Chapter Text
FALCONE MANSION
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THE SALON WAS FULL OF SCREAMING. Loud, agonized screaming that made four year old Bruna want to cover her ears, to bury her face in her grandfather’s suit jacket. Screaming that bounced off the dark walls and back into her ears.
But Carmine Falcone was testing his granddaughter. His grip on her hand said that plainly. Weakness would not be tolerated. So, she kept her eyes forward. The man being held by Carmine’s enforcers looked as terrified as Bruna was.
She just didn’t have the luxury of showing how afraid she was.
“Tesoro, do you know why we must punish Louis?” Carmine asked, his other hand gently smoothing her curls.
“No, papa. Why?” She replied, swallowing the fear in her voice.
“Because, my dear. Louis here has betrayed us. And we cannot abide traitors. Especially traitors whose actions led to the deaths of your parents. Of my son.” He continued, his eyes fixed on the traitor, Louis.
“Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know. why don’t we ask him yourself?” Carmine countered brushing a few strands of hair from her eyes. Bruna swallowed and her eyes glanced between the enforcers and Louis. The man paused in his thrashing, his eyes meeting hers.
“Why’d you do that, Mr. Louis? Why’d you hurt mommy and daddy?” She asked, her voice soft, tentative. Sadness and grief, she could show those. Those were expected of a four year old girl.
The man suddenly began jerking away from the enforcers, managing to break away and quickly start crawling toward Bruna and Carmine, skittering in a way that reminded Bruna of a spider. Her eyes widened and she shifted slightly to avoid him.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t quite fast enough and his hand clasped around her wrist tightly. The scream that left her mouth was high pitched and squeaky, full of panic. His grip was painful, and she tried to wrench her wrist away from him.
“Per favore, per favore, piccola signora! I am sorry! Have mercy -” Louis’ plea was cut off by one of the enforcers ripping his hand off of her dragging away.
“You do not touch the boss’ family!” The enforcer shouted, stomping on Louis’ wrist, a sickening crack coming from the joint.
“Deepest apologies, Miss Bruna. It won’t happen again.” The darker haired enforcer said, fixing his button down shirt before removing a stiletto dagger from a sheath on his hip. Even from a distance, she could tell it was sharp. Carmine held Bruna steady, making sure she didn’t look away from the horror show in front of them.
“Please, signor, please. I will do anything, please have mercy!” Louis begged, tears springing to his eyes. Carmine seemed to weigh the plea, before turning to Bruna.
“He didn’t answer your question, my dear. Should we let him explain himself?” He queried.
“Yes. papa. I want to know why.” The boss turned back to Louis.
“Answer her question, rat. She wants to know why you got her mamma and padre killed. Why she’s an orphan.” Carmine’s voice was deadly. Louis swallowed.
“Mi dispiace molto, little lady. The money was too good for me to turn away.” He replied, turning away in shame.
“You hear that, my dear? Your mommy and daddy died so this little weasel could make some money.”
The enforcer placed the dagger against Louis’ neck, causing the traitor to fall deathly still.
“Don’t flinch, tesoro. Don’t look away. You must see the weight of the Falcone name and the consequences of defying that name.” He said quietly, shifting her slightly in his lap. “This is our way, our life, our empire.”
“No, no, please -”
The enforcer swiftly and smoothly dragged the stiletto across the traitor’s neck. Blood quickly poured out of the wound, spraying across Bruna’s face.
13 YEARS LATER
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IT HAD BEEN RAINING ALL MORNING. The streets of Gotham were almost flooded by it. The sleek black car Bruna was riding in slunk through the soaked roads, a silent bulwark against questioning eyes and uneasy glances.
She did not need those. Not today. Not when the unmarked black car was part of a procession following a hearse. It was a funeral.
Carmine Falcone’s funeral. After a long and bitter battle against the only enemy he’d met that couldn’t be bought, shot or threatened, he’d gone into the long night. He was Carmine, of course, so he didn’t go gently. Even moments before he’d died, he’d given the order to execute a traitor.
Same as he ever was.
As the procession turned into the cemetery and rolled up to the Falcone family plot, Bruna exhaled and smoothed the front of her dress. It wouldn’t do to be seen looking slobby by her grandfather’s associates, or worse - Uncle Alberto and Aunt Sofia. Particularly Uncle Alberto.
Not because he was any kind of real threat - he’d just never let it go. And having Alberto Falcone call you messy was a low you never wanted to reach. Even Carmine had called him babbeo.
“Ah, Bruna, my favourite little nipote!” Alberto called, sliding over to her with a wide, black umbrella.
“I’m your only niece, zio.” Bruna pointed out, walking away from him and toward the expensive, mahogany coffin Carmine laid in. She paused next to her Aunt Sofia with a sigh.
“Zia.”
“Bruna.”
“My condolences.” Bruna said, glancing over at Sofia.
“Don’t - Don’t do that, Bruna. Don’t say ‘my condolences’ like we’re strangers. Like I didn’t attend your third birthday party or your middle school graduation.” Sofia said, adjusting her sunglasses.
“You had a slap fight with my mother at my third birthday and you were late to my graduation.” Bruna pointed out.
“Your mother had it coming.”
“Don’t talk about my mother like that.”
“Bruna, Sofia - come on, girls. It’s not the time to be getting into a cat fight.” Alberto said, shimmying between his sister and his niece. Sofia groaned and walked away.
“Was it something I said?” Alberto called and Bruna shook her head.
“Babbeo.” She muttered, before taking her place next to the casket and faced the priest.
The service was slow. Quiet. Even with the pounding rain, everything seemed to be moving at the speed of molasses. But somewhere in the slow, churning grief, Bruna realized something.
Standing among those people - cousins, business partners, her idiot Uncle Alberto, she realized that she didn’t belong among them. These were not her people. Her crowd. Her life. This had been Carmine’s empire. His Roman empire.
None of it was what she wanted, what she had ever wanted.
She’d gone home, ate dinner and plopped herself in front of the television watching The Godfather aimlessly, uncertain of what to do with herself. And now, with Vito Corleone on the screen, Bruna spooned some ice cream into her mouth. She was on the precipice of the most difficult decision of her life.
Tomorrow, Carmine’s lawyer would assemble the family to read his will. And she had a funny feeling that her name would be on it very prominently. God knew the old man would never let his interests and assets go to Sofia, or heaven forbid, Alberto. Cousin Luca was dead, and Great Aunt Carla had her own outfit to be running. That left Bruna herself.
And the prospect of running Carmine’s business . . . That had never been what she wanted for her life.
She could stay, and take on the responsibility, the power, the name Don Falcone.
Or she could leave tonight, and become someone else. Someone else. But . . . Who?
“I understand. You found paradise in America. You had a good trade, you made a good living. The police protected you and there were courts of law. So you didn't need a friend like me. Now you come and say "Don Corleone, give me justice." But you don't ask with respect. You don't offer friendship. You don't even think to call me "Godfather." You come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married and you ask me to do murder - for money.” Came the television.
Don Corleone. What would Don Corleone do?
Well, Vito Corleone abandoned a life he hadn’t wanted in Italy. Changed his name, crossed the ocean and made something of himself. His son Michael had done the same thing in reverse. Had left America to escape a business he hadn’t wanted to be a part of.
Even if the business eventually dragged him back home.
Bruna could do it, though. Leave. Abandon all of this, become someone else, do something real with her life that didn’t involve murder.
Yes. Yes.
Her bag was packed before Tom Woltz found the horse head in his bed. She had stuffed a wad of bills into the bag, saved from allowances she hadn’t really needed. If she’d wanted something, someone within her father’s organization would get it for her - anything to please the Don.
Bruna took her rapier last and made her way back down the stairs. Passing quietly by the staff in the kitchen, who were engrossed by the news on the smaller television, she only paused when she saw what all the fuss was about.
While the Falcone family was burying Carmine, it seemed that the Joker had tried sticking up a bank. Batman and Robin had detained The Clown Prince suspiciously quickly.
“Experts speculate that Joker has something else up his sleeves - and not just colourful handkerchiefs. Commissioner Gordon has stated they’re monitoring Joker’s return to Arkham Asylum carefully and have no intention of allowing him to escape again.”
Bruna glanced down at her rapier for a second as an idea came to her.
She glanced up at the back door, swallowing.
On one side of that threshold was Bruna Alessandra Falcone, mafia princess, granddaughter of The Roman. And on the other was someone wholly new. On the other side was Pleo Andolini.