Jude understood immediately why his colleagues had stepped back.
Gotham had its Black Knight—the creature in the cape, the urban legend that broke bones in the dark and left criminals tied to gargoyles for the morning shift to find.
But Gotham also had a White Knight. Not a legend. Not a rumor. A real man with a real badge and a specific, documented commitment to making the city's criminals face actual consequences.
Harvey Dent. District Attorney. The third point in Gotham's fragile triangle of functioning justice.
Batman broke them. Gordon arrested them. Dent put them away.
You could count Gotham's genuine believers in law on one hand and have fingers left over. For the ones who made it onto the list—the ones who stared at the sewer and decided to keep working anyway—Harvey Dent was among the most respected and most feared. He'd leveraged information, threatened prosecutions, and actually imprisoned people in a city where the legal system was generally understood to be theatrical. He was the punchline that landed.
Every gang in Gotham knew his name.
The Falcone family waitstaff knew it especially well.
Jude had a different problem.
He wasn't afraid of Harvey Dent the White Knight.
He was afraid of Two-Face.
The brightest light casts the deepest shadow, and when Harvey Dent finally fell—and he would fall, the story was already written—what came out the other side would be something far less predictable than a District Attorney. Twisted. Split down the middle. Governed by a coin.
My colleagues are scared of the DA, Jude thought. I'm scared of the thing he's going to become.
"Good morning, Mr. Dent." He kept his voice level. "Please, follow me."
Harvey studied him the way a prosecutor studies someone on the stand. "You seem tense. Are you feeling alright?"
"Just first-day nerves, sir. Eager to do well."
"Really." The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I thought perhaps you didn't like me."
"Not at all. The Red Dragon is glad to have you. Please."
I was so stupid, Jude thought, walking him to a table with practiced calm. Of course he came here. Of course the day after putting Maroni people in custody, he walks into a Falcone-connected restaurant. This isn't lunch. This is a message, delivered in person, with a reservation that doesn't exist.
He handed over the menu.
When you become Two-Face, please don't remember the waiter. I don't want to be on the wrong end of a coin flip.
"The wine list, please," Harvey said pleasantly. "A few notable characters found themselves at the police station yesterday. I'm celebrating. I'm considering what the sentencing recommendations should look like." He opened the menu with the comfort of a man thoroughly enjoying his morning. "I'm in an excellent mood and I have a good appetite."
Jude retrieved the wine list.
He glanced across the room.
Faces were reddening.
Not the normal color of effort or warmth. A specific red—the kind that starts at the collar and moves upward.
Oh no.
"Have you ever noticed that sewer rats are remarkably consistent?" Harvey continued, scanning the list. "The older ones are clever. Patient. They learn to stay hidden during the day and only come out at night." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "But the young ones are impulsive. You catch a few of them, and you can usually draw out the whole nest."
More faces reddening.
Please stop talking, Jude thought, with the specific desperation of a man who can see two outcomes and likes neither of them.
"Loyalty isn't something they're known for, either. Interesting pattern. Almost every time."
Every face in the room: red.
Jude's eyes moved quickly across the dining room—cover positions, angles, the locations of people whose hands had stopped being visible. His own hand passed briefly near the Beretta under his jacket. When it starts, don't get blood on the suit. Donald will be upset.
Harvey finished selecting his wine and moved into standard guest questions. Vineyard, vintage, tasting notes, the particular narrative attached to this bottle. High-end restaurants sold the story as much as the liquid—the region, the weather that year, the winery's philosophy, the specific flavor the combination of all those variables had produced. Dozens of bottles, dozens of stories. Jude had crammed them all yesterday.
He recited. Harvey listened with the attentive air of someone who had come for more than the wine but was willing to enjoy the wine.
Twice during the meal, Jude watched a colleague's hand move toward their waistband.
Twice, another colleague reached over and held that wrist down.
The phone on Harvey's table buzzed.
His expression shifted—mild irritation, then something sharper. He answered, spoke briefly, and stood.
"Something requires my attention." He opened his wallet, left cash on the table—the tip was generous, notably generous, the kind of generous that made a point. "Excellent service. Please give my regards to Mr. Falcone."
He smiled. Walked out.
The door swung closed.
The dining room exhaled.
Jude stood still for a moment, processing. He'd received his first tip. His first asset points from actual work.
"Christ," Santos said, from somewhere behind him.
"If he'd stayed another twenty minutes," Rick said.
"We would have started something," Castro finished. She was still visibly flushed. "Was that calculated? Coming here the day after Maroni people went into custody?"
"Obviously calculated," Santos said. "Harvey Dent doesn't do anything by accident."
Jude agreed silently. If that timing was coincidence, he would eat the wine list.
The rest of the shift was normal.
By Gotham standards.
Philip's assessment had been accurate—Jude's composure and appearance covered most of the rookie gaps. The suit helped. The glasses helped more. Put him in the right clothes and he read as educated, professional, someone who belonged behind a wine cabinet rather than in front of a surveillance camera.
Hundreds of upper-end customers cycled through the afternoon. Business executives with the frayed tempers of people who ran things and resented being made to wait. Society women who had specific opinions about everything. Entitled children of money who had never encountered a situation that didn't eventually resolve in their favor. Jude served them alongside his colleagues and learned the rhythm of the room.
His colleagues were good at this. They had to be—most of them were part-time waiters and full-time Falcone family members. Customer service was just negotiation by other means.
He contributed. An angry middle-aged woman had been working her way through Rick with the methodical patience of someone who had decided today was for grievances. Jude stepped in, took her table, turned it around. She was charmed within three minutes and tipping well by the time dessert arrived.
He watched her go and thought: Maybe this is actually the job I was born for.
The thought was more unsettling than it should have been.