"Here's something that might interest you. That papperdelle, comes from a recipe made by my sainted grandmother, Lucia Maroni. You're tasting the heat of Italy here..."
Maroni leaned over the table of a wealthy, influential Gotham businessman and his wife, making sure that they felt at home in his restaurant. He had to work hard to rebuild the reputation of his restaurant among Gotham's high society, in the wake of The Joker's murderous visit a few months back. And so he liked to make some face-time here. He still liked to get hands-on in the running of his various business interests. Legitimate or otherwise...
"Mr. Maroni, sir?"
Toots, one of his right-hand men, stood nervously by the kitchen door of the restaurant. Excusing himself from the couple's table, Maroni followed Toots through the kitchen, and out the restaurant's back entrance. A black limousine with tinted windows was parked there. As he approached, the back window rolled down, revealing one of the car's occupants.
"Carmine Falcone! Nice of you to come pay me a visit..."
Maroni was interrupted by the car door opening, and a well-built man with balding grey hair stepping out to face him. Ray "Bookie" Benson. He wasn't an Italian, so he wasn't and could never be a made guy, but his longtime friendship with Falcone had ensured him a permanent position in Falcone's network as a low-level enforcer. And Falcone trusted him a lot more than even some of his senior lieutenants.
"Benson."
Making no response, Benson checked Maroni for guns and recording equipment. He found none of either. One of the only times Maroni didn't carry a firearm was during business hours at his restaurant.
"Come on, Carmine, I'm insulted!"
"Get in," Falcone said.
Maroni stepped into the limo, followed by Benson. They drove in silence for several minutes, with the car finally coming to a stop somewhere in the East End.
"Nice area."
"Shut up, Sal," snapped Falcone, "You talk, I listen. I want to tell you what happened to me, the other day. A group of masks and mutants broke into my penthouse, entered my bedroom, and tried to threaten me. If they'd had the inclination, they very well could have killed me."
Falcone was angry, certainly. But looking closely into his eyes, Maroni could make out sometihng else, lurking under the surface. Fear.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Carmine, but I don't see how..."
"I hold you responsible."
Maroni blinked with surprise.
"Umm...what? I didn't send no freaks to..."
"No, but you antagonised them. Cops, feds, I can handle them. But these masked weirdos and mutants... they don't play by the rules. I never had these freaks breathing down my neck before. But you... you seem determined to make an enemy out of every last one of them!"
"Now just wait a..."
"I told you, Sal! I told you to leave Harvey Dent alone, to forget about him! But you just can't let it go, can you? You keep on going after him, and worse still, you keep on making a mess out of it! And in doing so, you make this cycle worse by bringing in more masked freaks to work with you, which in turn brings in more of these... superheroes to fight them. You are screwing this city up with your petty little pissing contest with the DA..."
"Watch your tongue, Carmine! Do you know who you're talking to?"
"Yes, I know exactly who I'm talking to. The screw-up son of a screw-up father. I ran your fat, bloated old daddy out of town, and the only reason you're still breathing is because of your connections with The Kingpin. That restaurant, your territories, you only have them because I'm generous enough to let you have them. Don't you forget it."
And then a silence fell within the car. Falcone had finally given voice to the lurking hatred that had existed between them for years. Maroni stared bullets into Falcone's eyes, seething with fury at the older, more powerful mobster's remarks. Falcone stared right back, not breaking the gaze.
"It's funny, Falcone," Maroni finally said, "You're right about my father. He was a fat old man, too scared and small-minded to move forward with the times, and he got pushed out by a younger, hungrier player sick of playing second fiddle. But see, if you ain't careful, history might end up repeating itself. And not everyone is as ah... generous as you... old man..."
Falcone whacked Maroni with a backhand slap across the face, taking him completely by surprise. He held his hand to his cheek, shocked at such brazen disrespect.
"You rotten sunnova..."
Maroni made a move to lunge at Falcone, but Benson pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at Maroni.
"Sit your ass down," Benson said.
Maroni turned his attention to Benson.
"You dare point a gun at me? At ME!?"
"Listen to me, Maroni," Falcone said, "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to end this fight with Harvey Dent. I don't want to see another attempt on Dent's life, and I sure as hell don't want to see another Dent press conference for after you screw up again. The amount of free press you give this guy, and ammunition to use against us, unbelievable. So...you, Dent, it's over. And if you don't end it, I will. See, you've become such a pain in my ass, I'm starting to think maybe having beef with The Kingpin would be worth it, if it meant finally flushing you out of my life like the nugget you are. Are we clear?"
Maroni's face had gone bright red. He glared at Benson - who was still pointing the gun at him - then he looked back at Falcone. Finally, letting out a gulp, he forced a nod.
"Sure, Carmine. We're clear."
"Good. Now get the hell out of my car. You're stinking it up."
Maroni let out a disdainful laugh.
"Yeah right. Look outside, this area is full of..."
"Garbage," interjected Falcone, "I think it suits you just fine."
Maroni didn't move. Benson motioned the gun at him, finally forcing him to step out the car door.
"Heh heh, have a nice walk," Benson chuckled.
Maroni slammed the door shut violently, and the limo sped off, leaving him standing alone, unarmed, in Gotham's poverty-stricken East End. The place teemed with crime, drugs and prostitution. It wasn't a pleasant place to be in the daytime, and now it was dark. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Maroni began walking briskly in the direction of his restaurant.
More than the nerves of being in this area, it was humiliation that burned in Maroni's mind. The way Benson had made a flippant remark. Benson! A lowly enforcer! Falcone had a whole lot of say about who had respect in this city. And Falcone had now decreed that Sal Maroni merited none. His reputation - and in his line of work, with it his safety - now hung by a thread. He had to take drastic steps to reclaim it. It was time to make his move...