When they discovered that their home turf was on fire, the mob bosses could hardly spare a thought for the banquet. They hurried back in a panic, but the moment they ran, they had effectively severed themselves from Gotham's upper society.
Never mind who had hosted the banquet. Though the towering tree had apparently shaken Rodriguez Manor's foundations and turned the garden upside down, meaning the banquet would likely have to be postponed until the next day, now that things had come to this, shouldn't they at least leave in an orderly fashion and express their regrets and concern to the host?
That was how high society worked. Better to lose the substance than the appearance; better to lose face in private than in public. Whoever could keep up the pretense longest won.
And although the earlier battle had been interrupted by unusual circumstances, they had still fought a round. Everyone was covered in dust, and it was impossible to tell whether anyone had been injured.
At a time like this, those who had not helped naturally ought to hurry over, check on the heroes' injuries, and offer whatever assistance they could. This was not a matter of kindness, but of honor. The mob, of all people, was supposed to value honor most.
The manor's owner had invited them. An accident occurred, the house collapsed, and people were hurt. If they neither helped nor even offered a word of concern, instead rushing home the instant their own territory was in trouble, ordinary people might have had nothing to answer for. Everyone swept the snow from their own doorstep.
But the mob had always styled themselves as the creators and managers of Gotham's order, believing themselves to be the ones who called the shots in Gotham. If they cared only for