[@Catchphrase]

It should've been harder. It never was, and deep down, that scared her more than anything else in her life. Slipping from the vigilante to the crime lord was seamless, done with the ease and practice of a drug addict slipping back into the old familiar high. The Ferrari F12 screamed back into Gotham City over the Kane Memorial Bridge, an old structure of steel and concrete, built by immigrants and the poor. A city built by immigrants and the poor, before they were thrown away on the trash heap of history--forgotten and left out of the histories. 

Something was causing that rage to build. Was it Alfred's warnings? Was it the League of Assassins? Or was it actually the problem she faced now? As the car came to a halt in front of the old factory, Helena took the time and care to at least consider it. Someone was actively trying to manipulate events against the Bertinelli family. A quick check of the glove box, and the silver plated low caliber pistol was checked for a round in the chamber, before she quickly flipped the safety with her thumb and slipped out the car.

She wasn't alone; there were three large black SUVs parked outside the factory, and half a dozen large men in black suits with black shirts and black ties, accessorized with SMGs and automatic pistols and automatic shotguns. All of them greeted her, one of them even told her to, "In the basement, boss. Get that son of a bitch." The soldiers were harboring anger, too, and she didn't blame them. If this framed hit on a Viti man started a real blood war, they were going to be caught in it just as much as Geppe. Just as much as her. 

The door was opened, the stairs just off the entrance, leading to a basement that had once been some sort of machine shop. All that remained was a few rusted out pieces of equipment too large for scrappers and scavangers, a chair, and a torture kit: sharpened pliers, a heavy steel pipe, various daggers, car batteries with jumper cables, and bucket of water with towels for waterboarding. The man in the chair was naked, duct taped into place, eyes and mouth covered. She knew how it happened; how they always happened. Vincent Costello was hiding out, laying low, and suddenly a flashbang comes rushing in. Or gas. Or he was just surrounded and told to get in the fucking car. 

Or else. 

(I'll let you decide how the scene went down in your response post.)

Since Mr. Costello was still alive, Helena assumed he was either surprised, or just plain got in the fucking car without too much fuss. Out of three suited men in the room, one appeared just behind her, unfolding a metal folding chair for her to seat in--five feet directly in front of Vincent. Helena exposed Vincent to his reality with two vicious rips of duct tape; removing the tape over his mouth first, then his eyes. For a heartbeat, she stood there, staring down into his eyes. Looking for anger, looking for fear. 

"Let's talk expectations, Mr. Costello. You're going to answer my questions, you're going to tell me everything you know--or you're going to die." Her voice was flat, void of emotion, as distanced from her heart and soul as possible. It wasn't personal, it was business. Helena sat herself in her chair, laying the pistol across her lap, brown eyes unwavering in their dedication to staring into his eyes.

"One of two things happened: You were given an unauthorized contract you believed was given to you by the Bertinelli family, or you were given a job to frame the Bertinelli family in the murder of a Viti man. We've all gathered together this evening for the express purpose of figuring out just which of those two possibilities is reality. Now, if I don't believe you, or you start playing games, I'll let them torture you until we get some kind of answer from you--what the fuck do I care? I don't have a reason to trust an answer given freely any more than I do an answer gotten from torture. It's in your best interest to talk. So start talking."

And so she went silent, watching, waiting--letting only the cocking of the small pistol in her lap break the silence of the moment.