The private study of Carmine Falcone's penthouse apartment overlooking Gotham. The room is a fortress of old-world power: dark mahogany walls, shelves lined with leather-bound books he's never read, and a massive oak desk. The only light comes from a green banker's lamp and the glittering, indifferent lights of the city below. The air is thick with the smell of expensive cigar smoke and aged whiskey.

Carmine Falcone sits behind his desk, a lion in his den. He swirls a heavy crystal glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly. Across from him, in a plush leather armchair, sits a young Bruce Wayne, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit. He looks every bit the billionaire heir, though his expression is one of quiet, melancholic observation. Standing near the door, almost part of the shadows, is Alberto Falcone, his son. He is silent, his posture rigid with a mixture of fear and resentment.

"Your father," Falcone begins, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, "Thomas was a great man. A sculptor. He took what was broken and made it whole. I owe him my life. Which means I owe you."

He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his cold eyes fixed on Bruce. "I see him in you. That same fire. But you're smarter. You understand the world for what it is."

Bruce remains silent, his gaze steady. He is playing a part, but he is also listening, absorbing every word, every nuance. This is reconnaissance.

Falcone gestures dismissively towards the window. "Look at it, Bruce. This city. The courts, the police, the politicians... they're decorations. They exist to make the good people feel safe while the real work gets done. Your father tried to fix it with charity. A noble idea. But naive."

He leans forward, the lamplight carving deep shadows into his scarred face. He lowers his voice, imparting a sacred, terrible truth.

"In Gotham, all we get is all we take. You have to be the one with the will to take it."

He pauses, then turns his head slightly, his eyes flicking to his son for the first time all evening. "Alberto. Pour Mr. Wayne another drink. Use the good scotch."

"Yes, father," Alberto murmurs, stepping forward with a practiced, subservient shuffle. He moves to the bar, his hands steady but his jaw tight.

Falcone doesn't watch him. His attention is entirely on Bruce. "A man of vision needs a son to carry on his legacy. A son with strength. With ambition." He lets the words hang in the air, a clear and cruel comparison that Alberto cannot miss.

As Alberto carefully hands the drink to Bruce, his eyes meet Bruce's for a fleeting second. Bruce sees a lifetime of humiliation and rage banked behind a placid mask. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement before turning back to Falcone.

"Thank you for the advice, Carmine," Bruce says, his voice smooth. "My father's legacy is important to me."

"Good," Falcone rumbles, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. He believes he is mentoring the son he always wanted. "You stay smart. You stay strong. And you remember who your friends are. The Falcone family has a long memory for its debts."

Later, as Bruce is escorted out, the door to the study clicks shut, leaving father and son alone.

"He is what a son should be," Falcone says, not looking at Alberto, his gaze lost in the city lights. "He understands power."

Alberto stands in the silence, his back to his father, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He says nothing. He doesn't need to. In the reflection of the dark window, his expression is no longer one of fear. It is one of pure, cold, murderous resolve.

The Lion in Winter is so focused on the promising cub he wants to adopt that he never sees the viper he has raised in his own den.