American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 98 Penguin: This is an iceberg! (6K chapters)
“Di... Diego…”

Noticing the scorching gaze that seemed to burn him through, Dio glanced sideways, his scarlet eyes coldly sweeping over Elana.

"Ah~!"

With just a simple glance, Elana trembled violently as if she were being pierced by a high-voltage current.

She let out a short, satisfied moan, then, as if driven by some primal urge, she abruptly grabbed the expensive bottle of Bordeaux red wine from the ice bucket—

"boom!"

The cork was roughly pulled out and flung away.

The dark red liquid shimmered with an eerie luster under the dim lights, like viscous blood.

She stared intently at Dior's sculpted profile, then suddenly raised the entire bottle high, her arm drawing a resolute arc—

"Crash——!!"

The expensive liquid cascaded down like a waterfall, the scarlet liquor instantly spreading wildly across the polished stage floor, turning that area into a shocking pool of blood.

This crazy move ignited the fuse!
This seemed to grant permission to the other restless ladies, whose suppressed excitement erupted instantly!

"Open the wine! Open the wine now!"

"Mine! With my Petrus!"

Screams and the sound of bottles being opened rose and fell.

Bottles of expensive Romanée-Conti, Lafite, and Mouton Rothschild were roughly opened.

The dark red liquid drew alluring arcs in the air, like splashed paint, before finally converging and merging in the center of the dance floor, forming an ever-expanding pool of wine that exuded an intoxicatingly sweet aroma.

The high heels made a slippery sound as they stepped on the sticky liquid.

"Not enough! Bring out more! Bring out the best wines from your cellar!"

Alana, panting and her chest heaving, gave a hoarse command to the waiter.

The waiters swallowed hard, frantically pushing carts as cases of top-quality wines were continuously brought in and opened.

In a matter of moments, the entire club hall was filled with an intense, almost suffocating aroma of alcohol, mixed with the women's hysterical screams and unrestrained laughter, creating an extremely absurd carnival scene.

Dior stood expressionless in the eye of the storm of wine, a few strands of wet blonde hair clinging to his sharply defined jawline, adding to his cool sexiness.

But he merely stared indifferently at the farce he had unwittingly ignited beneath his feet, his mind racing, precisely calculating the numbers represented by each bottle of liquid spilled—

With a 6% commission, he could earn that much just from tonight's drink sales.
"Bang~"

Just as the clamor of the revelry reached its deafening peak—

The gilded door on this floor was slowly and silently pushed open.

A figure, surrounded by a group of well-dressed and distinguished gentlemen, slowly entered, leaning on an ebony cane inlaid with silver ornaments.

He was short and stout, but dressed in an extremely elegant purple velvet tailcoat, with a cold monocle perched firmly on his nose, reflecting the light under the chandelier.

Beneath the top hat was a face plastered with fake smiles.

"Hey, look, isn't that your partner?"

A banker with gold-rimmed glasses and slicked-back hair nudged his ashen-faced colleague with his elbow, his tone full of undisguised malice and mockery.

Everyone was taken aback and followed his gaze—

In the crowd, a young noblewoman dressed in extremely revealing clothing, the front of her dress almost completely soaked with red wine, clinging to her body and outlining her alluring curves, was trying to climb onto the stage with a flushed face and dazed eyes, to approach the blond 'king'.

She was the newlywed wife of the Gotham Pharmaceuticals manager standing next to them.

The man's face turned from pale to black instantly after being exposed in public, but in just a second, his businessman's composure allowed him to suppress his anger.

He snorted coldly, elegantly raised his hand, and beckoned a waiter. His voice was so calm that it betrayed no emotion.
"Bring ten more bottles of 'Jazz' to that charming lady. Put it on my tab."

"Yes, sir."

The waiter quickly bowed and left.

Jazz —

One of the most expensive regular champagnes at the Iceberg Club, with a single bottle costing over $20,000.

Ten bottles meant casually throwing away over two hundred thousand US dollars.

however…

This seemingly extravagant but actually coldly humiliating act drew disappointed boos from the onlookers who were waiting to see the couple turn on each other and fight.

They had hoped to see a good show, but they didn't expect the person involved to be so 'magnanimous'.

That's fucking turtle!

"Mr. Cobblestone truly has a wealth of talent under his command!"

One of the lawmakers, with an extremely obsequious smile, tried to break the awkward atmosphere by changing the subject.

"Yeah yeah."

Another wealthy businessman immediately echoed, his gaze fixed eagerly on the center of the stage.

"This 'King'... is simply a dazzling star born for this night! He's mesmerizing!"

"Tonight's beverage sales will probably easily break the million mark, Mr. Copperpott."

Compliments rose and fell like a flock of noisy nightingales.

Coppert listened casually, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tip of his cane.

Only when the surrounding celebrities were hoarse from talking did he clear his throat and use his deliberately controlled voice, with a touch of old Gotham accent, to drown out the noise:

“Vanity….definitely my favorite sin!”

(Vanity... is definitely my favorite original sin!)
The scene fell silent.

The well-dressed gentlemen looked at each other blankly, clearly not understanding what this big shot meant by suddenly saying that.

An awkward silence spread like a cold tide for more than ten seconds, and the air almost froze.

In the end, a quick-witted waiter mustered his courage and whispered an explanation to a nearby customer:
The boss was quoting a line from the recently released film *The Devil's Advocate (1997)*, which means "..."

"What I mean is, I just hope everyone has a great time tonight. The bill and all that," another waiter quickly chimed in, flashing a professional smile, "is all secondary."

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and burst into extremely affected, exaggerated laughter and applause.

It was as if I had just heard a profound saying that would be recorded in history.

With a satisfied nod, Cobblepot savored this feeling built upon ignorance and fear.

'worship'
-
Three hours later, Dior finally managed to shake off the reluctant ladies.

Elana, however, clung tightly to his sleeve, her eyes glazed over, muttering meaningless babbling.

It wasn't until Dior whispered something in her ear that this socialite, known for her fiery temper, seemed to be under a spell. Two red clouds rose to her cheeks, her eyes became more unfocused and dreamy, her fingers loosened limply, and she stared blankly at his departing figure.

Bending over to lead the way, Rocman led Dio through several hidden corridors.

This time, their destination was no longer the huge metal door, but a heavy, intricately carved, deep red mahogany door.

The door is inlaid with a cold, metallic penguin emblem.

Rocman took a deep breath, still with a hint of barely perceptible tension, and gently knocked on the door.

"Come in!"

Ogilvy's booming voice immediately came from inside the door.

As I gently pushed open the door, the thick, acrid smoke of cigars wafted out.

Ogilvy was seen deep in a large black leather swivel chair, his feet arrogantly propped up on a desk piled high with documents.

Upon seeing Dio enter, he immediately put his feet down, opened his arms, and greeted him with a greasy smile:
"Our superstar has arrived! Our cash cow has arrived!"

He tried to give Dior a warm bear hug.

but.
Dior, like a slippery fish, shifted his feet slightly and nimbly dodged to the side.

Ogilvy ended up with nothing.

The man's smile froze for a moment, but he didn't seem to care and vigorously slapped his arm as if brushing off dust, exclaiming in an exaggerated tone:

"Just one night! Only three fucking hours!"

He held up three short, stubby fingers and waved them vigorously in front of Dio's eyes. "You've generated over a million dollars in revenue for us! Kid, you're a fucking money-printing machine! A miracle!"

He turned around abruptly, walked to a huge built-in safe against the wall, and skillfully turned the combination lock.

He opened the heavy cabinet door and pulled out a heavy black suitcase.

"Crack~"

He slammed it heavily onto the gleaming mahogany desk, making the ashtray on the desk jump.

"The rule is, 6% commission, plus your base salary of $3,000, that's $63,000, not a penny less."

Dior nodded expressionlessly, stepped forward, and reached for the box.

But the instant his fingertips touched the cold box—

"Click."

A slight mechanical sound.

Two towering, imposing figures suddenly appeared silently from behind the door and the shadows beside the bookshelf, one on the left and one on the right, completely blocking the only exit.

"Boy."

Ogilvy's smile vanished quickly, leaving only cold calculation and undeniable toughness.

He slowly lit a new cigar, staring at Dio through the swirling smoke:

"You can take the money. No problem." He exhaled a smoke ring. "But... we need to talk about your future work arrangements. It would be a waste to only have someone as talented as you work for a short time. The Iceberg Club needs you long-term..."

His voice caught in his throat without warning and with extreme abruptness.

A pair of scarlet eyes, in the dim light filled with cigar smoke, resembled two drops of congealed blood.

It was cold, and contained a kind of violence and indifference that froze his soul.

That wasn't the look of a human; it was more like the gaze of a demon whose territory had been invaded.
Ogilvy felt a chill run from his tailbone straight to the top of his head, and his back was instantly soaked with a sticky layer of cold sweat.

His fingers holding the cigar trembled slightly, and ash fell in a flurry.

The oppressive feeling emanating from this man's eyes was far more chilling than that of the two burly men behind him.

It seems like all it would take is saying one more word.
Then you will.
die?!

"I...we can talk, kid?"

He forced himself to maintain his composure and tried to make his voice sound steady.

"I'll only do this for one night."

Dior's voice was eerily calm, as if stating a perfectly simple fact:

"I might come again in the future, but I won't sign any contracts."

"."

"One night?"

Ogilvy seemed to have heard a joke; his previously somewhat submissive expression changed slightly with amusement.
even
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

"You mean you're going to make this quick buck and run?! What a joke! What do you take our Iceberg Club for? Some kind of brothel where you can just pay and go?! Come and go as you please..."

"Ogilvy".

A chilling voice suddenly came from the doorway, precisely cutting off Ogilvy's blustering but cowardly roar.

"I really dislike your analogy, and..."

"Please address our most outstanding 'King'..."

"Be nicer."

A short, stout man walked in slowly, leaning on a cane.

“Treat geniuses with the same tenderness as you would the most delicate flower in spring.”

"Don't you understand such a simple principle?"

Cold sweat instantly soaked through his shirt. Ogilvy didn't have time to speak. He frantically, even comically, lifted the heavy leather armchair in the office, practically tumbling and crawling, and carried it under the man's buttocks before respectfully setting it down and wiping away non-existent dust with his sleeve.

"Boss! You...you came in person? It's such a small matter..."

Ignoring him, Cobblestone observed Dio with great interest:

“You’re great, young man.” He spoke slowly, his tone carrying a warm, elder-like concern:

"Is there some kind of emergency at home that requires a large sum of money?"

He was trying to find a reasonable explanation, a fulcrum that could leverage the other side.

But Dio remained silent, his scarlet eyes meeting the man's gaze calmly behind his glasses, without flinching or revealing any emotion.

A mature young man.

Cobblestone shrugged and turned to Ogilvy: "How much did that kid earn tonight?"

“Add…add base salary, $63,000, boss,” Ogilvy replied hastily, his voice trembling.

"Take away the odd amount."

Coppert tapped the floor lightly with the silver tip of his ebony cane, as if he were talking about something trivial.

"The...the change went?"

Ogilvy was stunned, his mind not quite processing it for a moment.

What about the commission...? If we remove the $3,000 base salary...?
But the next second, when he met the cold gaze behind Copeport's glasses, he suddenly realized what was going on!
The boss wants to round up this kid's score!

He hurriedly and clumsily reopened the safe, quickly counting out a thick wad of crisp, new hundred-dollar bills—

He presented the entire seven thousand dollars to Dio with trembling hands, forcing a smile that looked more like a grimace.

This is all his money!

But the next moment.
Under the incredulous gaze of Ogilvy, the stunned silence of Roccoman, and the intrigued look of the Penguin, Dio expressionlessly accepted the extra stack of banknotes.

He didn't count the money, nor did he even glance at it. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the thick wad of cash to Rocman, who was standing next to him like a background figure, as if discarding waste paper.

"!!!"

The thin Rocman was completely stunned, and he hurriedly caught this windfall.

The thick wad of US dollars weighed heavily on his palm, but it felt like it was pressing on his heart, making it hard for him to breathe!
"Sir?" he was about to speak.

But Dior ignored everyone, simply picked up the heavy suitcase containing $60,000 with one hand, and turned to leave.

This time, the two burly men blocking the doorway were separated by an invisible force. They instinctively took a step back to make way for him.

No one dared to stop him anymore.

"The gates of the Iceberg Club."

Watching Dio's tall, aloof figure disappear around the corner of the corridor, Copport's voice, though not loud, reached everyone's ears clearly, carrying a strange...
expect?

"It will always be open to a charismatic 'king' like you, my child."

Dior didn't turn around, but simply waved his hand casually behind him, a gesture that was both elegant and aloof.

His figure completely disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Roccoman, having received the money, stood frozen in place, looking down at the heavy stack of banknotes in his hand, still smelling of ink, and then looking up at Ogilvy, whose face was ashen and whose eyes were sinister.

He glanced cautiously at the Penguin boss, who sat upright on the sofa, his fingertips lightly tapping his cane, his fake smile still on his face, but his eyes deep and unfathomable.

The immense pressure left the junior manager feeling suffocated.

Roccoman only breathed a sigh of relief when Copport waved him away.

He bowed deeply to the two of them, revealing an apologetic smile that looked more like a grimace.

He then quickly turned and rushed out of the office, chasing after the direction Dior had disappeared in—

He should lead the way.

"boom!"

The heavy mahogany door closed slowly, completely isolating the room from the complex and indescribable atmosphere.

After a long pause, Copport broke the silence with a light laugh:

"Some people are like shooting stars in the sky; their light may be brief, but it illuminates the entire night sky."

“This is a rough gem,” he said with satisfaction. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen someone from the Falcone family show that kind of expression.”

“Ogilvy, you did a good job.”

"I am over-flattered."

Upon hearing this, Ogilvy's expression immediately changed, and he said with a fawning smile, "Boss, since he's so useful..."

"Should I send someone to follow him?"

The burly man leaned closer and whispered, his thick lips almost touching the penguin's ear, "If things go smoothly, we can kidnap him while he's sleeping and then use his family to blackmail him..."

“Good idea.” Cobb nodded. “No one can ignore their family.”

"Haha, boss, it's me!"

"Snapped!"

The cane whistled through the air and struck Ogilvy hard across the face, making him stagger and forcing the words he was about to utter back down his throat.

"Sizzle—!"

Blood gushed from his nostrils, dripping onto his expensive suit.

Ogilvy covered his face in bewilderment, looking at the man who was slowly wiping the blood from the tip of his cane with a handkerchief with a look of horror.

"but."

“Ogilvy, doing something like that is so tasteless.” Copperfield’s eyes narrowed into a dangerous slit behind his monocle, but his voice became unusually gentle. “This isn’t your Blackgate home, because…”

He changed the subject, his voice growing softer and softer.

Ogilvy involuntarily held his breath and leaned forward slightly.

"boom!"

But what followed was another vicious lash, which even choked Ogilvy's scream back down his throat.

"This is the Iceberg Lounge! It's my kingdom!"

Copeport suddenly sprang to his feet, his round, chubby body unleashing astonishing power as his cane rained down on Ogilvy.

"Despicable!"

"mean!"

"Tasteless!"

"Shameless!"

Each word he uttered was accompanied by a heavy thud, echoing through the office with a sickeningly dull sound.

"Anyway"

"You have no class, Ogilvy!"

The penguin's high-pitched voice trembled with anger.

"boom!"

The final, powerful blow knocked Ogilvy to the ground.

With a cold snort, Cobbot pulled out another silk handkerchief embroidered with a penguin pattern.

He wiped the bloodstains off his cane with disgust and straightened his crooked bow tie as well.

As for Ogilvy...
The burly man had curled up into a ball, trembling like an opossum caught in the headlights.

"Listen, you idiot."

Cobblestone poked Ogilvy on the forehead with his cane.

"In Gotham, what's most important to us Iceberg Club members? It's style! It's class! It's attitude!"

"Outside, you can do whatever you want."

“You can shoot the sheriff in the street, detonate a car bomb in front of the city hall, or send a truckload of explosives to the prison as Christmas presents to the prisoners.”

"You can set fires, rob banks, become a street robber, and kill anyone you don't like."

"But you better behave yourself inside."

He turned and walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

"This is the iceberg, the iceberg that makes the wealthy at the top willingly hand over their money."

"Instead of stealing, pilfering, and robbing like some of Gotham's stray dogs!"

"Sometimes, wealthy women wield far more power than their deadbeat husbands."

"Take those few for example."

"Since...since that blond kid is so important to us..."

Ogilvy swallowed hard, then forced a fawning smile and said, "Then we should..."

"There's no need to rush, he'll be back."

The penguin sipped the amber liquid, a confident smile spreading across his face.

"It won't be long before our 'king' walks back to this castle on his own."
-
Rocman walked ahead with a stoop, his leather shoes making a soft sound on the marble floor.

He glanced back at the blond boy behind him every now and then, as if he wanted to say something but hesitated.

The wall lamps on both sides of the corridor cast long shadows of the two people, which were distorted and deformed under the Gothic vaulted ceiling.

"This way, sir."

Rocman pushed open a hidden side door, and the damp night wind immediately rushed in through the small door of the VIP parking lot.

The security guard standing guard at the gate was clearly stunned for a moment, and almost dropped the walkie-talkie in his hand.

"Mr. Roccoman?" the security guard stammered, his eyes darting between the two men. "Why did you come personally?"

His gaze lingered on Dio for a few seconds, a storm raging within him—

When did male escorts get this kind of treatment? He even needs his manager to personally escort him? Is this blond kid even a male escort anymore?

Ignoring the waiter's shock, Rocman simply waved his hand wearily.

After the security guard tactfully stepped aside, he tremblingly pulled out the stack of banknotes and a business card from his inner pocket.

Mr. Diego

Roccoman's Adam's apple bobbed.

"I can't accept this. This money is a hot potato for me; I... I can't handle it."

He could easily imagine Ogilvy's reaction when he saw the money.

That vindictive fat man will definitely hold him accountable for this.

Dior stopped and turned his head slightly.

The moonlight shone from the side onto his silhouette, outlining a sharp golden edge.

He glanced at the stack of sweat-soaked banknotes.

"How you handle it is your business." He took the business card but not the US dollars, his voice as cold as ice. "In short, I won't take money that doesn't belong to me."

After saying that, he turned and stepped into the night without looking back.

After a while.
The Harley-Davidson's engine emitted a deep roar, sounding like the howl of some beast in the night wind.

Rocman stood there, frozen, the banknotes in his hand rustling in the night wind.

He watched the receding figure and suddenly felt an indescribable envy.

"That's great!"

He muttered to himself, his fingers unconsciously tightening, crumpling the banknotes in his hand.

Honestly, he also wanted to be like this man.

Instead of groveling before Ogilvy like a dog all day long.

A banknote was swept up by the night wind and swirled in the air.

Rocman instinctively reached out to grab it, but missed.

He shook his head with a wry smile, turned around and walked back to the magnificent golden cage.

(End of this chapter)