"I'm here tonight only out of respect for the relationship between my parents and your family."
The man stood silhouette-straight against the window, backlit by the party's glow. Through the venetian blinds, the celebration below unfolded in strips of light and shadow: crystal glasses catching chandelier brilliance, beautiful women in designer gowns laughing behind champagne flutes, men in tuxedos networking with the calculated precision of apex predators.
The party had everything wealth could buy.
And the host—standing in the center of it all, accepting congratulations with gracious nods—seemed to be enjoying every moment of his triumph.
Carmine Falcone studied the young man at the window, then looked past him at the reflection of Bruce Wayne's face in the glass. The Godfather's expression carried the weight of decades spent reading people, analyzing motivations, calculating angles.
He couldn't comprehend Bruce Wayne's inner thoughts.
This should have been simple. The bond between their families had been forged in crisis, tempered by blood and loyalty. Thomas Wayne had saved Carmine's father's life. The debt was sacred, carried across generations like an heirloom more valuable than gold.
Yet this young master treated that bond like something contaminated.
For years, Bruce had stubbornly sought to sever all ties with the underworld, as if the Falcone family were dirty, bloodstained banknotes he feared might permanently mark his hands. He attended functions when etiquette demanded—like tonight—but his presence carried the chill of enforced obligation rather than genuine warmth.
Was it the arrogance unique to Gotham's upper class? The aloofness that came with being born to the Wayne fortune? Or was it simply childish innocence, a boy playing at morality without understanding the nuances of survival in a city that devoured the naive?
Falcone didn't know.
But he respected the friendship between their families. He respected the doctor who'd saved his father's life. So he would treat Bruce Wayne with courtesy, even when that courtesy wasn't returned.
This was the etiquette of the Roman.
"Your father was much more than a friend to my father, Bruce." Falcone's voice carried the weight of history, of debts unpaid and honors maintained.
"But that was a long time ago."
Bruce's response came casual, almost dismissive. His eyes remained fixed on the wedding celebration below, cataloging details with the kind of attention that suggested he wasn't looking at a party so much as studying it.
Layer upon layer of gorgeous, expensive wedding cake—each tier a architectural marvel of spun sugar and edible gold leaf. A champagne tower constructed from crystal flutes, the golden liquid cascading down in an elaborate fountain that cost more per hour than most Gotham families earned in a month. A professional orchestra—not a DJ, not a recording, but actual musicians in formal dress playing live chamber music.
Waiters moved through the crowd with choreographed efficiency, every detail attended to, every glass refilled before it emptied.
The guest list read like a directory of Gotham's power elite: tycoons, dignitaries, socialites. Everyone dressed in luxury that announced their status without requiring introduction.
At the center of it all: Johnny Vitti, the groom, resplendent in his custom tuxedo. Beside him, his mother—Carla Vitti, blonde and overdressed, the Godfather's sister—beaming with maternal pride that hadn't yet been destroyed by tragedy.
This was before Halloween. Before Johnny died in his bathtub. Before Carla's smile turned to ash.
"But today you have so many new friends, Mr. Falcone." Bruce's tone carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "So many powerful friends. Isn't that Richard Daniel over there? The president of Gotham Bank? Now he's also your friend."
The sarcasm wasn't subtle.
Falcone heard it. He didn't care.
"I'm a very lucky man," he said smoothly, moving to stand beside Bruce at the window. "Richard told me that Gotham Bank is considering doing business with Falcone Imports. I'm counting on you, Bruce."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"Please do me a favor."
Family relationships are maintained by interests. This was the first lesson Falcone's father had taught him, beaten into his understanding through years of apprenticeship in the family business. Not just family relationships—all relationships required exchanges, interactions, investments both emotional and material.
And Carmine Falcone had always been an excellent student.
Doing business with Gotham Bank would legitimize Falcone Imports. It would open doors currently closed, wash money currently dirty, transform a criminal empire into something that could survive in daylight.
A win-win proposition.
Mutually beneficial.
Everyone profits.
Bruce turned from the window, meeting Falcone's gaze directly.
"I will not vote or influence the board on your behalf—" His voice carried absolute finality. "—regardless of what favors you have done Richard."
As always.
No surprises.
"That's a real shame."
Despite the words, no anger showed on Falcone's face. He extracted a blood-red rose from his lapel boutonniere with practiced grace, lifting it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The fragrance was exquisite—imported Italian stock, the kind that cost more per stem than most people paid for entire bouquets.
He let the scent dispel his disappointment, smooth the edges of his frustration.
"Enjoy the rest of the party, Bruce." The dismissal was polite but unmistakable. "Try the cannoli. I had them air-shipped from Sicily this morning. Very fresh."
Bruce left without another word.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Milos—the butler, distinguished in his formal wear, a blood-red corsage matching his employer's boutonniere—stepped forward from the shadows where he'd been waiting. His expression carried the grim satisfaction of a man who specialized in solving problems through violence.
"Perhaps I can 'advise' Mr. Wayne," he suggested, voice pitched low. "Just as I advise others who prove... uncooperative."
The Godfather returned the rose to his lapel, adjusting it until the angle satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities.
"I don't think that's necessary, Milos." He waved a dismissive hand. "Richard promised we'd have enough votes without Bruce's support."
"Although Bruce's vote would have absolutely ensured success," Milos observed.
"Yes." Falcone's smile carried no warmth. "It would have."
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
A young man entered—refined features behind stylish glasses, expensive suit tailored to perfection, movements carrying the confidence of someone born to privilege but not yet corrupted by it.
Alberto Falcone.
The Godfather's son.
The Godfather gestured him closer, his own attention still fixed on the party below. His sister Carla commanded attention near the champagne tower, holding court among lesser relatives.
But more interesting was the woman dancing with Bruce Wayne on the floor below.
Selina Kyle.
Beautiful. Graceful. Moving with the kind of fluid coordination that suggested either professional dance training or something more... athletic.
For reasons Falcone couldn't articulate, his hand rose unconsciously to touch the three parallel scars on his cheek. Old wounds. Long healed. But they itched sometimes, like phantom pain from injuries that refused to fully fade.
The woman seemed familiar somehow.
"Father—" Alberto's voice carried urgency. "I saw Bruce Wayne sneaking around outside your office door before the meeting. He was listening."
"Alberto. Alberto. Alberto."
The Godfather sighed, the sound carrying paternal affection mixed with exasperation.
His youngest son always wanted to help. Always tried to solve problems, to contribute to the family business, to prove himself worthy of the Falcone name. It was what Falcone loved most about him.
It was also what he feared most.
Alberto was too smart. Too engaged. Too determined to involve himself in operations that would stain his hands with the kind of blood that never washed clean.
This was exactly why Falcone had sent him away—Harvard for undergraduate, Oxford for graduate studies. The best education money could buy, far from Gotham's corrupting influence. Because the black underground kingdom couldn't survive in daylight, and the Falcone family couldn't remain gangsters forever.
They needed to evolve. Transform. Legitimize.
Using the import company to launder money was just the beginning. Eventually, the entire empire would go clean. And when that transformation completed, the heir to Falcone's vast holdings needed to be clean as well.
Untainted. Legitimate. Respectable.
Not a gangster. A businessman.
The Godfather put his arm around Alberto's shoulders with genuine affection.
"A handsome young man like you should be at weddings, flirting beautiful girls." He smiled, steering Alberto toward the door. "Not worrying about trivial matters that don't concern you."
Alberto's expression shifted—frustration, resignation, the familiar disappointment of being excluded from something he desperately wanted to be part of.
But he nodded.
He always nodded.
Good boy.
This happened at Johnny's wedding last year.
The memory shifted.
Scenes from the past flooding back like water through a broken dam, each one vivid, each one painful in its clarity.
"Ever since Richard Daniel resigned, the other banks in Gotham won't do business with us." The voice belonged to one of Falcone's lieutenants, heavy with concern. "Our money is stuck, Carmine. The other families are watching. Waiting to see if you're weak."
"Dad, I might have a way—" Alberto's voice, younger, eager to help.
"Alberto, be quiet." Falcone's snap came sharp. "We are discussing business."
He turned to his sister. "Carla, my nephew Johnny should be back from Chicago soon. I want to see him immediately. I want him to deal with the bank president who dared to go back on his word."
Alberto had fallen silent.
Excluded again.
As always.
This happened before Halloween last year.
Another memory.
"Sugar. Tomatoes." Alberto's voice, reading ingredients from a recipe card. "Add some sausage. It's Thanksgiving, Father. We have a lot to be thankful for."
The kitchen had smelled like garlic and olive oil. Traditional Italian cooking, the kind Falcone's mother had made before she'd passed. Alberto had been trying to recreate those recipes, to bring back fragments of lost comfort.
The door slammed open.
"A lot to be thankful for?" Carla's voice, shrill with grief and rage. "Like what, Falcone? My Johnny is dead!"
The Holiday Killer had claimed his first Falcone victim.
Halloween night. Bathtub. .22 caliber. Baby pacifier left behind.
Johnny Vitti, gone.
The memories dissolved.
Reality returned with crushing weight.
Now, Carmine Falcone stood alone.
Not at a wedding. Not in his office. Not in the warm chaos of a kitchen filled with family preparing holiday meals.
In a cemetery.
Gotham City Cemetery, to be precise. The old section, where families with history and money bought plots that would last generations. Stone angels stood sentinel over graves. Elaborate monuments testified to wealth that outlasted life.
The February cold bit through Falcone's expensive coat. Snow had fallen overnight, coating everything in white that looked pure until you got close enough to see the grey underneath.
In front of him: a headstone.
Fresh. New. The marble still unblemished by weather and time.
ALBERTO FALCONE
Beloved Son
The Roman stood alone in the cemetery, surrounded by dead flowers and frozen earth.