A fist slammed the table so hard that the dishes on it rattled.
From the kitchen a twenty-year-old Rosalie cringed, almost dropping the crystal glass that she was drying.
Seven years of living under that fist hadn't been beneficial to Rosalie's resolution to never fear the man she called father. In fact, there had been some days when she had been positively terrified of him, and of the things he was capable of. She had been eighteen the first time she had seen someone killed; shot in cold blood outside of the restaurant in a side alley. It was a member from a rival Family – the Salvatore's. Sebastian Salvatore, more than slightly intoxicated, had wandered out of his family's territory and into the Falcone's.
Rosalie tried not to think of that day – knowing that the young man's death had been, in essence, her fault. Yes, her mother had told her that with the rivaling Families, only the smallest provocation led to all-out war, but young Sebastian Salvatore had, in his drunken state of mind, decided to make Rosalie herself that provocation.
Rosalie was a hostess at Carmine's in her spare time, at her father's insistence. "To keep things in the family," he would say each time he saw Rosalie putting her hair up into a bun while wearing a demure black dress. It wasn't the most appealing job in the world, but Rosalie reminded herself that she was much better off than some of her father's other employees – women often seen hanging off the burly arms of her father's… "associates."
It was all so cliché, Rosalie remembered thinking that night, watching Carmine speak with a large man with red-blond hair, both dressed in expensive suits. She had seated the man, who had given his name as Anthony Faden. Rosalie had to suppress the urge to draw in a sharp breath at the name – she recognized it from the legal pages of the newspaper; the man was a judge. Although, Rosalie thought as he sat across from her father and smiled genially, probably not a fair judge anymore.
She had sighed then, and walked back to the front of Carmine's to greet new customers. Two men dressed in black stood behind her, their hands locked in front of them – a silent but ever-present reminder that anyone who entered the restaurant was immediately under supervision, and subject to a search at anytime.
It was then that Sebastian Salvatore had made his entrance, soaking wet with rain and wobbling from side to side, smelling sharply of alcohol and vomit.
Rosalie had tried not to gag while approaching him. "Sir, do you have a reservation?" The polite question was a code – the answer was supposed to be the name of a connection, or the purpose of that party's visit to Carmine's. Instead, the young Salvatore had slurred, "I just want shomething to drink, ish that alright? Are you the sherver?"
Apparently, this had been too much effort for Sebastian, as he had fallen forward on to Rosalie, his hands pulling at the dress on her shoulders and disarranging it somewhat. He crashed to the floor, striping the black dress with muddy handprints as he went.
One of the men accustomed to standing behind Rosalie approached, and lifted the now-unconscious boy by gripping him roughly under the armpits. Peering into the drunk's face, the man said something low and urgent to his companion, who walked swiftly back to Carmine Falcone's table, then leant down and whispered something in his ear.
Carmine slammed his fist down on the table, and the restaurant fell silent. Then, placing his cloth napkin in a crumple on the table, Carmine Falcone stood up and made his way to the front of the restaurant.
"He do this to you?" Carmine said, gesturing at Rosalie's ruined dress. Without waiting for an answer, he put an arm around Rosalie's shoulders and led her to the door, the two men with the unconscious intruder hanging between them following.
Rosalie had felt a strong sense of foreboding as her father took her out to the alleyway. The men dumped Salvatore on the ground, and one of them tossed some water onto his face. Sleepily, Sebastian opened his eyes and was about to make a rude gesture when Carmine spoke.
"You touched my daughter?" He said, his voice rising.
Sebastian's eyes widened slightly as the tone in Carmine's voice sobered him somewhat. "The sherver?"
"You touched my daughter," It was no longer a question, and Carmine flicked his finger at one of the men, then held Rosalie so she was facing Sebastian. In a flash of understanding, Rosalie understood what was going to happen, and shut her eyes tightly, but nothing could stop her from hearing the report of the gun that echoed through the alleyway.
It seemed to Rosalie that there was an infinite silence after the shot rang out, but the sense was broken by one of the men saying, "You want I should dump the body, Mr. Falcone?"
"No," she heard her father saying. "Leave him here. I want the Salvatores to know one of their kids crossed the line. Maybe they'll be more careful about it in the future."
Rosalie finally opened her eyes, and her gaze went straight to the young man lying on the ground. Blood was seeping from his head, mixing into the puddles surrounding him and turning it a rust color. She kept her stare on the reddening water as the man who shot Sebastian Salvatore took the red rose from his buttonhole, and dropped it onto young man's muddy suit. Her mouth gaping open, Rosalie looked up at this gesture, and the man explained. "So the Salvatores should know that this is our job," he said succinctly, and then followed his companion and Carmine Falcone back into the restaurant.
Rosalie sank to her knees in the mud, finally letting out the wail she wouldn't allow herself to utter in her father's presence.
ooooo
Two years later, after graduating from the Gotham City Private School, Rosalie now heard that smash of fist on wood that never meant anything good.
"That son of a bitch thinks he can roll over on me?" Carmine Falcone's voice rang into the deepest reaches of the restaurant. "After all we've been through together?"
"Mr. Falcone, we'll just send someone to take care of him, no big deal," a deep voice replied.
"No, we can't do that. It can't be one of our guys – not with this deal coming up. I can't afford to blacken my reputation after all this time." Rosalie could hear the ironic smile in her father's voice.
"The Salvatore deal, Mr. Falcone?"
"Yeah, that one, you idiot." There was a pause, then, "That gives me an idea, actually. Why not have one of their floozies take care of him? As a… a show of good faith. Yeah… yeah. I like it. Why don't you run over there now and let the bastards know they've got a job to do?"
"Okay, Mr. Falcone."
Rosalie looked toward Angelo, who was now wiping down the stainless steel counters. He paused once in his cleaning to glance at Rosalie, then, seeing she was staring at him, reapplied his cloth to the already spotless surfaces.
"Angelo?!"
"Jesus, Rosie, you don't have to scream at me!"
"Angelo, for as far as he's been back, he's hated the Salvatores. What does he mean, he's making a deal with them?"
"Maybe he doesn't hate them so much anymore," Angelo replied sulkily.
"Yeah, I'm sure he's developed a deep friendship with all the police in the city as well," Rosalie rolled her eyes. "Angelo, you know something, and I think you should…"
"I think I should keep my mouth shut… so that's what I'm gonna do. I'm a cook. I don't know anything about anything. Got it, kid?"
Rosalie opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped from vocalizing her remark as Carmine Falcone called back to the kitchen. "Angelo? Is Rosalie still in there with you?"
"Yeah, boss," Angelo said as Rosalie violently shook her head.
"Tell her to come out here."
"Thanks a lot, Angelo," Rosalie hissed as she passed through the swinging doors. She knew she looked a mess; helping Angelo clean the kitchen after a night at capacity tended to do that for her. Her jeans were covered in splatters of grease, sauce, and other unidentifiable objects, and her dark green shirt was still half-soaked from dish-washing splashes. If there was anything Carmine actually revered, it was cleanliness. This was not going to be a pleasant encounter.
Trying to smooth back stray strands of hair into her ponytail, Rosalie reluctantly took a seat across from her father, who, as predicted, looked across at her disapprovingly.
"You shouldn't be working back in the kitchens," he started. "It's below you."
Rosalie kept silent. After years of practice, she had learnt to keep her tongue under control around her father, especially after mindless insults like these. He hadn't brought her out here to talk about her appearance, at any rate. Rosalie thought she had better save her more acidic responses until she knew what her father really wanted to talk about. So she sat, with her hands together on the table in front of her, and waited for Carmine Falcone to continue.
"But, if you were back there, you probably heard what me and Joe were talking about."
Rosalie inclined her head in agreement.
"The Salvatores are finally seeing some sense," her father continued, "and they're willing to join up with us."
"Us?" Rosalie quirked an eyebrow.
"Yeah, us. And if you got a problem about that, you better get over it real quick."
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
Carmine Falcone smiled. "You don't know much about the diplomatic side of the business, do you? The way I see it, it's like two countries, joining together in an alliance. You know, like in the history books. You should know all about that, considering all the money I spent to put you through school."
Rosalie narrowed her eyes. "I'm sorry, I just don't see the parallel."
"You will. Two nights from now," Carmine held up two beefy fingers, "the Salvatores will be coming in to meet the Family. They'll also be wanting to meet my family. They're nice people, once they start cooperating." He smiled. "Their son wants to meet you."
"Oh, really? And I suppose this is were the two countries joining in alliance come into play?!" Rosalie stood up quickly from her seat and prepared to make her way up the stairs to her room.
"I expect you to look your best," Carmine called after her.
Two nights later, Rosalie Falcone dressed slowly, feeling as though she was going to her last meal. Giulietta had silently brought in a plain black dress and laid it on her bed. Rosalie rubbed the cloth between her fingers. It had clearly been beautifully made by her mother, and she wished she had a happier occasion to wear it for. Placing a silver cross around her neck, Rosalie sat down on her bed and allowed Giulietta to comb through her dark hair.
"It won't be so bad, la mia princepessa," she soothed. "Who knows? Your father will probably change his mind." Giulietta lowered her voice considerably. "You know he doesn't stick with things very long."
A sort of hysterical giggle came erupting from Rosalie's throat, and she turned to bury her head in her mother's chest, a gesture that reminded Giulietta of Rosalie as a little girl – turn to Mama, and everything will be better. Turn to Mama, and everything will go away.
Giulietta ran her hand over her daughter's head, and thought.
"Hey, Rosie, you clean up real good."
"Thanks, Angelo," Rosalie responded. "I suppose this is what you didn't know anything about?" She lifted her eyes to meet his, and was surprised to see the huge man's blue eyes watering with tears. Swiftly, she crossed the kitchen and hugged him around the middle. "It's all right Angelo, it's not like I'm dying or anything." Then, before she started to tear up as well, Rosalie walked into the restaurant proper, her heels clicking and fading away on the wood floor.
"You might as well be, kid," whispered Angelo. "You might as well be."
"Demitri, this is my wife, Giulietta, and my daughter, Rosalie."
"Pleased to meet you both," Demitri Salvatore nodded his head at Giulietta and Rosalie before turning to his own family. "This is Isabella, and this," he paused significantly, "is Alexander."
The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy seemed to be a little older than Rosalie, she thought as he stuck out his hand to shake her father's. Handsome, too, she thought grudgingly. Not to mention being a member of the criminal underground! another voice in her mind spoke up. This is not your path, Rosalie. This is i not your path /i ! Rosalie closed her eyes briefly. i Il mio percorso /i . In other words, keep your eyes on the prize, Rosie.
"Why don't the two of you sit at that table, Rosalie?" Carmine's voice was silky as he pointed to a table for two back in an alcove, set up with gleaming dishes and a pair of lit candlesticks.
Alexander took Rosalie by the arm, and they made their way back to the table. Once he had helped her into his seat, and sat himself, Alexander raised his eyebrows. "Think they've overdone it a little bit?"
Rosalie stared back in surprise, and a half-laugh escaped her lips. "Just a little," she said tentatively. "I feel like I should be expecting a mustached violin player to show up. Good thing we don't employ any musicians here," she finished, raising her wine glass to her lips.
Alexander laughed. "I think we shouldn't expect anything less than a tenor singing La Bella Notte, personally."
Charming, too? Rosalie shook herself inwardly. She had seen her father be charming. In fact, she looked over toward where the four parents sat together, watching him gracefully kiss the hand of Isabella Salvatore. Her feelings must have shone on her face, because Alexander interrupted her thoughts.
"All joking aside," he murmured. "Are you agreeable?"
Rosalie was jerked back into reality. "Agreeable. That's quite a way to put it."
"Well, that's what it comes down to, isn't it?"
"No, not really. What it comes down to is what my father tells me to do. Didn't you know that?"
Alexander shrugged his shoulders. "I guess…" He lay one hand on the table, palm upward. They both heard laughter coming from the nearby table, and Rosalie instinctively looked, then brought her gaze back to man sitting across from her.
"You're actually going to let them dictate your life like this?" she said incredulously.
"Well, I wasn't that excited to spring for it, but…"
"But what?"
"Now that I've seen you…" Alexander smiled lazily, and Rosalie suddenly felt his other hand on her knee. Short of standing up abruptly, there was no way of removing it, although she edged to the far side of her chair.
"... I think they might be able to tell me to do this, with no problem. 'I, Alexander Seth Salvatore take you, Rosalie…'"
Rosalie felt his hand moving up her thigh, and snapped. "Your initials are A.S.S.? As in 'asshole?!'" Rosalie shoved her chair back and picked up her wine glass, dashing its contents into Alexander Salvatore's face. He leapt up, his face contorted in anger, lifting his hand in the air, when…
Rosalie heard the two men from the front of the restaurant trying to stop someone from coming in. Both she and Alexander turned to face the commotion, and watched as a young man with dark, shaggy hair made his way to Carmine Falcone's table, murder written in his eyes. One of the men frisked him while he stared at Carmine, his jaw clenched, and Rosalie heard the two words she never thought would come out of her father's mouth.
"Bruce Wayne."
Let go by the two bodyguards, Bruce was shoved down into the seat which Demitri Salvatore had just vacated. He found himself staring into the surprised face of Giulietta Falcone, and then looked across the table at Carmine.
"You don't even have a gun? I'm insulted!" Carmine said playfully. "You know, you didn't have to come all the way down here to thank me, a note would have sufficed."
"I didn't come here to thank you," Bruce hissed. "I came down here to tell you that not everyone in Gotham's afraid of you. You may not have killed my parents, Falcone, but you're the reason they're dead. You're the reason Joe Chill is dead."
Carmine's eyes narrowed, and his voice lowered to a hiss. "Kid, you don't know the meaning of being afraid. You come down here with your self-righteous attitude, wanting to save the world from the big bad wolf? Take a look around you. That's a judge, sitting over by the bar. Two police commissioners, enjoying a drink and some friendly company. And you know what?" Carmine made a sudden movement, and a revolver was staring Bruce Wayne in the face. "I wouldn't give a rat's ass about shooting you dead right here. Now that's power you can't buy, kid. That's the power of fear."
Rosalie stood, stunned, and felt a familiar arm creeping over her shoulder. "Let's get outta here," a low voice whispered, hot breath flowing on her ear.
"No!" Rosalie shrieked, and brought her elbow back into Alexander Salvatore's stomach. Momentarily distracted, both Carmine Falcone and Bruce Wayne looked back into the alcove to see Alexander doubled over, breathing heavily and holding onto his chair for support.
"You… bitch…!" he shouted between breaths, and made a violent movement with his hand. Rosalie closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to fall, but it never came.
Angelo had Alexander's elbow gripped in his huge hand, and brought it crashing to the table.
"You broke my arm, you bastard!" Alexander cried, holding his injured arm, while Demitri said, "This is the kind of deal you like to make, Carmine? Forget it! We don't need this kind of treatment."
Both Carmine and Demitri erupted into red-faced, yelling tyrants, and the restaurant Carmine's was thrown into chaos.
It only took an instant, though, for Rosalie's eyes to meet Bruce's. Then he turned around and ran out the door, shedding his coat as he went. Rosalie stared out after him, but felt soft hands pulling at her own.
"Rosalie! Now is your chance! Hurry, my love, hurry!"
Giulietta Falcone paused to smile at Angelo before she ran through the kitchen and out the back door, her daughter at her heels.
"Rosalie, Rosalie! We haven't much time." Giulietta looked over her shoulder warily before continuing. "I will not let you stay here and become a part of this world, more than you already have. I will not let the man Carmine Falcone use you for his wicked things. You must… you must go away from here." She breathed in. "But I must stay."
Stopping Rosalie's protest with one hand, she continued, "There is no way out for me, Rosalie, I am already in too deep. I could never get away. But you…" she smiled gently. "You can have a chance at a start in another life. I would like to be selfish and ask you to visit me, but I would also like to be unselfish and ask you to always stay away. I think you must make that choice, though.
"Here – take this. Go here, my love – it is the poliziotto buon, he will take you in." Giulietta shoved a piece of paper into Rosalie's hand, and Rosalie glanced down to see a name and address scrawled in her mother's handwriting – "Sgt. Jim Gordon."
Quickly, Giulietta embraced her daughter, and then they ran together to the elevated train station and up to the platform.
"Don't say anything. Please. Just go, go with my blessing."
As the train pulled up, Giulietta pressed her daughter to her once more. "You are no longer Rosalie Falcone – you must forget that name and the place it came from. I give you the name you should have had, princepessa."
The train doors were opening, and Giulietta whispered one last thing in Rosalie's ear before she let go.
"Go. Ti amo. Don't look back… Rosa Ducard."