ccrleone

[ccrleone]

THE GODFATHER PART II 1974, dir. Francis Ford Coppola

[ccrleone]

THE GODFATHER PART II (1974) dir. Francis Ford Coppola AL PACINO as Michael Corleone

[ccrleone]

Your writing will always feel awkward to you, because you wrote it.

Your plot twists will always feel predictable, because you created them.

Your stories will always feel a bit boring to you, because you read them a million times.

They won’t feel like that for your reader.

[ccrleone]

[ccrleone]

i could add a few more stages to grief if they let me

[ccrleone]

AL PACINO as MICHAEL CORLEONE | THE GODFATHER PART II (1974) dir. Francis Ford Coppola.

[ccrleone]

i know i don't need to apologize for my absence, but that being said, ya girl overwhelmed herself socially for a bit there & needed to take a step back; had to give my other hobbies some love too --- tentatively anticipating a revival. what to know? just consider this a fresh blog. anything from the past has been wiped (with the exception of a few threads) & interactions will be minimal because boundaries are important, & i 100% support having them. i still enjoy my mutuals on the dash, even if we don't write. also, my portrayal of mikey has grown exponentially & i have my bestie to thank for that (sav that's u) so the love for michael only grows.

but enough of that, i hope you guys are thriving however that means to you. wishing y'all the best <3

[ccrleone]

continued from x. / @arthisan

       ARTHUR’S JUSTIFICATIONS SCATTER ALONG THE TABLE,   joining dried glasses of water  &&  playing cards aligned to the game of war. genuine interest threaded the needle of their conversations, but limited space  &&  repeat victories (michael: 3 arthur: 2) evoked boredom. politely unspoken. restlessness filtered through glazed eyes. patriarchal words, deep  &&  disembodied, share droning locutions past barriers of walnut-stained wainscoting. fingertips tapped against the table once, twice, three times, four … a mantra propelled into grey matter; tenacity  && complacency packed into dense granules. forward lean slight, michael’s head shakes side to side, momentum pathetic, relying upon an incidental smirk conned in mischievous certainty. the final nudge to his friend’s conscience. 

❛ nah. if we stay inside the compound, there’s not much pop can do.  ❜  offers permission. headstrong reassurance against the lie, dimly white as eggshell, passing through the gentle gaps of his teeth. he imagined future scolding — the bull-dog jowls of his father shaking in dismay. michael, listen to these meetings. michael, think about your future. michael, michael, michael... the younger corleone’s speech hastens. picking up the cue for a change in scenery, he stands, slides his chair in.  ❛  besides, you’re a guest. and i ought to be a good host.  ❜

absent of a second glance, michael leads paces ahead, grips the handle  &&  pulls the door towards him. boyish dither tilts his head. pupils fidget across wells of white. he shifts, half-guarded behind the door, sacrificing initial departure. reverie stretches across his smooth face upon witnessing polished curtains of lavender && mauve mantled to arthur’s skin like a fine quilt. an odd heat stirs inside his chest, spreads up the length of his neck && blooms against pale olive-brown cheeks.  fist clenches upon thigh. pressure welcomed, but weak in distraction. michael corleone hadn’t anticipated the sunset so soon. 

temperate hands tug on the handle behind him, footing clumsy; an understanding so foreign, instinct deafens blushed ears. or is it the wind? mellow whisps tenderly swipe invisible fingertips against the younger corleone’s skin, returning mundane color. wooden earth  &&  floral soil overwhelm with pleasant after-taste.  the vast freedom of four gardens, a small labyrinth of a courtyard,  &&  various fruit trees posed as the corleone compound — a diorama of envy to the outside world && a prison all the same. regardless, the wide yard challenges him; a rerun of youth after twenty years. fresh purpose itched at the bottom’s of michael corleone’s shoes. they had a lot of ground to cover before supper. 

he shoves past arthur’s shoulder, nearly toppling them both to the earth. quick to regain composure, michael's methodical in his jump. recovers well. turns his head, buzzing for one last look before serving arthur a big fat plate of dust.

❛   race you to the oranges!   ❜

[ccrleone]

THE ESSENCE OF GOOD COMPANY allows cigar-toned hues relaxation in basins of white. the expansion of pupils black as charcoal is swift. diluted in the blink of gratitude, nonetheless evident in the subtle rise of habitually straight-laced lips. hardened fingertips smooth over stainless steel, thumb between grooves && divots, strap dangling like a chandelier as the piece is turned with thoughtful inspection. he searches for potent reason --- how a fine accessory framed itself in the shadow of his image --- before abandoning any conclusion, settling upon sincere humility in the truth --- arthur thought of him.

the sheen of the clock's face opts a pleasant reflection, capturing the glimmer within michael corleone's eye; subdued with another blink, only at the behest rambles of his friend. still, a flicker of graciousness hidden beneath thick lashes lifts through.

❛ didn't mean to get me something ... ❜ michael reiterates, charming erroneousness burrowed within a gentle pause. ❛ and yet, it's in my hands ... ❜ his cigarette long stubbed out, thin smoke trails simmer from arthur's cigarette, enticing michael for another. the scorched color of orange winks at him as he traces matte white paper, nearly to the end, where lips meet filter && smoke, but his gaze halts, retreats to still hands clasping pristine silver. a faint prickle rises up the back of his neck. ❛ i do have a few, but i don't have this one. ❜ an admission of ownership. no way in hell he'd return this gift.

&& it is then, beneath years of generational placidity, an identical look ( the one arthur acknowledged with a playful scold ) surfaces; stretches && tugs comfortably along the thin strait of michael corleone's lips; a smile displayed countless times for countless reasons --- each one aged by mutual understanding, nurtured like a fine wine.

michael's two-bedroom home sat barely off the compound; next to connie && carlo's. two house's from the corleone mansion. under the shelter of personal refuge, michael permits the extension of his gratitude. lifting it higher, shielding his teeth, until the pressure pops through && exposes the slight bottom of his front row. his cheeks pop. ❛ it's a nice piece, arthur. thank you. ❜ he glimpses the silver, admires it once more, before it's tucked away for safe-keeping. he'd wear it at dinner tonight. the family were expecting mama corleone's eggplant parmigiana, && in preparation, as a good son should, he'd planned a special outfit in respect. arthur's gift would complete the sentiment.

something pokes him in this shift of movement, ultimately stealing every bit of saliva housed beneath his tongue. in an effort to gain it back, michael clears his throat. ❛ i found something the other day. holiday, or not ... it's yours by address. ❜ his fingers tap the table once, glancing at arthur for a secondary stall, before he reaches into his breast pocket, unearthing a sepia-tinted envelope; the travel of time having gently crumpled the edges. a blot of blood faded into its papery skin.

michael's fingertips push against the letter, sending it off, as it was destined to be. hesitancy sits atop his chest, && upon this building pressure, soft buttery sunlight glides through the kitchen windows, painting arthur's existence in a luster of calm && familiar trust. the letter stops at the end of the table. michael lets go.

❛ this was in my pocket ... when i was wounded. found its way back to me. ❜ no luck to be had. michael corleone guarded that helpless piece of paper, much like his country, once upon a time.

@ccrleone ♥︎

❝ don't look at me like that ... ❞ his attempt at earnestness is unreliable , for the way faint amusement easily meddles with the slope of his lips . a small simper finds its way through a tough canvas , even as he stubbornly remains with a desire to be as direct and unceremonious as possible — something taken and mimicked from his own foil . though , with lack of practice , it gets too entangled with his own inner trepidations towards untouched territory . in the end , he just looks coy . ❝ i saw it in the window walkin' by a shop today ... ❞ a watch . not the flashy kind , but still eye - catching enough to the average aficionado . simple and pristine . what dignified would look like if it were a piece of jewelry . ❝ i know y'already have a few , but i dunno ... somethin' about it just reminded me of you ... ❞

something is there for a second , a fond , considerate twinkle in his eye , a reminiscent look that was once reserved for the man next to him if they talked in terms of ' once upon a time . ' it is there , but before it is then quickly whisked away , shrugging from his shoulders as he turns and reaches over to rekindle a neglected cigarette in the nearby ashtray . a fleeting moment , as they always are these days . he simply avoids its onset before it can get ripped right out of his hand , a tightly wound grasp . in a matter of seconds , his intentions cave . ❝ and if y'hate it , we can take it back . it's not like i meant to get ya somethin' anyway . ❞

[ccrleone]

     PLUMES OF THIN SMOKE RISE LIKE VEILS. fresh && familiar, shared along practiced silence; limitless whips of burning paper carelessly sting pools of white, float down the back of his throat  &&  lay smoky earth along his tongue. bitterness swallowed, the cigarette hooked between michael corleone's index finger hangs loosely, teetering above the edge of the chipped ashtray. neutrality coats short-words. the gravity of elapsed time all too evident within arthur's pause, drawing out reserved gratitude. michael catches arthur’s glance, fixed to an invisible disturbance away from him.

through hazy layers of vice, penny-tinted eyes wait, settling upon arthur's face, comparing in amicable curiosity, the visage he left four years ago. wrinkles etched along his forehead. muscled jaw lines where pudge once spread. puddles of blue, distant, living in another room, hang idly. no longer taut with youth. from the first puff alone, he remembers him, remembers everything, but in the throes of his own suppression, he recognizes the man's trance. cumbersome  &&  merciless. no different from sleepless nights or sudden solitude. an innocent reach. a glimpse into arthur’s life, post sicily, is a sullen reminder of what’s been lost. 

a quick tap  &&  burned tobacco flops into the ceramic basin, mirroring similar patterns of past disposal. the cigarette settles between michael’s lips once more; ember igniting in life. a puffy cloud of nicotine sucked in as fast as it’s released. arthur’s answer carries an air of falsehood, only suspect by the swift unclogging of his throat, but news of pragmatic independence diverts michael’s surmise. mention of the economy, michael withholds an eyeroll. such standard thinking, believing pezzonovante’s matched the public’s best interest — arthur’s best interest, manifests disgust within thin lines of a frown, flitted by another puff of his cigarette. his father’s crackled voice echoes, like a witness to michael’s successful approach of thought. 

❛  the family’s good. ❜ a man of candor, business was gaining traction towards uncharted territory — legitimacy. departing old worlds for new. cleansing dirtied hands under the promise of a justified era. stained, but clean, nonetheless,  &&  with the don’s approval, michael’s plan gave an estimate of five years to completion. every year before — pop’s shooting, sonny’s death, fredo’s disappointing lifestyle — aided to the subsequent prediction of the corleone family’s fall, but the truth reached far above. exceeded any fictitious newspaper headline. allies. friends. all would be called upon in the passing of the patriarchal torch.

❛ i work for my father now. he's been sick. very sick. ❜  an air of the past slips itself into michael’s speech, masking hypocrisy for professionalism, perhaps expectation. lineage responsibility. he stubs out the cigarette, leading into his choice of words. opting for business, rather than reunion; the latter gnawing at the back of his skull like a ravenous creature. eyes, the color of arthur’s table, search him in this bout of silence. the intricacies of his blue-collar attitude double down for michael corleone’s visit. 

❛ i’d like to ask you how the factory is. if you know of any plots for a union strike. any information you provide now … consider the corleone's in your debt. ❜  favor for favor. explanation once spilled from a younger, sarcastic tongue in a boyhood fit to his father’s friend’s son – his best friend –  after interrupting an important meeting between the don and some senator. words mocked. deaf on teenage ears --- in the garden, the sky held a pristine shimmer above them. casting its innocent glow upon eyes  &&  hands unexposed to the soiled underbelly of the mafia. isolation was michael's wish. running off to the marines was a start. sicily, however, forced him with an ignorant hand, as nurturing as it came to be in the years forth.

hands fold over themselves, resting atop the table. upon civilian ears, the promise of debt loomed more as a threat than a gift. adding a kinder incentive, michael corleone's expectation for the truth lies irrefutably in the preservation of arthur's trust --- if not from michael, at least the family.

❛  is there anything i can do to help you? ❜

in seclusion , he attempts to put himself back together again , seizing the kinks of his appearance and ironing them out , as best as he can with what unhelpful conditions he's in . he tucks in his shirt a little better , smooths out the flyaways of his misshapen hair and , before he forgets , puts his arm on , in a way that makes him hope it'll miraculously blend in with the rest of his body , as if metal and flesh can be seamless enough for the kind . with michael , he has his expectations . though , between two men of war , perhaps both now know certain discrepancies between past and present are better left unaddressed .

when he returns , he shines a better smile than before , appearing more confident in his approach . a sigh quietly leaves his lips as he perches himself just adjacent to his old friend , but comfortability is all to feign his withered insides , while nerves , at his core , remain in a bunch . an offer to smoke couldn't be more well - timed . easily , he accepts , waits patiently for the flame that follows before he allows the cigarette to reach his lips .

upon the first puff , he almost forgets where he is , as if his own whereabouts have remained a mystery even to himself . a living room could be just a living room , until one ventures on and remembers what transpires behind the nooks . when michael asks him that question , he idly glances to the closed door , plain and unsuspecting , next to the staircase , knowing where his answers lie , how they feel something close to the weeks and days before an imminent demise . call it sympathy pains , the phantoms of despair that loiter not only just in the vacancy of his arm , but his brain . he wallows in this , as clearly as it seems , though more than he would like to admit .

so , looking at michael again , he still lies . ❝ great ... ❞ he flicks ash over the ashtray between them , clears his throat to avoid a hoarseness that creeps up in his voice . ❝ been settlin' in with the folks , lookin' for a place of my own in the meantime . it's a funny thing , gettin' reaccustomed in this sorta economy . i mean , i hear things over here are 'sposed to be on the up-and-up now . ❞ he takes another puff , receding from a ramble before it can go on for too long . long and methodical , enough to make his eye twitch against the graze of smoke . it ensues a beat of silence , and then — ❝ m'sure it's been treatin' the corleones kindly ? ❞

[ccrleone]

a wrong decision is better than indecision.

𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐂���𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 ; it stretches itself, word by word, across michael corleone’s porous mind. eyes like pennies – devotional inheritance — widen in softness. his chin lifts. his shoulders relax. high above, a canvas of faded blue melts into affluent hues of gold, enveloping the don && his heir. the corleone garden offers a show of rest. solitude performs its soliloquy; pausing in the gaps of valued fatherly wisdom  &&   permitting michael corleone’s perception to wander; not with aimlessness, but duty. rationale. a wrong decision defined itself, did it not? what factors lend credence to faulty decisions over hesitancy? wasted time. severity for the answer to an unknown. raised stakes. cost opportunities. sure, there was logic in that, however, the finalities of both housed discomfort ; not within the thin battle-line of morality, but the guarded stronghold of leadership.

his tongue quivers. teeth bite at soft tissue. michael swallows his first words — defying their disrespectful taste  &&  spitting out doubt. the don’s word held gospel ; indeed, many wayward souls sought his counsel, like forgiveness from a priest . michael views his father. aged by the hands of man's violence. validity fixed between grey brows. wartime experience buried within the wrinkles of his visage, soothed only the fruits of his labor. don corleone's words are truth. still, curious opposition surfaces from the back of michael's throat --- a son’s eloquence disguised with a protege's tone.

           ❛ — but, could that indicate weakness? could either? ❜

[ccrleone]

continued from here. /@arthisan

𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒. borderline destructive. support impersonates threat && his ego is fooled. enemies manifest without intervention beneath the warm light of guidance golden rays slip further && further from his worth, until darkness envelopes his skin. but closure masks shame. he no longer burns under the disappointing gaze of a friend. instead, finds solace in the delusion of ignorance, repeating i’ll find my own way out. i’ll find my own way out. 

tolerance treads loosely within michael corleone’s patience. conviction circles brown hues. offering a gentle stare. hiding remnants of frustration. uncovered truths distilled from the don — pop — shadow every protested word. every refusal. && therein again lies the familiarity housed between two men. ignorance for freedom. a glimpse of memory digs into his skull. bitter && cold. twisting the sides of his mouth. foaming in silence.   ❛  i have done nothing that wasn’t already a matter discussed, ❜ he retorts. infliction absent. michael shifts his weight, leaning into arthur’s reluctance.  sifting through blind layers of courage. ❛ you knew this was coming.  ❜

sins of the father — michael’s resolution lies within the test of his own power. his own strategy. still, their friendship no longer branded a resilient gleam of shared hope. a calculated mess of circumstance — most of which, if every part, was not arthur’s blame.

            ❛ arthur --- i offer advice. i offer reconciliation to your debts. i come to you not as a business man, but as a friend. one more refusal and there's not much else I can do for you. ❜ 

[ccrleone]

continued from here. / @arthisan

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 — 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, come && go. spring with necessary life only to find refuge beneath the rubble of the past. forgotten, soon. in place of another && another && another. a vicious cycle to the eye.. informal demands of nostalgia allow hickory hues to sit in silence. his mind trained properly in reaction when familiarity emerges. when memory reads its script, as he paraphrased himself — calm knocks at a wooden door. hands in pockets. casual. 

         the door, in wait, swings open. buried within ironclad bone, recollections of a distant time, perhaps, a better time, smooth out any surfacing wrinkles of confusion. lips slack without feeling. eyes crease at the corners — it’s the most he can offer —  despite what is, in fact, a pleasant reunion. justified in the gaps of lost time, michael studies him. deep, dark circles hijack once bright, ambitious beams. the drastic misfortune of his left arm. michael recognizes the strain on his face. the merciless claim of time. he understands it all too well. 

        michael grants arthur’s perplexity with courtesy. aware of his intrusion. he aims to keep their reconciliation short, for it is not their final hello, && the invitation brings a faint flush of warmth to the organ beating inside his chest. their contact remained distant --- purposefully cut off. that’s how it needed to be. his bodyguard monitors the block from a sleeping car. entering the house, following behind the other, his mind busies itself in the wake of arthur’s own embarrassment. michael corleone ponders if trust lies within the innocent fumblings of his old friend. 

         a man’s home was a public, yet private, part of his life — the don’s heir didn’t wish to impose. michael’s perception heightens in the small of the room. eyes careen the minimal space – mark the ashtray on the coffee table.  controlled breathing taking up as much space as the couch && coffee table. he’d stay as long as a cigarette burned. younger years would grant two, three cigarettes. a beer. enough to account for the miles between new york && houston. nothing personal now. just needed to be. quiet footsteps pitter from the corner of the room. hands release their hold. clasp in front of his jacket. arthur — fixed with a metallic hand && somewhat composed from minutes before — gestures to the couch. unable, or unwilling, to refuse, michael takes a seat comfortably, despite his waist-coat; a reminder their needs of time differed greatly.

       ❛ thank you for inviting me into your home, arthur. ❜  he fishes for the cigarette pack inside his pockets, plucking out two sticks. promptly handing one over.  ❛ unexpected, i know … ❜ he disguises the reality of his statement within the placement of the pack on the table. retrieves his lighter. spoken with the cigarette balancing between his lips. michael chooses his words carefully. for the sake of authenticity. he could at least give arthur that. ❛ … good to see you. ❜ 

        the flame meets the ends of the smokes. he knows better. still, with a single puff of tobacco, small-talk reigns. casual camaraderie is frowned upon outside the family. that’s just how it needed to be. 

        ❛ how have you been? ❜

[ccrleone]

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE.     narrow profile. his skin is a clear olive-oil brown. professional. extremely hygienic with combed-back hair. stands at a 5’8. not at all a heavy-set fellow or tall, but his presence radiates danger. behind his cold stare, he is ferociously thinking three steps ahead. fiercely independent. accustomed to danger; rarely do his hands shake in the presence of a threat. his brown eyes pop like an innocent doe, but as he grows older && stress follows him like a shadow, the bags under his eyes become more pronounced. deep circles seem to suck the joyous, dreamy life from his eyes, shrouding his stare in darkness, almost like death. his lips become paler overtime. as the book quotes, michael possesses handsome features that most would think looked beautiful on a girl.

WHAT THEY WEAR. ( I added this one as a continuation of the appearances) united states marine corp captain’s green uniform. predominantly dressed in button-down shirts && colored ties. thick sweaters. charcoal flannel three-piece suits. clad, neckband shirts with bengal stripes && button-down collared shirts. woolen flat caps — particular style known as a “coppola”, pinstripe double breasted suits. black overcoat with padded shoulders built for a powerful profile. homburg hats. elegant gold watch. plain white-gold wedding band. 

most famously wears a gray dupioni silk suit with black && white flecks. double forward-pleaded suit trousers with front pockets. black leather belt with a rounded silver-toned single prong buckle. the white shirt consists of a long point collar && buttoned barrel cuffs. a thin, black silk tie. light gray tassel loafers && black socks break the traditional grey dupioni suit coordination.

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE.    clean, sophisticated, && slightly masculine. a classic aftershave with notes of citrus && vetiver && hints of leather. a cologne that presents polished && controlled persona. light whiffs of cigar && cigarette smoke. whiskey && red wine underlying hints of dark chocolate. 

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE.   a kiss from michael corleone is full-bodied, like a dry red wine && after pulling away, one would recognize a slightly bitter aftertaste, like nicotine mixed with the earthy blend of tobacco. 

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE.  calm && controlled. reserved tone with a subtle coldness. most often speaks deliberately && understands the basis of a professional conversation (speaking to persuade && inform) his speech pattern is typically measured with authority && calculated delivery. low pitched. enunciates clearly && with impact. minimal emotional infliction, unless otherwise angered. uses emphasized pauses for tension && strategy. 

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE.  michael’s hands are rough && calloused with a hidden softness to his palms. his skin is warm, yet there is a detached lack of emotion in the caress. however, should michael && his partner lock eyes, there is a sense of secrecy. an intimidating feeling akin to electric jolts of respected personal power as one graces their fingertips along his skin. deep touches give a lavish && expensive, yet polished, intimate ruggedness. further time spent with michael may bring a surge of adrenaline coursing through one's blood, as if touching a ticking time bomb without a precise countdown.

tagged by: the ever lovely @afteriimage (ty ty <3)

tagging: @andolini, @arthisan, @wandercr (or your multi!), @pro26ctor, @godstrayed (for sofia? or any muse of your choosing, but we love a murderous mafia queen)

[ccrleone]

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐓. shadowed under the cast of his fedora. hands hide deep inside thick pockets within his black coat, unmoving in a show of causality. harmless. widened stance remaining still in the aftermath of her own bold retrieval. had her guts doubled down && reached him, successfully wrapped her small hand around his wrist, his arm, whatever she believed would stop him, the don’s heir would not have flinched. their business would meet its end; swiftly & sealed. the matter of her cousin would reach a conclusion. ultimately && without misinterpretation, in favor of the corleone family.

michael observes the woman’s search, lips pulled in a neutral frown. a measly stack of bills weights, as it was to him, nothing inside her hands. her chin lifts – a bout of confidence. a debt paid. murky brown eyes flick from the stash to her; unaware. kept in the dark. a twinge of sympathy, the seconds meaningless, occupies his stare. tale as old as the mafia itself – family members adopting their loved ones debts, but too often, stories lacked accessibility. surprise && betrayal, rather than satisfaction, comes forth.

michael regards the stack of bills once more before falling back to her. ignorance lying thick in her question ❛ what matters is the guarantee your cousin made with the corleone family. five thousand. in full.  ❜  silence wraps itself around the number. michael gives a subtle nod towards the money — a suggestion. put it away.  

a thought, curiously innocent as this woman appeared to be — an understudy for the kid whose dignity disappeared — passes to the forefront of michael’s mind. he reveals his hands, clasping them to the front of his coat. shoulders loose  && arms long in normalcy.

❛ you offer us a percentage that was not agreed upon — an offensive amount — promising you can pay the difference quicker than anthony. how do you plan on following through that hefty sum? ❜

      ❝  wait  —  ❞  she  pleads,  halfway  reaching  out  to  snag  his  wrist  before  she  thinks  better  of  it,  pulling  her  hand  back  to  curl  at  her  chest.  her  eyes  flick  nervously  to  the  bodyguard  at  the  door;  it  seems  almost  comical  to  pen  her  in,  as  if  she  stands  a  chance  of  making  a  run  for  it.   ❝  look,  i’m  his  cousin,  we’re  family,  ❞   eliana  continues,  forcing  her  voice  steady.  ❝  i  told  him  i’d  help  him,  and  i  meant  it.  ❞

she  turns,  beginning  to  rifle  through  the  purse.  she  plucks  out  her  wallet,  grabbing  a  handful  of  bills  from  inside.  it’s  not  enough,  not  even  close  to  paying  off  anthony’s  debt,  but  it  makes  a  dent.  ❝  it’s  three-hundred  dollars,  and  i’ll  get  more,  i  promise.  i  can  pay  the  two-thousand  quicker  than  him.  ❞

she  holds  the  money  out,  chin  lifting  somewhat  defiantly  as  she  fixes  her  gaze  on  the  stranger.  she  can’t  let  him  leave.  if  she  gets  caught  in  this,  few  people  will  bat  an  eye,  assuming  she  spent  the  money  on  something  frivolous,  that  her  dad  wasn’t  affording  her  a  rich  enough  allowance  to  get  all  the  pretty  things  she  wanted,  and  that  assumption  would  keep  anthony  —  and  his  secrets  —  safe.

why  sully  his  reputation  when  she  can  simply  darken  the  tarnish  already  on  hers?

      ❝  does  it  really  matter  where  the  money  comes  from,  so  long  as  you  get  it?  ❞  she asks.  she  hopes  the  things  she’s  heard  about  organized  crime  ring  true,  and  that  their  moral  code  will,  god  help  her,  keep  her  from  getting  her  knees  busted  out  in  some  seedy  back  alley  —  or  whatever  it  is  these  sorts  of  guys  do  to  people  dumb  enough  to  get  tangled  in  their  business.  ❝  please. ❞

[ccrleone]

   𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘 𝗔𝗡 𝗨𝗡𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗔𝗥, new york’s sewer stench pries through the backseat windows && into michael corleone’s nose. the scent, sweet in comparative absurdity, mimicked that of a rotted corpse .

michael’s second home-coming brought expectation && undeniable equity; the roots of the family business stretching their stems – the don’s methods like tendrils expanding into each && every crevice inside michael’s brazened self. one month had passed. it neither waited nor accepted his grief. merely nurtured the silence accompanied with one’s own misery. life has no other discipline besides imposing survival, with or without you .

fainted memories of fresh citrus && sharp, pungent trails of vineyards mask sour infliction, however brief. Don Corleone’s instructions stated the impending meeting was to be held somewhere public, yet cornered, as if forgotten in the wake of time && construction. 

michael’s steps are silent; mirrored to battleground nights. a bell above the diner begins to sing, until the stout bodyguard grabs hold of the small object && rips it off the archway. this action was not necessary. dark, dimly lit eyes clock a stranger immediately -- expectedly unexpected -- seclusion framed within the determined resolve of this matter brings michael’s attention forth.

unmoving from the door, michael’s bodyguard commands position, leaving the don's heir in this new ordeal. the woman speaks – assumes her own guard – in place of a rather unlucky young man. the only proper information michael needs lies within her first assumption. the rest is discarded. 

❛ then my business is not with you. ❜

it's late, and only a few other people inhabit the little diner. eliana hears their hushed voices from the table she chose, hidden in the back corner.

anxiety churns her stomach, and she takes a sip of her cola ━ the only thing she's ordered, despite dirty looks from the waitstaff.

she could kill anthony herself for getting himself in this mess; maybe she will, if she doesn't get herself killed first.

she watches a new man enter the diner, looking too clean and polished to be one of its average, late night patrons. when he draws closer, she clears her throat quietly.

❝ you're looking for anthony, aren't you? ❞ she asks. she picks at the chipped edge of the table, trying to keep her voice steady. ❝ he's not here. ❞ / @ccrleone

[ccrleone]

independent , private , sporadic / michael corleone of mario puzo's the godfather / beloved by stella. ( she/her/27. )

a deep dive into: sacrificial patriarchy, the american dream, hypocrisy of law & crime, doomed preservation of the soul, corrupted power, heritage identity, harmful masculinity, inevitable betrayal, infinite grief, it is better to be feared than loved.

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