down with care. The restaurant’s hush wraps around them; she fits into it perfectly now, as if the earlier mess had been a costume she’s already discarded.
She drinks, sets the glass down with care.
"My father used to say the same thing. Keep the mind sharp, keep the stomach light." She glances at the empty breadbasket (her doing) with something that might be faint amusement at her own expense. "He had a point. I spent a lot of time proving him right."
Her eyes come back to Logan, steady and assessing in the way they've been all evening, but with slightly less edge to it now. The deal is done. The territory is mapped.
"You'll have to tell me what Albion food is like sometime," she says. Casual. Filling the space while they wait. "If it's terrible, you don't have to be diplomatic about it. I've eaten Arkham food. My standards for horror are well established."
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"I've always preferred lighter meals. No one ever told me it benefits the mind. It was only ever suggested that I eat more, as you just did." Something he doesn't hold against her, saluting her with his wine glass before taking a sip. Perhaps the more personal explanation will appeal to her, even if it makes a point of deviating from her father's way of thinking.
The watchfulness is to be expected, he returns it in kind, after all.
"I wouldn't suggestion Albion's food for anyone outside of Albion. It's not terrible, but there are cultures with more refined cuisine." Albion always had bigger things to focus on than making food taste better.
Logan tilts his head, considering the woman across from him. "Did your father teach you how to run your business?"
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Carmine taught her plenty. He was a stickler for manners, how to hold a fork, how to hold a room, how to make men feel safe. And then he taught her the last lesson by handing her to the city in chains, framing her for his own sins. The family went along with it. Of course they did. Arkham finished the education: trust is a liability; legitimacy is a costume; survival is a skill.
The trial or lack thereof, the newspapers, her father's silence when she needed him to speak. Her cousins' face. How easily they'd let her go.
"He tried," she says aloud. Her voice stays even. "The lessons didn't always land the way he intended."
She adjusts the stem of her glass slightly.
"I learned how to run a business. I also learned what happens when the people running it decide you're more useful as a liability than an asset." She doesn't elaborate. Doesn't need to. "The curriculum was comprehensive." She tilts her head, conversational. “Arkham taught me the rest.”
Her eyes come back to his, steady.
Then, she asks lightly, “Why? Are you trying to figure out what I’m capable of, or what I inherited?”
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Some of it he understands on a personal level. Some of it, he know from watching others in their own trials. It's as informative to him as the fact that she shares this much at all. Not everyone would.
"I'm trying to understand you." Another thoughtful pause before he shares, "Learning about someone like you helps me understand the city. As you mentioned before, I'm new here. I have plenty to learn."
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