#Corleone Crime Family

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

WHEN IS A MOVIE SCENE TOO VIOLENT? WHEN COPPOLA DECIDES TO CUT IT FROM HIS EPIC CRIME FILM.

PIC INFO: Spotlight on a deleted scene from Mario Puzo's "The Godfather" (1972), in which Michael returns to America to track down Fabrizio, his former Sicilian bodyguard and the man responsible for the death of his wife Apollonia. Finding him in a pizza parlor, Michael blows him away with a shotgun. The scene was ultimately cut from the film due to its graphic violence.

OVERVIEW: "In the "Godfather" book, Michael tracks down Fabrizio, the bodyguard that tried to kill him (but only succeeded in killing Apollonia). In "Part I," there is a scene that shows Michael recovering and ordering his men to find his former bodyguard. Coppola also filmed a scene in which Michael, toting a lupara just like Fabrizio, confronts him and blows him away, but it was so bloody that it was cut. But Coppola returned to it in "Part II," showing Michael getting the news that Fabrizio had been tracked down."

-- THE PASSION OF CHRISTOPHER PIERZNIK, "Some of My Favorite Deleted Scenes from “The Godfather” Films," published April 18, 2016

Source: https://christopherpierznik.com/2016/04/18/some-of-my-favorite-deleted-scenes-from-the-godfather-films.

[w-i-m-m]

[synthsays]

<:00 Doc/aka Emmett's backstory is so <:0 poor Doc

Idk if its just the walk-through I'm watching but Emmett looks just sad and then when Marty interacts w/ him he's all of sudden happy again, it's prob the whole fake patent office thing tho.

"Yes, it sucked a lot!!" & "I was still deathly afraid of my father..!"- Doc referring to trying to keep his science a secret from his dad

"I'm tired of you always bellowing at me!"- younger Emmett in a argument w/ his dad

Hey buddy you good <:)

I do admit the second one is a bit stretched the full quote is "Back in 1931, I was still deathly afraid of my father discovering the truth about my science predilections!" -Doc

But still, also I'm not sure if this counts but it's kind of werid how Emmett's dad says, "Don't you 'father' me child." As well as stating where he[Emmett] lives as his parents house (its strange to me how he's not including himself)

Yeah, and one last thing, 1931 Emmett automatically assumes his dad sent Marty to check-up on him[Emmett] (according to 1980s Doc) so that boy has pretty serious trust issues (I say this because believing people with no real evidence (about the person at least) are out to get you aka Marty in this case is definitely not normal)

Sry abt the rant I just found Docs past, interesting ig <:) poor Doc

[lifewithaview]

The Godfather(1972)

Dir.Francis Ford Coppola

The Godfather "Don" Vito Corleone is the head of the Corleone mafia family in New York. He is at the event of his daughter's wedding. Michael, Vito's youngest son and a decorated WW II Marine is also present at the wedding. Michael seems to be uninterested in being a part of the family business. Vito is a powerful man, and is kind to all those who give him respect but is ruthless against those who do not. But when a powerful and treacherous rival wants to sell drugs and needs the Don's influence for the same, Vito refuses to do it. What follows is a clash between Vito's fading old values and the new ways which may cause Michael to do the thing he was most reluctant in doing and wage a mob war against all the other mafia families which could tear the Corleone family apart.

*[to Rocco who has killed Paulie in the car]Peter Clemenza: Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

[raven-of-domain-kwaad]

Just the Voidhound’’s wife and consigliere sending a message

[binduspoint]

Friday Movies - God Father

The Godfather: A Cinematic Masterpiece that Stands the Test of Time The Godfather is undeniably a cinematic masterpiece that has stood the test of time. Its impact on the film industry is immeasurable, and its influence can still be felt today. From its compelling storytelling to its unforgettable performances, The Godfather has secured its place as one of the greatest films ever made. The…

[chicaboom-chic]

More Than Business- Michael Corleone x Reader

PROMPT: The reader is from a different crime family and she thinks he’s only marrying her for connections but he actually loves her.

Thank you @21witnokidz for the prompt.

WARNINGS: None, other than pretty shitty writing. (My cousin and I wrote this when we were drunk. Seriously guys this story is disjointed and weird. Sorry)

WORD COUNT: 3967 

There’s a moment where it hits you again; there it is that feeling of unease and formidable tension. It resurfaces in the silence, as you stare at Michael from across the room. You’re in his father’s office with him, he had whisked you away from the hectic party for a moment alone, a moment of brief intimacy. 

It was ironic the party was being thrown for the both of you but between the questions from the nosy aunts, cousins, and uncles, you and Michael had barely seen each other. And now even with your absence the party still raged on outside. Lively chatter and laughter could be heard from behind the office door, it was accompanied by the slow strum of a guitar and the sweet serenade of Italian songs.

Michael’s family and your family had congregated at the Corleone house. They had come toghether for a celebration of great measure, an engagement party; your engagement. Michael had proposed to you three months ago but had only announced your engagement two weeks ago. So naturally, a party had been thrown. Nearly everyone who knew your family and the Corleone family had turned up.

Don Corleone's house was littered with family, friends, politicians, and those alike, all of whose faces were twisted into smiles of great elation. In the parlor, the women sat, forming a small mother’s club where they caught up on gossip and talked about their children.

 Outside by the courtyard, the men congregated laughing as they took swigs of alcohol, downing drinks that they would definitely feel in the morning. And the kids were everywhere, they absolutely swarmed the place; you could only imagine what the rest of the Corleone house looked like.

It was a day of great joy… it was supposed to be. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to smile or even share the same level of excitement everybody had. It was your engagement party but you had never felt more restless and miserable.

Since the party had commenced a feeling of worry had been toiling in your stomach, which expanded the already deep chasm of doubt, that had managed to grow in size over the passing weeks.

What had started out as a silly afterthought, had now become a horrifying idea.

Is Michael using me?

In the last few months, a slew of thoughts had slipped their way into your subconscious, thoughts that made you question the intentions Michael had for asking for your hand in marriage.

Is Michael using me?

You shot a glance at Michael from your seat, retreating from your thoughts temporarily. He was by his father’s cabinet pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He noticed your prying gaze and met your eyes, he smiled at you warmly.

You smiled back, however, the smile didn’t reach your eyes. Instead, when you looked at Michael a pang of sadness hit you.

You fought the urge to frown as you thought back to the hushed business conversation Michael frequently had with your father after you had gotten engaged, you remembered the look of appraisal in his father, Vito’s, eyes when you were introduced to him as Michael’s fiancee. You remembered how surprised Tom looked when he registered your last name.

It had been right in front of you, all the signs were glaringly red.

Oh, God!

You tore your eyes away from Michael and looked down at your lap. In your lap sat your hands which you fiddled with uncontrollably.

How could I be so stupid? You thought bitterly. It all makes sense now.

Being the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in new york sometimes meant that men took interest in you for the wrong reasons. You also weren’t privy to your father’s business, which often attracted certain types of men.

You knew the ins and outs of your father’s business, the connections he had; connections that a family like Corleone’s would need.

Connections that Michael might need.

No, this can't be. 

You swallowed the lump that had been forming in your throat, biting down on your trembling lip to stop the whimper escaping from your lip.

It can’t be…

It was a sickening thought really, that perhaps Michal wanted you for what you could offer and not who you were. Maybe the love between the both of you was synthetic on his part; a mere ruse to obtain financial and business opportunities.

That in itself was bad enough, however, the sting of being used didn’t hurt as much as the sting of not being loved. In your mind, if Michael did love you and was using you, you could tolerate it to some level because at least he loved you. But whether he loved was a question that hung in the air, like a foul stench.

Did Michael love you?

Did he not?

It was painful to think about. You never considered that you would have to think about Michael this way. When you began dating Michael, the idea had never crossed your mind. 

Michael had just back from the war and had ended a relationship with a school teacher by the name of Kay, at the time you didn’t know he belonged to the Corleone family, he was very distant about his family.

After dating for a small amount of time you had found yourself utterly taken with him, practically obsessed. He was everything you longed for in a man. He was kind, gentle, and compassionate, he was also highly attractive which helped greatly. When he asked you to marry him you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

Now looking back on it maybe you shouldn’t have been so hasty.

If I had known I was to be a trading piece I would have-

“Y/n, what’s wrong? You’ve been really quiet.” Michael asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had been lingering between the two of you. His voice drew you from your thoughts and you looked up.

He was leering at you from his behind the desk, his face was a mixture of concern and curiosity. By now he had noticed the unease plastered on your face as well as the detachment you had from him. You had been silent for too long.

You looked at him, questioning whether it was wise to lie. Michael was rather receptive when it came to your emotions, he could notice the subtle changes in your mood. He would easily know if you were lying.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Michael.” You said as you shook your head. You opted to lie, knowing he wouldn’t press the matter further unless you gave him a reason to.

You straightened your shoulders and gave him your most convincing smile. “I’m just tired that’s all.” You chalked it down to fatigue, a plausible excuse, after all, today you had been very busy.

Michael nodded, and his eyes dropped from you momentarily. He placed his glass of scotch down on the desk and unloosened his tie. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” He asked. As he did so, he released an exasperated sigh.

Your eyes dropped from him, and you looked up to the ceiling. “Ummm, yes.”

No, Michael, I’m not. Are you marrying me for my family’s connections?

The thought fired past the many ones just like it in your head. But you merely ignored it. You sighed and looked away from the ceiling, looking back at Michael.

“How about you?” You said, trying to squash any feelings of doubt.

“Yes, though I didn’t get to talk with a lot of people as I was wrapped up in some things.” Michael walked away from the desk and sat on a chair at the other end of the room.

“However, I actually did manage to talk to your aunts though, rather they found me. We had some interesting conversations.” Michael laughed as he thought back to how your aunts had grilled him about whether big noses are a sign of good endowment in Italian culture.

“The women in your family are quite some characters!”

Michael’s voice filled the room as he continued to talk, he was more talkative than usual. He went on about the party. But his words were met with no replies, you weren’t really listening, you just nodded absent-mindedly at his comments. The bombardment of thoughts had already made it hard for you to hear.

Does he love me?

He says it all the time, but now I’m not sure.

But what else did I expect?

Of course, he’s marrying me for my father’s connections, do you think a girl like me would ever have a chance with a man like Michael if I didn’t have something to offer?

Your thoughts were spiteful and bitter, they pricked at you like a needle. They hurt you greatly but you couldn’t help but conjure them. You couldn’t help but believe they were true.

Your doubts continued as did  Michael’s chatter, however unbeknownst to you, he had stopped talking a while ago. He had noticed that you were engorged by silence, this was the second time you had become unresponsive.

“Have you eaten?” Michael asked. 

The question went over your head, you were too trapped in your thoughts.

“Y/n?” Michael’s voice suddenly peaked, having to have raised his voice for you to hear.

You jolted suddenly. “Pardon?” You met his gaze again.

“Did you eat? You said you were tired.” Michael was frowning now; it was a frown of concern.

You swallow hard. The room has suddenly become unbearably small as if it’s shrinking. You begin to feel unpleasantly warm.

I’m making a scene. Oh my god. He’s going to notice.

“I umm, I-. Look, Michael. I think I’m going to go home.” You avert your eyes from him after making your request.

You cringe the moment the request slips out of your mouth. It’s crazy, you know it is, it’s your engagement party, leaving would not only seem strange but raise more questions than you care to answer. But you just wanted to go home. 

The environment of the party was suffocating, it was suffocating to be around Michael.

“Leave?” Michael questions. You don’t have to look up to know there's a look of confusion on his face, his tone says it all.

“I know it’s a bit early, but I really want to go home.” You say truthfully. “If that's fine with you, that is.” You add in a small whisper.

“No, no it’s fine.” Michael's face softens. “If you feel tired you should go home.” He sounds understanding, and its comforts you slightly.

“I��ll think of an excuse for your absence, but first let me get someone to drive you home, I would do it myself but we both can’t go missing.”

“What are you going to do by yourself?” You ask curiously as you rise from your chair preparing to leave. You feel partially guilty that you’re leaving Michael here alone, but you know it’s for the best until these feelings subside. You wonder if time apart will clear your head.

“I still have some people to talk to.” Michael stands up from his chair, he stretches before fixing his tie. Then he walks over to you, offering you his hand to help you up.

You smiled at him warmly and took his hand, uprooting yourself up from the chair. When you stood up he planted a small kiss on your cheek. It made your smile widen. It was your first genuine smile of the night.

You then looked at Michael, properly this time, taking in the features of his face. There were lines under his eyes, and his hair was a little ruffled. He was tired, very tired, and yet the smile on his face remained when he was around you, a smile of complete adoration. 

Surely a man who was using you wouldn’t look at you that way? Could he?

With that thought, you felt guilty. Perhaps you were overreacting, after all these thoughts had come from nowhere, how could you judge Michael purely based on thoughts?

Maybe I am overreacting?

Michael cleared his throat. “Besides I still have things to talk to your father about that are business related.” 

Upon hearing that the warmness of Michael’s previous gesture faded away, and the smile dropped from your face. You let go of Michael’s hand immediately. The thoughts came crashing in again at the mention of business and your father.

“You speak to my father a lot these days.” You said with a hint of irritation. The past feelings of sadness were replaced with those of slight anger. 

Michael hadn’t seemed to notice the sudden change in your tone. “I have to.” He shrugged. “We have a lot of business to discuss.” He tried to reach for your hand to hold it again. But you kept them firmly to your side.

Your brows furrowed into a glare. “Business, business, hmm.” You snapped. “It’s all my father and you ever talk about!” The last sentence was particularly icy.

This time Michael caught onto the increase of snark in your voice. He looked at you carefully, he was quiet as he assessed the sudden coldness emitting from you before choosing to speak again.

“I suppose so? Your family and mine are working together now, so it only makes sense…” Michael was sure to tread carefully with his words.

“And you know, after we get married it will only continue,” He added. 

Your eyes widened immediately, and your mouth fell open.

Oh no.

Michael’s words were practically an omission. In your mind, this was the nail in the coffin. The wave of sadness that hit you was immeasurable. Your worst fears had been confirmed. Michael was only marrying for your connections, he didn’t love you, and he never had. 

You didn’t feel the tears streaming down your face until the second one reached your chin. “So you don’t love me?” Your voice cracked.

“What?” The question caught Michael off guard, and so did the tears. He blinked. “Y/n?” This is something he clearly hadn’t anticipated.

You drew a quivering breath, clearing the air that had been trapped in the back of your throat, once it was released everything slipped out.

“How could I be so stupid?” You sobbed.

“I knew that this marriage was beneficial to your family, you have so much to benefit from this, but I never thought you would-!” You were crying at an abnormally loud level. Tears were streaming down your face as you got choked up on your words.

All the while Michael was in a state of shock. He froze momentarily, this fluctuation in emotions had been so random.

“I know what my father does for a living, I’m not stupid, I know his connections are desirable to many people, including you.” Your voice lowered suddenly. The sudden rush of hysteria you had was wearing off, now you were just filled with dejection, complete and utter dejection.

“I know you don’t feel the same I do.” You sniffed quietly. “How could you?”

“After all, I'm just a business venture, a contract… And yet.” You shook your head, stifling a laugh. “I still love you, even if I know you don’t love me.”

It was ironic, funny, almost tragic. You knew Michael wasn’t marrying you out of love or sincerity but you could never stop loving him.

You laughed again. “What am I even saying?” You felt as if you had been rambling incoherently, spewing utter nonsense for what felt like forever, but once you had started you couldn’t stop.

“I’m so sorry.” You whispered. You slumped back into the chair, burying your face into your hands.

Michael had been silent for most of your tirade, dropped to his knees beside you. The realization had hit him. The silence, the melancholy, the distance you had been putting between the both of you, and the reason behind it were all so clear now.

She thinks that I'm marrying her for her connections. 

He shook his head and exhaled. “Y/n.” He put his hand on your thigh, caressing it slowly. “I’m disappointed to hear that.” He said sadly.

“I’m sorry.” You sniffed.

“No, no, no.” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand. “I’m not disappointed in you.”

The disappointment Michael felt was not aimed at you but at himself. A deep shame wallowed in his chest after hearing your confession. He was ashamed that you felt that way, ashamed that he made you feel that way, and ashamed that he had failed to notice.

She thinks of herself as a business venture. Michael swallowed bitterly. His heart ran cold. His guts tangled into a knot. He felt sick. Michael’s mouth went dry as he analyzed you silently. A minute passed before he finally said something.

“Y/n will you please look at me.” He asked softly.

You shook your head, refusing to honor his request. You didn’t move an inch. You were too afraid to look up, deathly afraid to look at his face and whatever expression he had on. You wish he would just leave you to sob in the confines of his father’s office but you could still feel his presence by your chair and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Michael sighed. He removed his hand from your thigh and placed it on your cheek. You shivered at his touch, but you still refused to look up.

“Do you really believe that I'm marrying you because of your father’s business connections?” Michael’s voice was at a whisper now.

“That’s why you’ve been so distant lately hmm?” He began to caress circles on your cheek. “You believe that I’m doing this strictly for business purposes.”

“And do you really believe that I don’t love you?” He said bitterly.

You cringed, slouching into your chair even more, you wished you could sink into the chaie and disappear. He sounded angry. You began to worry that this would lead to an argument, perhaps it hadn’t been the best to break down at this very moment.

But the next words from Michae’s mouth weren’t ones of anger in fact they sounded quite regretful.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I’m really sorry.” There was great despair in his voice. 

“I’ve made you feel as if you are nothing more than a trading piece.” Michael exhaled. He couldn’t remember a specific time or day he had behaved in a manner that made you feel less than, but he clearly had, and it had made you so insecure that you felt as if he didn’t love you.

“Y/n,” He said firmly. He knew he had to rectify the situation, he couldn’t have you believing that he didn’t love you. “My family business is important, but so are you.”

“I care about you.”

“I really do.”

He cares about me? You sniffed. 

The level of sincerity was enough to lull you out of your state, but not enough to entirely draw you out. You weren’t fully convinced. He cared about you but did he love you? Did he love you as you loved him? Or was he lying merely to appease you? 

Michael was a gentleman but being a businessman also meant he knew how to lie, and lie very well. You only hoped the latter was true. It had to be for your sake.

“You care about me?” You said slowly. Your face rose from your hands, you let out one final sniff, and exhaled, hoping to gain a bit of courage. “But do you love me?” You questioned. You had to know for sure.

“When we get married could you bring yourself to love me? And don’t lie to me.”

You felt your chest tighten as you looked at Michael who was still kneeling on the floor beside you. Your eyes met his, Michael’s eyes locked deeply into yours and you felt small under his gaze but you dared not to look away. Your breath hitched. You had never experienced a heart attack but you were sure this is what it felt like as you awaited his answer.

Michael examined you properly now as you sat up, you were still slightly hunched over in the chair and your hair was down, now ruffled and messy, it covered the right side of your face. Your eyes were puffy and red. The dim lighting of the room cast a shadow across you, heightening the expression of anticipation on your face and the look of worry, as well as dread.

Then Michael finally spoke. “Y/n, I don’t have to bring myself to love you, because I already do, connections be damned.”

“I’ve loved you for so long, even before I asked  your father for your hand in marriage.” Michael took your hands from your lap and bought them up to his lips. He planted a small kiss on them.

You looked at Michael as your hands sat stalely in his. Michael held his breath as he watched you look into his eyes, he prayed that you would what you were looking for, what had always been there.

At that moment there was a mutual silence between the two of you. You searched Michael’s eyes for any hint of deceit or duplicity, you prowled for any signs that indicated he was lying, but you couldn’t find it. 

In his eyes lay nothing but awe and adoration for you. The look on his face was one of passion and honesty. This wasn’t the face of a man who was lying, this was the face of a man who loved you.

"You really do care for me?' You said quietly. The way the words rolled off your tongue sounded as if you were trying to speak a foreign language. You sounded as if you still couldn’t believe it.

"I do." Michael nodded. "And, once again, I’m sorry that I made you doubt my feelings for you.” He apologized again.

“You want to marry me?” You perked up a little, the warmth was returning to your chest, and your heart rate had begun to still. “You really want to marry me?” You asked again as you squeezed Michael’s hand.

Michael smiled. “Do you think I am the kind of man who would make a commitment to a woman for the rest of my life if I didn’t feel anything for her?” He brushed the hair out of your face and placed it behind your ear.

“Y/n, my feelings for you extend past any business venture,” Michael stated as he leaned and kissed your forehead.

You couldn’t help but crack a small.

Michael loved you.

Michael loved you!

“Can you say that again?” You requested gingerly.

Michael stopped kneeling on the floor and stood up. “Say what?” He questioned, looking down at you.

“That you love me? Please?”

The verbal declaration of Michael’s love for you had washed away all your doubts and lingering worries. Hearing him say three simple words left you feeling euphoric, it felt exhilarating. You wanted to hear him say it again.

“I love you.” Said, Michael. “I’ll say it a thousand more times if you wish.” He smiled.

You nodded. “Yes, do it again.”

“I love you,”

“I love you,”

“I love you.”

Each time he said it, a different wave of joy hit you. You wiped what was left of the tears from your eyes and stood up. You leaned into Michael, burying your face into his chest. Michael wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly.

You felt safe in his arms, you felt happy, you felt loved. The feeling lasted all through the night, even when the both of you returned to the party and people asked why your eyes were so red. You didn’t really care though, Michael loved you, that’s all that mattered.

----------------

This story was an ungodly level of long and cringe.

Anyways hope you enjoyed it.

[melis-writes]

Mafia Wife [Sonny Corleone x Reader Multichapter, 18+ Smut] Chapter 1 – La Famiglia Giordano.

Read on AO3 / Chapter Masterlist.

18+, explicit smut read.

“You wanted to name our first-born daughter Gabriella.” / “You’re Gabriella, aren’t you?”

“The underboss’s wife”; that’s who you are, and the whispers of enemies, family and colleagues alike know it too. You’re no stranger to the underworld of crime surrounding you including the one run by the Corleone family’s underboss; Santino Corleone. The streets run red with blood and brutality under Santino’s influence but it’s Santino who feels hit by the thunderbolt at the very sight of you—pushing away his womanizing and notorious unfaithfulness. You unexpectedly find yourself in a position of power balancing your marriage with the fate of the Corleone’s family’s future whether it be through Santino’s infamous brutality or the love he finds amidst the man he claims to be.

[WARNINGS]: Mentions of violence & death / Alcohol use / Pregnancy / Childbirth.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: The very first chapter of my Sonny Corleone x Reader fic is FINALLY here!! 🥰✨ Thank you guys SO much for all of the endless support and love this fic received when it was just an idea and barely typed out! I'm so glad to finally have it up. By far the most exhausting and longest part of the fic process is planning a brand new one for me, and I had definitely been much busier than usual when planning out/writing this fic which is why it took so long to write. I had to give something for the Santino girlies as I'm one myself!! 👀❤️ Please read ALL of the tags on this fic on AO3 before diving into the chapters as it'll give you a good understanding as to what the entire fic and chapters will be like. This goes for ALL fics I write! The tags are there for a reason. This fic is also 18+ only, just like all of my other works forever and always. This is meant for adults to read only. ✋🏻

Chapter 1: La Famiglia Giordano.

[ Barzini Family Estate, 1948 ]

“Nobody wants another war,” Don Barzini states, watching the ice soaking in his glass of whiskey. “Nobody wanted another war; isn’t that how it always goes?”

Don Tattaglia gives his head a shake, relaxing in the leather armchair he sits across from Barzini. “We have Sollozzo to thank for all of that.”

Having an otherwise civil discussion between two closely allied business partners and old friends, the bond Don Barzini and Don Tattaglia’s family share has been stronger than ever since Sollozzo. 

Despite successfully allying together against the Corleones throughout the Five Families War and coming together for talk over business, neither Barzini nor Tattaglia can ignore the air of tension that’s formed between them now. 

Barzini can easily tell Tattaglia is unnerved as he sips his whiskey again, savoring the smokey notes of the liquid over his tongue while noticing how Tattaglia is nearly chugging back his drink.

“You’re tense,” Barzini comments, somewhat surprised by Tattaglia’s behavior. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind or not?”

“How can I not be?” Tattaglia swallows down his drink. 

“You’re looking at all of this the wrong way, my friend,” Barzini gives a reassuring smile. “You’re on the winning side. The Godfather has no leverage over either of our families or—”

“Vito Corleone isn’t my concern,” Tattaglia interrupts.

“Hmm,” Barzini pauses, taking a sip of his drink again. “Then that’s a first.”

“It’s his son,” Tattaglia adds.

“Which one?” Barzini rolls his eyes. “They’re all equally useless in their own ways.”

Tattalia opens his mouth to answer before pausing for a moment; a look of absolute defeat crosses his expression, forming into regret, then helplessness. “Does the name ‘Gabriella’ ring a bell to you?”

Barzini raises a curious brow. “Maybe. Should it? Does The Godfather have another daughter we don’t know about?”

“He has a daughter-in-law,” Tattaglia answers, “Gabriella Corleone. She’s the daughter of Francesco Giordano.”

Barzini tenses for a moment, no longer focusing on his whiskey. “I… I see.”

“You know Gabriella then?” Tattagia asks back.

“Not personally, but her name was spoken often in my household. Was,” Barzini emphasizes. 

Tattaglia sighs softly, giving his head a shake.

“Emilio wanted to marry her,” Barzini continues, mentioning his eldest son. “He spoke of Gabriella fondly and often, but she refused him and his advances. Now you’re telling me she’s part of the Corleone family?”

“Francesco did well hiding the news from us for the most part,” Tattaglia points out. “Everyone else must have known.”

“No, no,” Barzini shakes his head, refusing. “I don’t think of it in that way. Francesco is a dear friend. He doesn’t ‘hide’ things. He values the privacy he can give his family.”

“If you want to put it that way,” Tattaglia mumbles. “It’s none of our business, is it? She married Santino Corleone, the underboss.”

Barzini freezes in his seat, attempting to calm himself down internally as Tattaglia immediately picks up on Barzini’s shocked expression.

Tattaglia nods grimly, “do you know what you’ve done?”

“Don’t,” Barzini mutters softly, holding up his free hand. 

“She’s pregnant,” Tattaglia adds. “Do you even care? Do you know what’s going to happen now? To your investments? Your wealth? Your bank accounts with Giordano?”

Barzini suddenly lets go of his whiskey glass, watching as the glass shatters to pieces over the floor and the alcohol spills free onto the wood. 

Barzini covers his face with shame, feeling a knot of heavy emotions cause him to feel nauseous almost instantly with unimaginable guilt.

A heavy silence sits in the air between the two men for a minute as they ponder, having nothing else to say to each other. 

“I will apologize to Gabriella,” Barzini finally speaks, raising his head out of his hands.

“You can’t,” Tattaglia frowns. “You can’t do anything anymore.”

~

[ 1921 ]

“Gabriella… Little Gabriella.” You’re the first-born daughter in your family to four older brothers, and the eldest to your twin sister, born just forty minutes apart.

Although your mother went into labor knowing she’d welcome two children instead of one on June 19th, 1921, nothing could surpass the joy your mother and father felt when you were born.

Just as your four eldest brothers had been born, your mother gave birth to you and your twin sister Bella at home, surrounded by two Italian-American nurses from the community who had helped your mother through her previous deliveries.

Your parents weren’t sure what to expect when your mother realized she was pregnant with her fifth child since the last four children she gave birth to were all boys.

“Will it be another boy this time?” Your father chuckled and placed his hand over the top of your mother’s seven-month-old baby bump. “Perhaps two boys?”

“Oh, please,” your mother let out a laugh, “we have more than enough boys. I would love a daughter this time around. One boy and one girl, or twin girls even.”

“What a dream that would be,” your father grinned. “It seems like we’ve had all the luck in the world for having sons. No matter,” he leaned over, kissing your mother’s baby bump gently. “Boy or girl loved all the same. Spoiled like his or her other siblings. Only two this time…” He pulled away, looking up at your mother. “I can’t wait to meet them, darling.”

“Me too, sweetheart,” your mother blushed and laced both of her hands with your father’s. “Two more additions to the family. You know what I said when we first married? About baby names?”

“I do, mhmm,” your father nodded. “You wanted to name our first-born daughter Gabriella.”

“I do,” your mother smiled warmly. “I still do.”

“Of course. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. I still remember,” he gave your mother’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I hope this time we get to meet little Gabriella.”

“I hope so too, my love.”

Even before you were born, you were loved. The idea of you was loved, your name was loved, and everything and anything you could be from birth to adulthood to old age was loved. 

Nothing compared to how overwhelmed with joy your mother felt when she smiled up weakly at you, tears in her eyes from excruciating contractions hitting her again and again to see and hear one of the nurses declare, “it’s a girl!”

Before your mother went back into labor to give birth to your twin sister forty minutes later, she held you in her arms and cooed to you through her tears of happiness. “Gabriella… Gabriella...”

She kissed your cheeks wet with tears as your father let you hold his finger with your tiny hand, looking down upon you with so much love and happiness.

You were born into this world loved and welcomed just as your siblings were, and just as you would always be. 

Your twin sister and you were born to the Giordano family; a family that came from money which was no secret nor meant to be one.

Your father, Francesco Giordano, better known as “Frankie” by his friends and business partners, was born in Sicily, but your grandparents had already been living in and had immigrated to New York.

Your father came from a lengthy family history of educated individuals; spanning seven generations of university graduates and had graduated from Columbia University himself in 1912.

Your mother, Rosa nee De Luca, who was born in Long Island, New York to Sicilian parents, had met your father in that same year. 

Having many connections or even just one to a crime family served to be the best for anyone’s interests, even those who didn’t want to get “involved” indirectly or directly, and then there are always individuals who wouldn’t mind the close ties with the mafia so as long as they stray from direct intervention or get too close, could always reap the benefits of work connections by having powerful friends in powerful places.

Your father and his family practiced the same mantra as many others; don’t get too close to the mafia to avoid getting burned, by maintaining a healthy business relationship and community friendliness.

Since the days of your great-grandfather, your father inherited the ownership of several small banks that his family had started; serving the local community and operating for middle-class families with day-to-day funds, support for home ownership, and loans.

The success of your father’s family business in banking was steady and promising, working out very well to attract a clientele of all kinds from the Italian-American community in particular.

Your father built his business connections where your grandfather left off but also started new ones with the Italian community in the neighborhood and area as well as being involved with all of the crime families himself, but with some more than others.

Everyone, including the mafia, knows Frankie Giordano to be an honest businessman who makes a living to feed his family. Your father also happens to be smart and witty about it too.

Frankie Giordano built a name for himself without feeding off of his father’s legacy and thus deepened the trust and bond the Giordano family already had with the mafia when it came to loans and money laundering.

One could say your father always went to the bank laughing, and the mafia made sure of that for the excellent service rendered by the Giordano banks. 

Your father also knew that his future wife—your mother—would benefit greatly from that, and thus so would all of his and her children.

Your father had no intention of keeping the truth and ties of his business affairs from you, your twin sister Bella, or any of your brothers for that matter. He would only wait to tell you all in due time when you’d be mature enough to understand and process it.

Even if in the future and all grown up none of you were remotely interested in the booming world of business and finance, you’d at least benefit immensely from inheritance and the steady flow of wealth and investments.

Your father’s closest business partners were that of the Corleone and Tattaglia families, although the Barzini’s were getting close enough to join the list too.

Your family is protected from conflicting interests and possible hostilities between rival families because your father’s business is legal, public and there’s mutual respect and understanding of what your family’s banks provide with respect grandfathered in. 

Despite Frankie Giordano’s wealth and success, your father was never the type of man to flaunt or brag—just maintaining his work ethic with dedication like none other; traits you would indeed inherit from him.

In many ways, your father would see a lot of himself in you as you grew older, such as the fact you too could see light at the end of every tunnel and that you also valued family and morals over money and power.

Such traits and beliefs made your father a true family man under times of turmoil and stress, and it also helped you understand the world around you better.

Your father married your mother, Rosa, in 1914 after almost two years of courtship with no intention to push or rush their relationship for the sake of tying the knot quickly.

Your mother comes from a family of wealthy socialites who built upon their wealth by investing and simply being connected to the right people. 

Your parents met each other through a social outing when your mother’s family became all the more interested in investing in Giordano family banks.

“It’s one thing to believe in something such as love at first sight. Love can be so fickle, but when it happens to you, it changes you completely,” your mother had once told you.

The wit and cunning your mother showed growing up as a young woman were learned from family members around her and would no doubt pass on to you as well.

Through your mother, you also discovered your passion and love for art and botany, whereas your twin sister Bella felt the same and was more connected to architecture, nature, and the outdoors. 

When your parents settled down and planned to have a family of their own, your brothers, you, and your sister would come from and be born into a family of love and respect that could never be unbound.

You knew from a very young age early on that your parents loved each other very much, and although all couples disagree and have their fights, you still can’t recall a single moment where you heard your parents raise their voices at each other in front of you, let alone fight or argue in front of you and your siblings either.

Growing up, all you knew is you loved and wished for the same peace and calm love your parents shared.

You don’t want to be “madly” in love; you want a peaceful and understanding love—the kind your mother and father share with each other with the kind of expectations they lived through and passed onto you.

Everything you’ve learned about love was through your parents, and it set your heart’s wants and needs as a young woman.

Your mother, who is not easily impressed by just anything, had taught you to be the same and explore your options with all things when you were a teenager.

“What pleases the eye once may not do so the second time. The world is filled with options. Your heart will know what’s best for you.”

While your mother was eighteen years old when she married your father, she gave birth to your eldest brother—Luca—in 1915.

Right up until your mother’s maternity leave, she was a private art teacher in New York City who specialized in teaching about painting; classical, renaissance, religious, and abstract. 

Your mother would not return back to teaching part-time until 1936 when your sister Bella and you were about fifteen years old and the family could easily sustain and take care of itself throughout the day.

Your mother also preferred to teach part-time instead of full-time before she began to have children because she preferred to spend most of her time with the grandchildren she welcomed over the years.

Coming up to 1939, you and your sister were eligible bachelorettes in your family alongside one bachelor brother—Giani—but it would be you, the most eligible bachelorette considering your circumstances and your sister’s traveling abroad that would not only bring you upon him—Santino Corleone—but the Corleone family and their history with the Giordano’s in due time.

[ 1920, Hell’s Kitchen, New York ]

“There will never be come a day—” Francesco says, sketching out the outline of a small olive branch over a scrap piece of paper in front of him, “where they outlaw this, my friend. Never. The olive? They could not,” your father admires his sketch, darkening the two olives he drew hanging on the branch. “The olive provides too much—it does too much. You buy it from Vito Corleone—Genco Olive Oil—” he smiles up at Vito who returns the warm expression, popping a black olive in his mouth from the small platter in front of them.

“And you use it in your cooking,” your father continues, taking an olive and putting it in his mouth. “It’s too versatile, too much of a need for the average family to outlaw.”

“I can’t see any Italian family without a bottle in their home,” Vito chuckles quietly.

“Exactly,” your father points out, reaching into the drawer beneath him for a moment.

Vito glances over curiously, watching as Francesco pulls out a concealed bottle of unopened Jack Daniel’s whiskey before setting it on the front counter in front of him.

“You don’t have to worry about the repercussions of buying a bottle or whole barrel of olive oil. This though,” your father taps the back of his fingernails against the bottle of alcohol. “Is a crime. This bottle here.”

Vito raises a curious brow; amusement twinkling in his eyes as to how nonchalantly your father pulled out a bottle of unopened whiskey.

“My father’s favorite drink served on ice. Bought and sold everywhere, now it’s illegal,” Francesco chuckles, shaking his head. “Now, buying and selling alcohol is illegal. Just like that.”

“They could never expect to stop everyone from doing so,” Vito chimes in.

“Exactly, my friend,” your father begins to open up the bottle, grabbing two small glasses from the cupboard beneath the front counter at which he and Vito sit. “They never can, but they know they never could. I don’t know how much longer this silliness will last, but,” Francesco begins to pour Vito and himself a glass of whiskey, “there’s plenty more of where this came from. No questions asked, no eyebrows raised.”

A curious look crosses Vito’s eyes as he takes his glass of whiskey before glancing down at it. Naturally, he immediately begins to wonder how many bottles Francesco has, where he got them from, how he got them, and where they’ll go.

“You are the most resourceful friend I know,” Vito comments, “do I need to ask?”

“You can,” your father replies, knowing, of course, Vito’s curiosity is only normal and expected, “if we can come to an agreement first, my friend.”

Your father was the first man to lend Vito Corleone money; give him his first full loan just by knowing his full name and without any interest.

Your father gave Vito a chance—one of his first chances—without even knowing it, and through such a chance came one lucrative business opportunity after another.

If your father and Vito were involved in something, then it meant there was plenty of money to be made under the table without asking questions and with no risk of getting caught.

Whether your father and Vito formally acknowledged it or not, they were a duo of sorts.

Your father trusted Vito while knowing Vito was indeed settling the roots of his one crime family just as the other mafia families in New York were.

Your father didn’t care about Vito’s involvement in crime or anything of the sort; your father was and is a banker by trade and name, and money always talked.

With prohibition starting in 1920 with a surplus of alcohol to be smuggled from your father’s contacts in Canada, there was nothing but profit to be made from the business for however long prohibition would last.

Securing and solidifying a strong friendship already, the prohibition era would make both your family and Vito’s very wealthy from the moment Vito smiled and shook your father’s hand in agreement, knowing all the same.

That was hardly the beginning of the Giordano and Corleone family’s friendship and ties with one another.

That same year, Vito Corleone would kill Don Fanucci.

Despite the concept being thought of by everyone who had the misfortune to know Fanucci, many didn’t believe Fanucci would be outright killed.

It was merely something men fantasized about to set themselves free of the financial obligations Fanucci put forward and fears they would be killed, extorted, go missing, or worse.

Taking Fanucci out was a fantasy, nobody could do it except for Vito Corleone.

If it was anyone your father had faith in to stand up to a brutish man like Fanucci, it was Vito Corleone, but your father also didn’t expect Vito to murder Fanucci the way he did and so soon.

On that fateful day, your father was closing up his main bank’s branch for the day; having put up the “closed” sign on the front door and lowered the blinds more than halfway down.

He had not yet locked the front door since he was up at the front anyway, and your father would be able to see anyone coming to approach the bank’s entrance before they could even think of trying the door.

At that time, your father was counting some of the spare change in one of the last drawers quietly, noting that it was 5:30 PM and rush hour had fully kicked in.

Humming quietly to himself, Francesco put the spare change in his pocket before closing up the cash register and locking it with his key.

Only for a moment did your father look up to see the faint figure of a passerby without paying too much attention to it.

In a few moments from now, Francesco would lock up the bank and head home; your mother was expecting him with a hot meal on the table and she was pregnant with you and your twin sister Bella at the time.

In a good mood and having enjoyed his work day, your father slowly began to stop humming upon hearing footsteps from that same figure grow closer to the bank’s front door.

Your father knew it wasn’t someone out strolling or wandering, but rather approaching the bank directly and standing in front of the door.

Your father kept his hand over his pistol carefully concealed underneath an old polishing rag on the front counter while watching the figure’s movements by the door.

It was then that Francesco noticed who the figure was, seeing no cause for panic or alarm.

It was Peter Clemenza, and he was revealing himself to your father to avoid a bullet in between the eyes at this hour.

Clemenza lifted up the “closed” sign in front of the door and peeked his head in; urgency in his eyes and beckoning with his hands to be let in.

Your father moved his hand away from the pistol and gestured for Clemenza to enter since the door wasn’t locked.

Sighing in relief, Clemenza quickly entered and shut the door behind him instantly, wasting no time.

Your father could easily tell Clemenza was alarmed but didn’t have a look on his face that spelled it was his problem.

Before your father could barely blink or open his mouth to ask Clemenza what was going on, Clemenza immediately stated, “Fanucci is dead.”

Your father stared back at him in shock, pausing for a moment to take everything in. “What? Dead?”

“Dead,” Clemenza confirms, locking the bank door and taking off his fedora. “I came over here as fast as I could to tell you.”

“Who else knows?” Francesco asked quietly.

“Roth, Genco, and Tessio so far,” Clemenza answered, catching his breath. “This is gonna send fuckin’ shockwaves throughout the neighborhood.”

“My God,” your father muttered under his breath, smoothening out the sides of his slicked-back hair. “And Vito? Does Vito know yet?”

Clemenza chuckles, shaking his head. “Who do you think did it, Frankie? Vito killed Fanucci. Shot that son of a bitch right in his own apartment. Don’t worry—“ He holds up a hand, “Vito handled everything.”

“Does he need anything?” Your father offered, stepping out from behind the front counter.

“Yeah, but I have a feeling you already know what,” Clemenza shrugged his shoulders. “That bastard Fanucci took half of our dime each and every time. He still dealt with your bank, right?”

“He has an account here,” Francesco nodded.

“Good,” Clemenza put his fedora back on, adjusting it. “Because everything in Fanucci’s account needs to all go to Vito now.”

It was true that Fanucci’s death, it now meant his money and assets held at the Giordano banks had to go somewhere, and your father couldn’t agree more to it going straight to Vito.

Fanucci had been stingy and extra hard on Vito over anyone, despite Vito being understanding and gentle to counter each and every time.

Still, Fanucci took hundreds of dollars worth of cuts from Vito’s pay every single time and still threatened to have him killed at the same time.

Francesco had no pity whatsoever towards Fanucci or his family, and if Vito was going to be the one taking back the money Fanucci stole from him and everyone else, then your father would agree to let it happen.

After all, Francesco knew Vito Corleone wasn’t the kind of man to take all that money and spend it on himself.

Vito proved your father’s beliefs about the security of Fanucci’s money and assets being transferred to Vito’s accounts when he saw for himself how Vito spread the money back into the Italian-American community and only taking the exact fair share that he kept track of since Fanucci began taking it.

Afterward, Francesco closed down Fanucci’s account at his bank and erased all existence and history of it, so if the police came around to ask questions, there wouldn’t be a single answer available.

Having Fanucci killed wasn’t something your father expected to happen in 1920—not while prohibition was still ongoing—and by Vito Corleone’s hand, nonetheless.

At the time, the only exciting news for Francesco Giordano was that he was expecting his wife to give birth to twin babies in the upcoming year.

~

In 1921, you and your twin sister Gabriella were born.

Your family did not live in stress due to any direct involvement in mafia affairs or had any fears to worry about what the mafia and those associated with its lifestyle of crime were doing.

Nothing stopped your family from continuing to live out their lives as normal, peaceful, and lawful with the police and government as many see fit despite what your father had known, seen, and been involved with in the past year.

Your father promised himself that he would never do or say anything to jeopardize the safety and happiness of his family nor put his family in any situation where they would live in fear and become potential targets to anyone or anything.

After all, your father had been expecting the birth of you and your baby sister—experiencing fatherhood all over again and surprisingly to two daughters this time.

Nothing else needed to get in the way of Francesco Giordano when he was welcoming two little babies to his family. Nothing to stress out his wife either and Francesco made certain of this.

It was on June 19th, 1921 that your mother, Rosa, went into labor in the comfort of her own home for six hours to give birth to you and your twin sister.

The same nurses who helped your mother give birth to your brothers were at your mother’s side again as your father also sat with her and held your mother’s hand for comfort—wiping the sweat off of her forehead and making soft conversation.

Everyone involved kept Rosa as comfortable as they best could, remaining vigilant in observation and getting Rosa anything she may need.

“Ti amo,” (I love you) your father whispered in your mother’s ear. “Sei una donna forte e ce la farai.” (You’re a strong woman and you’re going to get through this.)

Your mother’s strength thick and thin always had your father in awe, and your father never left your mother’s side throughout the six hours of tedious and agonizing labor.

Neither of your parents will ever forget the overwhelming joy and excitement they felt hearing the nurse announce, “it’s a girl!” for the first time as your mother gave birth to you.

Your mother smiled throughout her tears as she reached out to hold you and your father teared up too, seeing that he now had a baby daughter.

Sobbing from nothing but happiness and relief, your mother held your tiny self in her arms for a few moments before her body would prepare again to give birth to your twin sister Bella in the next forty minutes.

“Gabriella, Gabriella…” Your father cooed softly, attempting to soothe you as you cried out in your mother’s arms. “Welcome to the world, my beautiful girl.”

If it was a shock to have a daughter after giving birth to so many little boys, the ultimate surprise was your parents realizing that they were having two daughters.

So many happy tears and laughter were shared in that room, relief washing over everyone and the exhaustion of labor beginning to kick in.

Your family welcomed you and your twin sister Bella to the world in 1921, and your mother and father held both you and Bella in their arms, whispering promises that they would love and protect you both no matter what; that they’d do anything to give you and your siblings a good life.

Your eldest brother, Luca, who was five years old at the time was ecstatic, as were four-year-old Romeo, Casio, and little Giani to welcome two baby sisters.

Truly, it was one of the happiest moments of your mother and father’s lives.

~

In 1922 as you and Bella were just little babies growing up, one thing had become all the more apparent to all men who lived in Long Island—particularly the Italian community and the one in Hell’s Kitchen too.

Crime families at this time had bonded and grown stronger with all the more influence now. They were too powerful to be considered Fanucci wannabees as they could no longer be reckoned with alone.

Such power and influence amidst crime families brought business and organization, but that also meant rampant crime and fear even if it was not always noticeable.

One had to be careful dealing with crime families for whatever reasons since rivalry, although relatively uncommon at the time did exist and caused enough trouble.

Your father was only allied with and close friends with Vito and the Corleone family at the time, so no rivalry concerned him.

“Let me know if you need anything else, my friend,” Francesco said, patting Vito’s shoulder. “I can find a way to get funds to you in Sicily in less than two days if needed.”

“I will be fine, Frankie. Thank you,” Vito chuckled and smiled at your father. “I’m very grateful and appreciative for all the help you’ve provided my family and me.”

“You know I can say the same to you,” Francesco nodded back. “I’m too used to seeing you down these neighborhoods. You’ll be missed, Vito Corleone, but this trip is just what you need, isn’t it? For family and for peace.”

“Exactly,” Vito reaffirmed, “I won’t put it off longer than I need to. Don Ciccio is a withered old man now but he doesn’t deserve to die from something so merciful such as old age.”

“I agree,” Francesco replied. “He is a vile and sick man obsessed with power. He always has been. Maybe once he’s finally out of the picture, the rest of us can peacefully return to Sicily for a family trip as we wish to.”

“Many have said the same to me before,” Vito frowned. “I doubt Ciccio will remember me, but that is exactly what I will use to my advantage. It didn’t have to be this way, but…” Vito stroked his chin, “I lost my entire family to that foul man.”

“You don’t need to justify it to me or anyone else, Vito,” Francesco shook his head. “His death is in your hands now. You know I would come to aid you if I could. Either way, I support you.”

“I know you would, my friend, which is why we must part ways for now,” warmth flickered in Vito’s eyes. I can’t do this to you; you just had your little girls and they need their father with them more than ever.”

“So as long as they get to see their godfather soon again,” your father grinned. “Rosa is expecting you and Carmela all ready for dinner. Mrs. Corleone is expecting now too, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Vito beamed. “And we are taking little Michael to Sicily for this time on this trip.”

At that time, Carmela Corleone was pregnant with her first and only daughter, Constanzia.

“Ah, little Michael,” your father’s eyes lit up. “No naughtiness from the little man, I hope?”

“He’s a good, quiet young man,” Vito let out a soft laugh. “This trip will give him more stories to listen to about Sicily since he won’t remember it when he’s older.”

“Of course,” your father smiled, “just keep that fiery Santino by your side.”

“Carmela says the same,” Vito pointed out. “Don’t worry, I will. He’s a good boy too, I promise, although he could benefit from learning more manners.”

“Can’t we all?” Laughing, the two men shared a farewell hug.

“Be careful and be well, Vito,” your father cautioned. “Enemies may still be lurking in Sicily, looking for you, especially if you seek revenge.”

“It’ll be as if I wasn’t even there.”

~

[ 1939, Present Day ]

The first to welcome their first children into the Corleone family with Carmela and Vito Corleone excited to welcome a grandchild are Tom and Theresa Hagen; expecting their first baby early next year.

It’s no surprise that at first all eyes were on Santino—the eldest son of the Corleone family—to settle down and start a family first instead of Tom or anyone else, despite Tom being the same age—twenty three.

The only difference between the two men in terms of settling down to have a family was that Tom is in love with an investing in his love life and marriage with Theresa, an American woman, whereas Sonny hardly knows what “settling down” means.

It’s only in Sonny’s best interest to switch from one woman to another, a one nightstand again and again with no care as to how others may see Sonny to be very promiscuous with no shame or intent to stop sleeping around to even think about marrying someone.

Celebrating the baby shower for Tom and Theresa planned today, the nature of the event to both Tom and Theresa is private and intimate, hence their invitations only being sent out to the closest friends of the Corleone family.

Only the Giordano’s, Barzini’s and Cuneo’s are invited today with the vast majority of the women helping with the cooking back inside and the men upstairs in Don Corleone’s office.

Despite the family history with the Giordano’s, this is the first time you’re attending a Corleone family event and the very first time you’ll be visiting the Corleone estate.

Your father and brothers have visited the Corleone’s numerous times previously and know them better than any other business partner or friend, but neither you nor Bella have had the opportunity to yourselves.

Bella is more than halfway through her first semester at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna however, leaving you to be the only woman of the family next to your mother.

With the baby shower celebrations ongoing this afternoon in the courtyard of the Corleone estate to enjoy the fresh spring air and sun, men seeing Vito Corleone inside present Don Corleone with gifts meant for the expecting couple out of respect first.

Connie carefully balances one gift box over another by a table reserved just for baby shower gifts, making sure the presents don’t topple over one another from solely the sheer number of how many there are.

Arriving just five minutes after your father and brother, your chauffer passes clearance at the main gates of the Corleone estate before slowly beginning to park inside.

Your father and brothers have joined Barzini and Cuneo’s sons upstairs in Vito’s office where Sonny, Tom and Fredo also remain, but Michael—the youngest son of the Corleone family—is away at Dartmouth College for study.

Once the topic at hand ends in Vito’s office, Tom will come back out to the courtyard to thank and meet all the guests at the baby shower himself.

The rest of the men are not expected to in order to keep a low profile and spend as much time discussing business with Don Corleone as possible.

The only Corleone family member you know personally is Carmella and you’ve enjoyed every bit of time you’ve gotten to spend with her in the past when Carmela came to visit and bake desserts with you and your mother from time to time.

You know you’ll be meeting Theresa—the one expecting—and Connie Corleone as well for the first time.

“Benvenuti, miei cari!” (Welcome, my darlings!) Carmela happily blurts as she rushes down to the gates to greet you and your mother the moment you two step out of the vehicle.

“Carmela!” Your mother beams, pulling her into a warm hug. “Come stai dolcezza? È da parecchio tempo!” (How are you, honey? It’s been so long!)

“Yes, it has!” Carmela lets out a soft laugh before she cups your cheeks gently. “È passato tanto tempo perché guarda Gabriella! Adesso è diventata una bellissima giovane donna!” (It has been so long because look at Gabriella! She's all grown up now into a beautiful young woman!)

“Hi, Mama Corleone,” you giggle back, giving her a hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“And you as well, honey—mwah,” Carmela kisses both of your cheeks again, “she’s grown up to be such a beauty, hasn’t she?”

“Very much so,” your mother happily agrees. “And I’m excited for her to meet your girls!”

“As am I!” Carmela gestures excitedly, “come on in, ladies. All the men are already inside seeing Vito, I doubt they’ll even bother to come step out but in any case—that doesn’t matter. We’re all very excited for Theresa expecting her little one soon!”

“How far along is she?” You ask, walking into the Corleone estate grounds with your mother and Carmela.

“She’s about seven months pregnant now,” Carmela answers. “I can’t wait to introduce you to her. I know all you lovely ladies will get along just fine!”

Before you can say anything else, you step into the Corleone estate’s courtyard with Carmela and your mother to be hit with awe from the beauty of the estate surrounding you.

A gazebo stands in the further end of the courtyard with the manor itself built in a classic American style but with small details to Italian architecture.

The courtyard in which you stand in is surrounded by a blossoming garden, spotless and filled with ample enough space to host over four hundred people comfortably.

“So beautiful,” you murmur in surprise; momentarily turning back to see your chauffer placing the carefully wrapped giftboxes filled with the presents your mother and you chose for the baby shower by the table with the other gifts.

For your baby shower gift to Tom and Theresa, you picked out an abundance of cotton diapers, two bibs, three different pacifiers and a baby mat. 

As your mother and Mama Corleone are lost in conversation, you look up to see a heavily pregnant woman—Theresa—rise up from her seat at her table with  her hand over her baby bump.

Petite frame, blonde with bright eyes and American, Theresa’s eyes land on you as another woman approaches her by her side—a Sicilian—who looks like a striking combination of Carmela and Vito combined.

You assume this must be Connie—the only daughter of the Corleone family that your mother and Mama Corleone lead you up to now for introductions.

“Here is our lovely Theresa!” Carmela gestures to the pregnant young woman. “Seven months in with her little one already. Theresa, this is the daughter of my best friend, Gabriella. Her family is from Sicily too.”

“Hello,” Theresa shyly reaches out her hand to you. “It’s nice to meet you, Gabriella.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Theresa,” you give her a polite smile, shaking her hand back. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you!” Theresa’s eyes light up.

“And this is my daughter, Connie,” Carmela introduces Connie to you next, and you immediately notice Connie is much less shyer than her sister-in-law Theresa with a sparkle of excitement in her eyes from being introduced to you.

“Hi Gabriella,” Connie grins, “are you the only daughter in your family too?”

“Not exactly,” you let out a laugh, “I have a twin sister but she’s studying abroad.”

“Ah, lucky you! I’m the only sister,” Connie gives your hand a warm squeeze.

“I know what it’s like to grow up with many brothers around you, trust me,” you giggle back, knowing from what your mother told you that the Corleone’s are almost just as big of a family as yours and with many sons.

“Tell me about it,” Connie holds back her laughter and it immediately strikes you that Connie appears to be type of woman you can easily get along with and make the best of friends with her.

Just as warm, loving and trusting as Connie seems, you also can’t push past or ignore how you pick up an explainable kind of yearning sadness behind Connie’s eyes too.

Just as you’re thinking, Connie’s yearning to make a friend with someone like you and knowing she can easily be able to do so considering how close your families are; both of you around the same age and with familiar backgrounds.

Back inside Don Corleone’s office, greetings, congratulations and humble gift giving to Vito Corleone for Tom and Theresa’s baby shower has come to an end as Tom smiles to himself and keeps the stack of guests in the corner of Vito’s office and takes his seat again near his father.

A glass of richly aged bourbon is served for all of the men and Vito’s office door remains slightly ajar to help keep the air from getting stuffy from cigarette smoke.

“But the war,” Sonny begins, unamused, “it doesn’t mean too much for us, anyway.”

“Not at all,” your father says, shaking his head. “It’s a shame with all the bloodshed going on in Europe right now, but our interests remain the same and our assets here are protected.”

“We expect a prosperous new decade of us nonetheless,” Don Barzini adds.

“As do I,” Vito agrees. “One can only be concerned so much as to what strangers abroad are doing or how they risk their lives. We must work together so there’s no war between our families and only peace.”

“I have to say,” Tom speaks up, “to have no rivalry despite working with our families and their investments is impressive, Mr. Giordano.”

“I appreciate your praise, Tom,” Francesco gives Tom a polite smile. “In this line of work, I had to be a salesman and businessman. I hope our families can continue to be civil and work with one another. I know my wife enjoys the company of our family get-togethers and it would also be good for Gabriella as well, considering her sister is in Austria.”

“Ah, how is she?” Vito’s eyes light up in interest. “Enjoying her time abroad?”

“Indeed,” your father nods happily, “Bella is taking a varieties of courses on subjects in the arts, especially music and literature It’s good for her to broaden her horizons but I miss her, and I think Gabriella does too, of course.”

“Ah, very understandable,” Don Cuneo nods.

‘Gabriella?’ Sonny blinks, thinking to himself. ‘Who is she?’

“Michael is the same,” Vito gives his shoulders a shrug. “He is at Dartmouth now and I am proud of him for entering study in political science.”

“He doesn’t wish to follow in your footsteps, Vito?” Don Barzini smirks.

“He wants no involvement whatsoever,” Vito shakes his head. “Which is more than fine with me. Michael seeks a career in politics. I say sometimes American politics can be so foolish, but Michael can also be stubborn when he wants to. Nonetheless,” Vito places his hands down upon his desk, “I’m very proud of him.”

“Indecisive, perhaps?” Your father suggests.

“Nah,” Sonny interrupts, scoffing. “Michael wants to do everything and anything.”

“He is the youngest after all,” Tom chuckles quietly. “Then my sister Connie who is the youngest child of the family.”

“Ah, the lovely Connie,” Francesco smiles warmly, “of course. Michael is a bachelor, then?”

“All my sons are, except Tom,” Vito answers, somewhat unhappy about his answer. “Perhaps that will change, won’t it, Fredo?” Vito gives Fredo a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Sure, Pop,” Fredo says back sheepishly.

“And Santino’s a different story,” Vito continues, gesturing to his eldest son.

“I dunno,” Sonny chuckles to himself, shrugging his shoulders. “Marriage isn’t really something on my mind just yet, you know.”

“Would you like to marry in the future, though?” Don Cuneo asks him.

“I do,” Sonny nods, “have some kids, a family—settle down, yeah. Why not? I just don’t think I got any opportunity to now but I’m not the kind of man who would push it all away.”

Vito nods, staring back down at his drink in hopes the conversation about Sonny being a bachelorette will change in the next few moments, for the sake of the Corleone family’s dignity.

Vito knows everyone else in the room is just as away of Sonny’s promiscuous behaviour and lifestyle as he is, after all.

~

Out in the courtyard with the ladies and you, most of the conversation continues with your mother, Theresa and Carmela, all giddy about Theresa’s pregnancy.

“Congratulations again, honey,” your mother tells Theresa, “how has it been for you so far? An easy pregnancy, I hope.”

“A little difficult, honestly,” Theresa admits, sheepishly. “It’s improving though.”

“It will for baby number two as well,” Carmela chimes in.

You turn back to Connie and smile, inviting a conversation of your own that she starts.

“Welcome, Gabriella,” Connie says to you, “it’s honestly nice to put a name to a face at last. Mama has told me a bit about you and your sister but we surprisingly never had the chance to meet.”

“I know,” you pout, “I wish we could have met one another much sooner. My twin sister is in Austria right now, actually, so she has no chance at all yet. You know, touring Western Europe when she feels up to an adventure. I’m not so lucky or adventurous though,” you laugh.

“Neither am I,” Connie admits, “it’s refreshing to meet someone like you. What’s Bella in Austria for?”

“Art school,” you reply, smoothening out your shirtwaist dress. “Art has always been a passion for Bella, mostly music, literature and art history.”

“Must run in the family then,” Connie beams at you, “mama told me both you and your mother are artists too.”

Flattered, you nod eagerly with a smile. “We’d like to say so! It runs within the ladies of the family. I adore fine art like sculpture and art history, but personally, it’s not my passion.”

“Applied arts then, maybe?” Connie offers, growing further interested in the conversation at hand.

“Something like that,” you ponder for a moment, “I prefer painting, like mama. I’ve always loved doing so.”

“Wow,” Connie murmurs to herself, “do you have any inspirations for making art?”

“Maybe not the answer you’re looking for—” you chuckle sheepishly, “but I’d honestly have to say emotions inspire me, and my environment. Even the weather—small things like that. Artists like Van Gogh and Monet also inspire me.”

“That’s amazing,” Connie brushes back a curtain of her dark hair behind her ear. “Mama had actually been telling me earlier about the private art school your mother teaches at and…I was honestly thinking about enrolling to get a feel for myself but I wasn’t entirely too sure.”

“Definitely go for it,” you can scarcely hide the enthusiasm in your tone. “Mama would be more than happy to guide you along the way too. I still attend when I have the time and you could too for passion or for credentials. There’s something for everyone.”

“Absolutely,” your mother chimes into the conversation. “I would love to show you around the school as well, Constanzia. Someday, Gabriella will have to show you her paintings.”

“I would like that very much,” Connie smiles back politely. “I can tell she’s very talented.”

“Thank you,” you blush.

“She’s a nurse by trade, did you know that?” Mama Corleone adds, causing both Theresa and Connie’s eyes to widen in surprise.

“I am,” you admit, noticing how proud your mother looks next to you. “Practice and passion versus hobbies and passion.”

“Wow,” Theresa breathes, “that’s wonderful. How do you like nursing, Gabriella?”

“So far, so good,” you giggle quietly. “I’m fairly new to the practice but I’ve been tending to some injured soldiers lately. It’s practical, and I’m excited to see where the career takes me.”

“A nurse at a baby shower, how nice!” Theresa gushes.

~

With business conversation endlessly continuing in Vito’s office, Sonny remains to be the only one itching to get out of his seat and at least take cigarette break from the stuffy talk he has no need to contribute too.

Then again, Sonny’s more obligated to listen and consider every word coming out of Vito’s mouth wisely due to being his father’s successor and having to expect the same business talks directed towards him someday.

“You can tell Luca,” Vito gestures to Sonny, grabbing his attention. “Give him a call and let him know, since he won’t listen to Tom anyway.”

Chuckles fill the room as Sonny gives a nod, sighing in relief under his breath and beginning to rise from his seat.

You’ve just stepped into the Corleone manor for a quick bathroom break after getting some much needed directions from Connie on how to navigate the estate; unable to stop yourself from gazing and admiring the furniture and fixtures of the stunning foyer.

Remembering Connie’s words on reaching the first bathroom, you begin to head down the hallway when you momentarily stop in your tracks to sneeze.

Covering your nose, you sneeze quietly and sniffle—instantly feeling a momentary sharp prickle in your nostrils.

Blinking, you continue walking forward—albeit slowly—due to being distracted by the small throbbing pain beginning to start in your nose.

“Ugh…” You rub your nose tenderly, eyes widening in surprise to see droplets of blood over your fingers.

A split second passes before you sneeze again, realizing the culprit is the stuffy and somewhat dust filled air in the hallway getting to you.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve experienced something similar, but it annoys you to no avail nonetheless.

You cover your nose and continue heading towards where you assume the nearest bathroom is, being careful so as not to spill any blood on the mahogany floorboards or onto your dress.

“Found it yet?!” You hear Connie’s voice echo down from the foyer as she peaks her head inside the estate.

“Yes, don’t worry!” You let out a half muffled call back, spotting the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

“Alright, I’ll wait for you back outside!” Connie shouts, shutting the front door behind her.

The “yes, don’t worry!” you proclaimed out catches Sonny’s interest instantly; the sound of an unfamiliar, yet sweet voice he’s never heard before.

Stunned, Sonny’s unable to focus on anything else and drowns out the chatter and noise from Vito’s office before he exits out into the hallway and shuts the door of Vito’s office behind him.

You sneeze again, whimpering out of annoyance as you feel blood beginning to trickle from your nose.

Following every sound you make, Sonny furrows his brows and walks downstairs and towards the hallway cautiously—both hands in the pockets of his dress trousers.

Only a split second later does Sonny spot you; an unfamiliar woman with your back facing him, wearing a burgundy swing dress with white kitten heels, your hair curled over your shoulders and more peculiarly, how you clutch your hand over your nose.

“Are you alright?” Sonny speaks out to you, coming closer to step into your line of view.

You blink, assuming one of the Corleone family’s bodyguards or security must have heard you sneezing and walking around the manor by now, but when you turn around you can tell just by the posture and amused expression over the stranger’s face that he’s neither.

Sonny and you don’t know one another nor have you seen each other before. You’re not even aware of what the Corleone men’s names are besides Tom and Vito, and you just learned Tom’s today through Theresa.

Blush instantly hits your cheeks as you feel your skin warm at the sight of Sonny. This man is tall with a slim but lean, fit build; sharp shoulders giving Sonny a firm build, his hair in brunette curls and his jawline chiselled with a smirk over his face.

There’s an air of confidence over Sonny and you can already tell with just a glance that he’s someone important.

You assume just by Sonny’s body language across from you that aggressiveness isn’t unheard of from him, but he seems intrigued and even friendly towards you.

“Oh, fine, thank you,” you answer back, still covering your nose. “I didn’t imagine it to be so stuffy down here.”

Sonny chuckles, stepping closer to you before taking one hand out of his pocket to gesture around to the walls. “The walls in this place are older than you and be combined. Don’t mind that.”

You gaze up at Sonny, unable to stop yourself from blushing as he gets closer to you.

You lower your hand away from your face without even realizing it, revealing your bloody nose to Sonny.

Sonny barely reacts to the sight of blood over your face but the look upon his face that he gives you doesn’t appear the way one would gaze at a stranger or someone they’ve met for the first time; the look in Sonny’s eyes may as well tell him he’s known you his whole life.

Sonny wants to ask you if he’s seen you somewhere or if the two of you know each other from some time ago, but something urges him to keep quiet, knowing the answer must be no.

Sonny’s muscles tense from a rush of arousal hitting him at the sight of you, already wildly attracted to you with no intention of denying it.

“Here,” Sonny reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out a neatly folded, silk handkerchief before handing it to you. “Don’t let it bleed all over you now.”

You hesitate for a moment, not at Sonny’s kindness but the expensive cloth he’s just handed you to wipe your nose with.

A warm, playful smile crosses Sonny’s lips as he reads through your hesitancy. “You’re Gabriella, aren’t you?”

Sonny knows better. An unfamiliar woman in his house with Mr. Giordano visiting? He’s already beginning to figure you out. Luckily, he didn’t assume you’re Bella.

“I am,” blushing, you answer a little out of breath and take the silk handkerchief from Sonny. “Thank you so much…” Your voice trails off as you realize you don’t know this man’s name.

“Santino Corleone,” Sonny introduces himself t you. “But everyone calls me Sonny.”

‘So he IS a Corleone…’

“Sonny,” you repeat, feeling your cheeks stinging with blush. “Thank you.”

Sonny grins, extending out a hand to shake yours as you wipe your nose with your free one. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Miss Giordano.”

As you shake Sonny’s hand back, you feel the same current of arousal rushing through him go through you.

“We haven’t met before, have we?” Sonny finally asks, unable to shake off the belief that he’s more than just familiar with you.

“This would be the first time,” you shake your head, “it’s nice to meet you as well. I’ve yet to meet your whole family yet, but,” you smile shyly, “thank you for having us to celebrate Tom and Theresa.”

“Thanks for coming,” Sonny smirks, “you’ve probably met Theresa already but Tom will be out in a moment and then you can see him too.”

You don’t notice Sonny’s eager eyes gazing up and down at your figure a split second after.

“Were you looking for someone or something?” Sonny asks you.

“Just the bathroom,” you admit, sheepishly. “I…” Your nose has fortunately stopped bleeding, but you look at the silk handkerchief in your hand to see the crimson mess staining through it.

“Don’t worry about it, darling,” Sonny scoffs; he couldn’t care less about the damn handkerchief.

“If you insist,” you begin to carefully fold the handkerchief in the palm of your hand. “It’s just about the whole reason why I came in.”

“Fair enough,” Sonny forces his eyes off of yours, gesturing further down the hallway. “Unless the whole baby shower is waiting for you to get back, I’ll help you out here. Give you a tour of the estate and every bathroom you can find in here.”

“Oh, Mr—” you correct yourself immediately, “Sonny—I would like that very much but I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing for something like that—”

“Believe me, I insist,” Sonny interrupts, smiling at you. “Guests come first. It’s really no problem. Let me give you a proper tour around here.”

“Alright then,” you accept, smiling back at him. “If it’s no trouble with you, I’d love to.”

“Alright then, Miss Gabriella,” Sonny moves next to you, leading the way out of the hall. “Stay close to me, alright?”

Blushing furiously, you nod back at Sonny who looks over at you behind his shoulder. “I’m with you.”

There’s no doubt about it; had you refused to go along with Santino and returned back to the baby shower or simply didn’t choose to communicate or see Sonny again after today, of course your life would be different. Either way, it would have changed.

What would you know now in this fleeting moment that couldn’t possibly mean anything else to you, trusting in this influential man son to a powerful Don that you just met, feeling as if he’s suddenly wanted to treat you as someone else in his home other than a guest?

If anyone asked years from now, you would tell them the truth. Yes, you would follow Santino Corleone to the ends of the earth, to hell if you had to and beyond that to meet him in whatever life awaited you next.

This is just the beginning of what destiny has spelled out for you side to side with a man like Santino Corleone.

But for now, you follow Sonny in hopes you’ll get to know this kind stranger and the Corleone family better, because your heart is bound to give in sooner rather than later.

[a-boca-do-inferno]

don’t think (vincent mancini x reader)

summary: (y/n) is determined to expose the truth behind the Corleone family and Vincent... well, he’s Vincent.

warnings: angst, swearing, alcohol, blood, violence, verbal abuse (sorta), crime (duh), fluff-ish

words: 5.3k

notes: it took me a ridiculous amount of time to finish this, but at last, here i am. also this is nothing but me fulfilling my own needs for him in this robe. i regret nothing

When his eyes dart over to hers, (y/n) stares right back at him, with the glimpse of a curious gleam in her own. She knew who he was, obviously; it was impossible not to these days. Standing before her, talking to three men in black suits, was the most feared man in New York, maybe even America. His family and alleged crimes weren’t exactly secrets anymore, if they ever were. However, with the FBI constantly getting more and more informants, their reign was soon to be extinguished and, consequently, completely exposed to the public once and for all. 

There is a time and a place for everything. And no matter just how unpredictable you claim or even want your life to be, every now and then, the stars align to grant us what is rightfully ours. But sometimes, what is ours isn’t necessarily something we wanted in the first place. That is Vincent’s role in (y/n)’s dull excuse of a life. And that’s why, despite being actively involved in the confabulations to his demise, the girl couldn’t help but wonder what he would do then, as it seemed his sole purpose was living like a hustler, similar to every man in his family before him. Could he do anything else with himself, she wondered.

What more could become of Vincent Corleone? 

Her thoughts are interrupted by his gaze shifting to hers once again. He nodded in acknowledgement and his mouth curled up slightly at the corner, causing (y/n) to hold back an amused expression. He tilted his head and his brows furrowed in interest at the broad, causing her to chuckle under her breath. (y/n) reckoned the ladies probably weren’t so keen on flirting with a mafia boss nowadays, and with that in mind, she raised her glass in a silent invitation. Because sure, he might be dangerous; but he is still pretty interesting. It would be a good story to share in the office tomorrow, if anything.  

Vincent lifts his own drink in response, his stare lingering on her whiskey-wet lips, and (y/n) snorts softly. He approaches her table, and she points with her chin, her demeanour screaming of amusement—and perhaps some entitlement—, “don Corleone, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

He flashes a charming smile and hums, with a sultry tone, “I have heard a lot about you, (y/n).” 

“Let’s keep it professional for now”, the girl keeps grinning, motioning for him to take a seat. She watches as he moves to the chair, holding eye contact all the time. His suit is perfectly ironed, his dark hair is neatly brushed back, and there is that damn sparkle in his chestnut orbs. It feels as if he could devour her whole by that look alone, and a faint shiver goes up her spine at the thought. “It’s miss (y/n) for you.” 

Vincent clears his throat, still sustaining a smirk. “I see. Miss (y/n), it’s a pleasure. Now, what would a fine woman like yourself be doing alone at this bar? Surely you have scores of men ready to buy you drinks and offer their jackets?” 

“Is this an offer?”, she glances at him playfully, sipping her whiskey. “Because while I surely love to hold men hostage over my looks to get a few drinks for free, I’m afraid it’s my night off.” (y/n)’s unblinking look remains on his figure, albeit her face stays friendly.  

“And I’m usually not one to buy women drinks. Makes me look needy, you know? But I just had to ask.” Corleone offers her a genuine smile, the hint of a blush running across his cheeks. “You really are incredibly beautiful.” 

“Don’t worry about looking needy, anything you do won’t change that.” She laughs quietly, leaning back in her chair. “And I’ll gladly take you on that offer, my friend. Whiskey. Dirty.” 

He laughs and snaps his fingers at the bartender. “You got it, miss.” The waiter pours her drink and slides it over to her. Vincent orders himself a whiskey as well, peering into the brownish liquid as he motions for a toast. “To meeting you.” 

“Salute.” She smiles cheekily, gulping her shot at one go. “So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Corleone. How’s the FBI treating ya? I heard you’re having some occasional encounters with them”, she says, perhaps encouraged by the alcohol, but she’s not really concerned he’d do anything to her for asking a few questions, let alone at a public space. Vincent looked like a gentleman first, ruthless criminal second. At least that was her impression at first glance. 

“Things with the feds are... interesting”, he beams, taking another sip and then leaning on his hand, looking into her eyes as he speaks; his voice smooth, low, and warm. He’s playing his game, she is very aware, and (y/n) can admit to herself it’s working a little. Only a little. “You know, miss (y/n), when I ask myself what makes the FBI tick, the only thing I can figure out is money”, he wiggles his brows, as if to reaffirm his point. “Money buys loyalty, money buys power. And that’s why the feds are so powerful. It’s not the guns, it’s not the suits; it’s the money.” 

“That’s a unique way of looking at it.” She rounds her glass with her index slowly, studying its emptiness. “I guess you could say the same thing about the mafia or are you not self-aware enough for that?”, she waits for his reaction. The broad can’t help but want to push his buttons, see how far she can go with him, no matter how unwise that might be. Powerful men just make her giddy and curious, like a child with a cat. 

Corleone chuckles softly, not minding her provocativeness. “Maybe I’m not. I’m a man of many faults, my hypocrisy is one of them.” When he speaks again, his voice is huskier. “You’re perceptive. I can tell you’re smart.”  

“Too smart for my own good.” (y/n) snorts, trying to hide her shudder. She then waves a dismissive hand, gesturing around the tables, “these people here, they’re living better than me. Ignorance is bliss in this world.” 

Vincent laughs heartily and makes another toast. “It’s the biggest flaw of humanity, in my opinion. No one wants to think about how the world works, because thinking is hard. It’s easier to just go through life without asking questions”, he pauses, scanning her discreetly with his strong eyes. “Unfortunately, it’s the people who question things that make change in this world. People like you, princess.” 

“So I assume you make a lot of effort not to stay ignorant?”, she raises her brows, crossing her arms slowly, and her cleavage flashes out to him unconsciously. “Because you don’t look like it. How could the worst man in this town be so clueless? I don’t see it.” (y/n) shakes her head a bit, letting a faint smile appear on her cherry lips. 

“Now, why would I wanna be clueless, miss (y/n)?”, his eyes flicker towards her breasts for a moment before returning to her face, with a puzzled look.

“Why wouldn’t you?”, her gaze becomes more intense, and her smile fades gradually, making way for an inquiring expression. “Is there anything better than simply not worrying?” 

He scowls, meeting her stare just as intently. “Ignorance is a disease, sweet cheeks. And I’m not a diseased man. I prefer to see things as they are rather than how I wish they were. If I see a problem, I fix it. That’s how I live my life and I’m not gonna change anytime soon.” 

“That’s funny.” (y/n) stays where she is, unaffected by his closeness. Her eyes fall on his mouth for a second, then go back up. “You’re not a diseased man, but where you go, death follows”, she’s quiet, but the edge is there; unrelenting, waiting for him to crack. “Why’s that?”

Vincent, on the other hand, doesn’t appear at all fazed. Rather, he seems to be enjoying their banter as he takes another sip from his drink. “My family came to this country with nothing, we built our empire from scratch. People respect the power that my family now commands. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve killed people to maintain that power. Death is just a by-product of doing what’s necessary to keep the family safe”, he considers smoothly, casually, as if speaking of a banal transaction. This realisation makes her uneasy. 

“You are crazy”, (y/n) says half-heartedly, reclining in her seat and tapping her fingers on the wooden table lightly to hide her edginess. 

“Maybe”, he snickers, his frown slowly dropping. “Like I said, I’m a man of faults. My biggest one is my loyalty to my family sometimes, as that doesn’t always make me do what you might deem as the ‘right thing’. Sometimes, I gotta do the necessary thing.” 

She smirks and nods. “Be that as it may, I hope the FBI does their job. People keep dying because of you, good people. And you don’t get to decide if they should live or not”, her voice is still gentle, albeit her words are piercing now. 

Despite looking somewhat offended, Vincent maintains his cool, finishing up his whiskey. “Death is a part of life, sweetheart, we can’t all live happy and free. Sometimes the world needs men to do dark things, to keep their families safe. That’s just the way it works.” He leans back and glances into his half filled glass. 

“You sound like Michael Corleone.” (y/n) muses, studying his demeanour with a close eye. She thinks back to the days she had to interview his uncle. Back then, he came across as a broken man and she almost felt sorry for him, were it not for her knowledge of all his crimes, including his own brother’s murder. It appeared as though the Corleones were destined to go down that route and deep inside of her, she caught herself wishing for Vincent to somehow find a way out. God only knows why. “And that’s a shame. You could’ve been your own person.”  

If Vincent is bothered by her subtle jabs at this point, he doesn’t let it show. “We think alike on a few things because we’re family, I suppose.” 

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, beautiful”, she cackles, gazing around the bar. It was empty except for the two of them, and she sighed. Time went by pretty quickly. 

“And what makes you sleep at night, miss (y/n)?”, he opens a sour, nearly venomous beam, in spite of the unchanging silkiness in his tone. “You keep throwing polite insults at me, so surely it’s no surprise that I’m curious about the state of your holy conscience.” 

“I apologise if I was too honest, it’s the whiskey.” She shrugs, looking a bit tipsy indeed. “But I don’t take back what I said, not one goddamn word. I hope they catch you. You’re a bad, bad man.”

The girl rests her chin on her hand to watch him smugly, also taking the moment to admire his features. He is quite handsome, undeniably, notwithstanding all the atrocious things he’s rumoured to be doing, and the damn drinks don’t help her think rationally either. While her words say one thing, her body tells him another. 

And Vincent, to his own credit, catches her flirty body language, raising his now empty glass again with a sly grin. “To bad men then, my dear.” 

(y/n) can’t help but blush, rolling her eyes and getting up from her chair. “It was... partially a pleasure, Mr. Corleone.” She bows jocosely, stumbling as she takes a step backwards. 

That was an exchange that should’ve never happened, and (y/n) wishes she knew that sooner. Going back home that night, she reckoned her boss would probably have her head on a plate if he caught wind of her little interaction with Vincent Corleone, since she didn’t actually get any juicy information about the Bronx killings. But, in her humble defence, he wouldn’t have given her anything anyway. Doesn’t matter how into her he looked, Vincent wasn’t one to be easily fooled by curves to the point of revealing his connections in the underworld, apart from being a very responsible drinker; at least in her company.  

With a sigh, she threw herself on the bed and turned off the lights, letting sleep take over. The next day, of course she woke up with a headache. Sometimes she regretted not actually enjoying her college days, as it would probably have helped build some alcohol resistance today. The broad whined quietly before getting up and shuffling her kitchen cabinets for some aspirins. As she searched for the pills, her telephone started ringing. She winced at the loud noise, picking up.  

“Hello?”, she mutters sleepily, and her boss speaks rushed in the line. “Mick, I have a headache.” She sighs and he slows down, but still sounds very anxious, and (y/n) widens her eyes when he’s finished. “I’m going right now!”  

(y/n) changes in the blink of an eye and storms out of her apartment, leaving the door open. There had just been a killing at the exact same sight as the last one, but this time, they found prints. Corleone associates’ prints. Arriving at the scene, she pulled out her notepad and her pen, walking to the few officers without hesitance. They tried to tell her off until she convinced them to give her but a small clue. It appeared to be a reckoning of some kind, and they were getting sloppy, as the prints were found and catalogued only a few hours after the crime.  

Now, who in their right mind would’ve been so stupid as to make a mistake like this, when the FBI was already so far up their ass? It almost felt icky to her, and it stunk of snitching into the mafia, not just arrested associates trying to reduce their sentence. The thought bothered her for some reason, because weren’t these people all about loyalty? (y/n) took a few more notes before turning around and walking to the street to get a cab. Her eyes were still on the notepad when a strong, tall body bumped into hers. 

She gulps, in a mix of surprise and fear. “Mr. Corleone.” 

Vincent’s eyes are sharp and intense as ever, and he examines over the area until his gaze goes back to her, with a menacingly intrigued look. He puts his hands in his pockets, sounding polite, yet not as much as the last time. “Seems you and I had the same destination today, miss (y/n). I trust this wasn’t a coincidence?” 

“Surely.” She smiles, trying to walk past him, but he doesn’t let her, hardening his jaw. The girl glares at the man, despite shaking like a leaf. “Excuse me?” 

Vincent scoffs, clearly impatient. “You followed me here, didn’t you?”, he doesn’t move, but his look is as serious as hers. “Spit it out now and maybe I’ll have mercy.” 

(y/n) lets out a fake laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got a call from my boss”, she grits her teeth, still forcing a grin. “And you people are getting sloppy, you know? Not even a day until they found prints?” She chuckles, raising a brow, “Michael would never make a mistake like that in his day.” 

Vincent stares at her, his mouth going from a thin line to an upside-down smile. His voice has lost its earlier friendliness, and he takes a step towards the woman, a look of anger on his face, “why are you following me?” 

“I follow the story, not the characters.” She pats his chest, nodding once. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.” 

(y/n) tries to leave again, and he grabs her arm firmly.  “You don’t think you’re part of this story, (y/n)?”, his tone is low and almost threatening now. “Last chance. Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. Who sent you?” 

The girl tries to shrug him off, but it’s to no use. “Let go or I’ll have you arrested right here.” She glances over at the cops standing at a distance from them. 

“Those coppers would get down on their knees if I told them to, so cut the bullshit”, Vincent pulls (y/n) closer to him, his dark orbs burning. “You wanna try me, baby? I’ll make you scream”, he beams cheekily, yet it’s empty. He lets go harshly and steps back, putting his hands back in his pockets as if nothing happened. “We’re just talking here, right?” 

“You don’t scare me”, she speaks with conviction, adjusting her coat, even though her voice trembles ever so slightly. “And your threats better stop right here. You might be a powerful man, but you’re not invincible. Everyone’s got a weakness.” 

“You know what, (y/n)? I have a lot of respect for your courage as a female reporter, trying to cover this story”, Vincent grins and takes a step back. “It’s a shame I can’t trust you.” 

“I’m flattered that a despicable criminal like you doesn’t trust me, as it speaks volumes about my character”, she fakes another smile, taking a step to leave. “Have a good day, Mr. Corleone.” 

“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve heard this week!”, Vincent laughs out loud, not stopping her this time. He stays where he is, raising his voice so she can hear him from a distance. “You have a great day, sweet cheeks!” 

A week later, (y/n)’s working late hours every day on her investigation into the Corleone shenanigans. Her eyes are red and tired, but she perseveres. This story could make her entire career and clean New York’s streets from the biggest mafia family in town. Nothing sounded better. She had begun taking precautions, obviously, like changing her locks and exclusively moving around in cabs. She did her best not to be alone at any given time, which sucked for her. Alone had always been her only moment of something resembling peace. 

Her last encounter with Vincent left (y/n) feeling anxious, unsurprisingly, yet it fuelled her to find out more about the killing sprees inside the mafia. Her intuition rarely failed her and something in her gut said someone was trying to take out his own boss and perhaps covering his tracks. The dates were too close, and the second time was sloppier than before. Whoever he was, the guy was getting desperate. And with no proof, no sources and unsurprisingly no acquaintance with the Corleones, it was like walking into a dark room with a blindfold. 

A sigh escaped her lips as she stared at the newspaper from last month, where the Bronx victims made it to the front page. Her chest tightened as her mind turned one of their faces into Vincent’s, his skull completely destroyed by a bullet. For some reason, the thought of his death bothered her to no end. Yes, he was a criminal, but he should pay for his crimes as the law states: in federal confinement. She was extremely against the death penalty, after all. But not only that, the girl still saw something in him she shouldn’t: a man. Not a monster, not the face of a bloody organisation, not his family’s last name. Just a man.

As she’s gathering her things to leave, her boss calls her. (y/n) picks up while walking towards the elevator, pressing the first floor. “What’s up?”

“You’re gonna interview Vincent Corleone in a few days”, Mick’s voice is calm and casual, as if he just told her news about a football game.

(y/n) stops in her tracks, standing motionless before the elevator doors. “I’m gonna what?!”, she exclaims, not really knowing what else to say. She couldn’t talk much about that subject, not to her boss. If he found out she’d been conducting an investigation on a mafia family by herself, and that the Don himself knew about it already, she would be out of a job in no time. 

“Look, my dear, Leslie’s in Paris right now, she’s not gonna make it in time and you’re the only one who’s not gonna throw up in front of the guy”, he keeps talking like it’s the normalest thing in the world, to do a piece on a known and widely feared mafia boss like Vincent, and she has to scoff quietly. This has to be a joke. “This is big, we’re gonna get you the cover.”

“Mick, you have got to have lost your mind”, her voice sounds a little shaky as she walks into the elevator, finally getting to the ground floor. She holds the phone tightly against her ear as she strolls towards the street and calls for a taxi. 

“Don’t you know him already, anyways?”, Mick asks, and a keyboard being pressed can be heard in the background of his speech. “It’s even better, he’ll open up to you.”

The girl wants to roll her eyes, but keeps listening. Suddenly she stops for a moment, getting an insight. Conceding an interview to a newspaper right after yet another public scandal? This doesn’t sound smart. Vincent’s either too desperate to think straight or he has an angle. She just can’t see it right now, but maybe asking him a few questions might help her with finding the traitor... The only problem was facing him after the polite offences—as he had called it—she offered him, intoxicated and now sober.

(y/n) gets into the cab and whispers her address to the driver, turning to look at the window as she sighs. “If you count me insulting him for two hours straight while shamelessly flirting with too much alcohol in my system as ‘knowing’, then yes.”

“You left that part out, huh?”, he says sarcastically, but appearing a little worried now. 

“Look, you gotta find someone else”, the car stops in front of her building and she pays the nice man, giving him a wave as he drives off. (y/n) walks up to her apartment as she searches for her keys. “I really can’t do it. This guy… he’s a creep. I would feel uncomfortable”, she lies mercilessly, not caring that the statement sounds contradictory to her earlier confession of their encounter in the bar. 

“The interview will be in his house next week.”

Mick hangs up and (y/n) looks at her phone with a stunned expression. She takes a deep breath, entering her home and slamming the door. Great. Now she just has to figure out a way of getting out of the Corleone mansion alive. 

♡♡♡

“How’s the weather up there from that high horse of yours, doll?”, Vincent’s familiar tone comes from behind her and (y/n) turns to face him with a plastic smile, her legs trembly like two sticks in the wind. His smirk is almost disgusting, as he walks to her side and leans on the balcony slightly, giving her a look over his shoulder. “Sunny like you, I’d wager.”

Somehow, the girl managed not to go crazy throughout that stressful week. After a few more arguments with her boss, she gave into doing the damn interview—or rather, her need to have a job surpassed her fear of ever coming close to Vincent Corleone again. Sure, she did her part of exposing some of his dirty deeds to the public, but from behind a computer screen, everything is much easier and safer. Although, safety in that case would always be but a false reading of the cruel reality. Many of her colleagues had paid the price before her for wanting to tell on the mafia’s crimes, and that’s mainly why she persisted. At the end of the day, her life was a small sacrifice for the ultimate goal. Sooner or later, a journalist has to come to terms with that.

The car ride to the Corleone mansion was surprisingly calm, yet inevitably tense. She was taken there by their own private chauffeur. He wasn’t very talkative, but she figured he wasn’t paid to chitty chat with some terrified journalist in his backseat. Going through her notepad, she reviewed all her questions for the billionth time. Not that she had any hopes of getting any answered by Vincent, as she knew too well he had a mesmerising ability to make the conversation flow in the direction he wanted it to—by force or otherwise. 

When (y/n) arrived in his house, some twenty minutes ago, she was readily greeted by Vincent himself wearing nothing but a silky red robe, which barely covered his slim yet athletic body, dark hair dishevelled like he had just woken up. A striking difference from the neat smokings he bore in public, and one that made her cheeks blush ghostly. Oh, it wasn’t that early, by the way. It was past noon and her stomach turned at that image of him even though she made a point of not eating anything before; that way, it would be harder for her to throw up eventually. 

Here’s the funny thing about gangsters: they’re not usually the most well-mannered chaps and Vincent, of all people, wasn’t gonna be the exception. His charm was only extended to his good looks and often annoying boldness, which was duly noted again by his complete disregard to present proper in her presence while in his own home. From that very moment she knew that afternoon was going to be a complete disaster, starting with the raunchy outfit and the way her eyes couldn’t help but wander to his chest hair—and in her defence, his in specific would certainly be a sight to behold on anyone. Or perhaps that’s what she kept telling herself as he babbled about the architecture of the mansion, even though she had asked a question about his childhood before all of… 

This.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Vincent”, (y/n) blurts out, cutting him off when he was in the middle of describing the texture of the walls surrounding the garden. His brows lift in amusement at her words, and he holds his chin up, daring her to keep defying him. To hell with this. She could be trembling like a chicken, but that man was really getting on her nerves. “Just answer the question, or you can say no and I’ll move on to the next.” Her tone is firm, and she sustains his gaze, unblinking. “How did you start in this life?”

And like that night in the bar, Vincent’s demeanour goes from playful to mildly annoyed. He stands up straight, towering over her. “Look, sweetheart, your little investigation ain’t gonna get you far in life”, his voice is deep and nothing like the sensual one he usually uses with her. Stepping even closer, he adds, “word of advice? Just go home. This ain’t your problem, so don’t try to make it your problem.”

(y/n) scowls. “If I wanted a safe job, I wouldn’t have become a journalist.” 

“I don’t fucking care”, he takes her arm, looking down at her enraged. She flinches at the pain, trying to shrug him off unsuccessfully. “You’re gonna get yourself killed and I don’t have time to babysit you, so get the hell out now while you can.” So they are trying to kill him. Point to her gut. 

His hot breath hits her face like knives cutting through her skin, yet she doesn’t back down. With watery eyes, she keeps her head held high to challenge him, her ragged breathing touching his chin in the same burning heat. For a split second, she can swear he’ll grab her by the hair and take all his anger out once and for all, God knows how, but a loud noise comes from the living room and they both turn to find two masked figures pointing guns at them. Before she can even process what’s going on, Vincent drags her to the side and shots are fired in their direction, breaking the glass of the door to the balcony. She screams in horror and covers her ears.

“Fuck”, Vincent grunts as he keeps her body shielded with his, trying to peek inside the house to see if they went out of bullets. It appears so. 

He swiftly stands back up and takes out a pistol out of nowhere, shooting the men in the head. They fall dead on the ground and (y/n) is in shock, but somehow grateful he did that. Blood splattered on the stupidly fancy walls and wooden floor, running toward the balcony where she was sitting in a foetal position in the corner. Watching the thick redness touch her feet, a jarring realisation came to her mind: Vincent Corleone just saved her life. Him, the very man she feared would truly hurt her only seconds ago. The man she saw behind the monster.  

He crouches down again, pulling her into his arms, and her entire body is boiling hot. His hand strokes her hair delicately and the sensation soothes her nerves, causing her to cling to him pathetically. (y/n) grips his robe tightly, taking deep breaths to calm herself and maybe try and get back to her senses. But it’s useless when their eyes meet and he grabs her by the back of her neck, savouring her mouth without so much as asking for permission. Typical Vincent. 

A soft, humble whimper leaves her lips, and it’s still not enough for her to try and pull away. The kiss is messy and sloppy and her legs begin to shake again. Her fingers reach his hair and pull his strands a bit, causing him to moan against her mouth. She feels a wetness brushing against her abdomen and when she opens her eyes again, they widen in worry. He’s bleeding.

“It’s just a graze, sweetheart”, he chuckles under his breath, smirking while she still looks concerned, sliding down his robe slowly to take a look at his wound. “Don’t hold your panties in a bunch.” (y/n) wants to roll her eyes, but she’s more focused on studying the bruise on his tanned skin. Vincent holds her chin between his fingertips and pecks her lips gently, nothing like the urgent kiss from before. She sighs and tilts her head a bit, unable to formulate any words yet. This was a turn of events she wasn’t expecting. He senses her hesitancy and glances at her, his eyes gleaming with such intensity that she was left breathless again. “Don’t think.”

(y/n)’s lips curl up in the corner of her mouth, and he helps her up and away from the bodies in silence. Her hand holds his involuntarily, maybe in a childish attempt at finding comfort in this new situation in which she knows, deep inside, she’s not alone. Not after today. When their gaze meets one more time, all she sees is the chestnut irises that made her stomach stir with butterflies that night in the bar with too much alcohol in her veins, except she’s never been more sober in her life. And it’s clear as day. There’s nothing but him and his annoyingly handsome crooked smile. She gives his palm a faint, yet so telling squeeze. This is what Vincent Corleone could become.

Hers.

[space-cadet-goke]

Every Frame a Painting — The Godfather

The closing scene of "The Godfather" effectively brings together the themes of power, family, and moral decay that are present throughout the film.

At the beginning of the scene, we see Michael Corleone, who has now become the Don, lying to his wife, Kay, about his involvement in the murder of his sister's husband, Carlo. This moment highlights Michael's transformation from an outsider to a calculating leader, and shows the lengths he is willing to go to protect his family and maintain his power.

As Michael's men address him as "Don Corleone," it signifies his official ascension to the head of the Corleone crime family. However, this moment is not one of triumph, but of tragic repetition. It is juxtaposed with the film's opening scene, where his father, Vito Corleone, held court in his office. By mirroring this scene, the film not only emphasizes the cyclical nature of power and corruption within the Corleone dynasty, but also evokes a sense of sadness for the unending cycle of tragedy.

The final shot, where Kay looks at Michael through a closing door, is perhaps the scene's most poignant and symbolic moment. The closing door represents the barrier between Michael and Kay, symbolizing her exclusion from his world of crime and deception. It's a visual metaphor for the irreparable rift that has formed between them due to Michael's choices and actions.

The closing scene of "The Godfather" encapsulates the tragic journey of Michael Corleone from a promising young man with moral convictions to a ruthless mafia boss who sacrifices everything for power and control. It's a chilling and haunting conclusion that contemplates the cost of ambition and the corrupting influence of absolute power.

[roseaesynstylae]

I want to put down all the references in the Worst Generation (excluding the Straw Hats and Blackbeard) and the named members of their crews. I'm getting my information from the wiki and adding my own theories/comments where necessary. Ever since I read JoJo, I love finding references in manga.

Fire Tank Pirates

Capone Bege: His surname is obviously taken from Al Capone (whom he also shares his birthday with) and his given name is based on the English privateer William le Sauvage. Him being stated to cut animals' heads off is a nod to the horse head scene from The Godfather.

Vito: His name seems to be taken from Vito "Don Vito" Genovese, a mobster/crime boss from Al Capone's era, and the first name of Don Corleone from The Godfather.

Gotti: He seems to be named after John Gotti, a mobster who ran the Gambino crime family in the 80s (He was nicknamed 'the Telfon Don' due to him facing three trials and being acquitted every time -- the results were caused by jury tampering and witness intimidation-- before being finally sent to prison in 1992).

Chiffon: She's named after chiffon cake, which she also specializes in making.

Pez: His name is the Spanish word for fish, as well as a nod to the candy brand, keeping with the Charlotte Family naming theme.

Bonney Pirates

Jewelry Bonney: Her name is taken from the 18th-century Anne Bonney, who, like Bonney herself, was a noble turned pirate.

Hawkins Pirates

Basil Hawkins: His surname is taken from 17th-century English pirate Basil Ringosel and his given name from 16th-century pirate/privateer John Hawkins. Hawkins is also the name of the protagonist of the 1883 adventure novel Treasure Island (which had a massive impact on the depiction of pirates in popular culture) by Robert Louis Stevenson, who also wrote The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Visually, his design is based off of Joey Jordison of Slipknot.

Faust: He's named after the legendary character Faust, who sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for knowledge and worldly pleasures. The story was most famously told by 15th-century playwright Christopher Marlowe in The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus and by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in Faust.

On Air Pirates

Scratchman Apoo: His surname seems to be based on the practice of "scratching" records when DJing, tying into his association with music. His first name is taken from the Qing dynasty pirate Chui A-poo.

Kid Pirates

Eustass Kid: He's named after the 13th-century pirate and mercenary Eustace the Monk and the 17th-century Scottish (which Kid would be if he existed in the real world) pirate William Kidd, who was also called "Captain."

Kid's Attacks: I decided this needed its own entry. Punk Gibson (Kid's giant arm) -- Named after the US guitar manufacturer Gibson. Punk Rotten (the giant scrap metal head and arms) -- Named after Johnny Rotten, the name John Lyndon used when he was the frontman of the influential punk band Sex Pistols. Punk Vise (Crushing a target with Punk Rotten's hands) -- As "vice" and "vise" are spelled the same way in katakana, this attack might be named after the British punk rock band Vice Squad. Punk Pistols (a harpoon gun made out of metal pieces that acts like a Gatling gun) -- Named after Sex Pistols. Punk Corna Dio (the giant bull he used to attack Big Mom) -- Corna is Italian for horns, alluding to the sign of the horns in heavy metal, while Dio references Ronnie James Dio, who was very big in that genre; no, I'm not making the obvious joke. Damned Punk (the giant railgun he used to blast Big Mom off Onigashima) -- Probably named after the British punk rock band The Damned. Punk Clash (after magnetizing someone with his Awakened Devil Fruit, they attract very large and pointy metal pieces) -- Named after the British punk band The Clash.

Killer: His laugh alludes to the song 'Psycho Killer' by the New Wave band the Talking Heads, as the chorus is the same ("fa fa fa fa fa"). The song might be the source of his name. His helmet strongly resembles that of Daft Punk member Guy-Manual de Homem-Christo.

Heat: He's likely named after the experimental rock band This Heat.

Wire: He might be named after the English rock band Wire.

Gig: In keeping with the Kid Pirates' music-related theme naming, a gig is slang for a live show.

Dive: She's likely named after stage-diving, a common practice among musicians and their fans.

UK: His name may come from the UK, where many classic punk bands originated from (ie, the Clash, Sex Pistols). Alternately, he might be named after the Sex Pistols' song 'Anarchy in the UK.'

Pomp: He's likely named after pomp rock, more commonly known as arena rock (examples of bands known for arena rock: Styx, Toto, Journey, REO Speedwagon, Boston).

Bubblegum: His name seems to be a reference to bubblegum music (rock and pop in a catchy and upbeat style marketed toward children), which influenced punk rock, new wave, and melodic metal.

Reck: He's named after the bassist of the Japanese punk rock band Friction.

House: She's named after the electronic music subgenre house music.

Boogie: He's probably named after the electronic club music subgenre called boogie.

Mosh: He's likely named after moshing, a rather violent form of dancing. Appropriate for a member of a crew known for their violence.

Hip: She's named after hip-hop.

Papas: He's named after the folk rock group The Mamas & the Papas, the indie rock band Papas Fritas, or both.

Jaguar: He's likely named after the Fender Jaguar electric guitar. Alternately, his name could come from Mick Jagger's last name, as "Jagger" and "Jaguar" are spelled the same way in katakana.

Quincy: Her name likely comes from the producer and musician Quincy Jones, who produced Michael Jackson's albums Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, and has 80 Grammy Award nominations and 28 Grammys.

Hop: She's named after hip-hop.

Compo: He might be named after an abbreviation of 'musical composition.'

Disc J: His name pretty clearly comes from disc jockey, more commonly known as DJ.

Fallen Monk Pirates

Urouge: He's named after the 16th-century Ottoman Pirate Oruc Reis. He seems to be based off of Grigori Rasputin, who needs no introduction, and/or Ji Gong, a Chinese monk known for having supernatural abilities, behaving bizarrely, and not following Buddhist monastic rules. Interestingly, both these figures have movies (Rasputin the Mad Monk, a 1966 Hammer horror film starring Christopher Lee as the titular character, and the 1993 Hong Kong film The Mad Monk) that might have inspired his epithet.

Drake Pirates

X Drake: Drake is sometimes synonymous with dragon, especially in Middle English; appropriate, given that dinosaur bones likely inspired legends of dragons. His name is also taken from 16th-century pirate and adventurer Francis Drake. Random (but likely not a deliberate reference) fact: He shares his birthday with the singer/rapper Drake.

Heart Pirates

Trafalgar D. Water Law: His surname is taken from Cape Trafalgar in the south of Spain, which was the site of a battle between the British and French/Spanish fleets which famously killed Lord Nelson. His name is taken from 18th-century pirate Edward Low, who was notorious for violently torturing his victims before killing them, which may have inspired Law's own reputation for cruelty.

Bepo: He might be named after Lord Byron's poem 'Beppo.' He's also likely named after bear, polar.

Shachi: His name is the Japanese word for killer whale, which makes his friendship with Penguin (who's named after killer whales' preferred food) kind of funny.

Jean Bart: His name comes from the 16th-century French privateer Jean Bart.

Ikkaku: Her name means 'narwhal' in Japanese.

Uni: His name comes from the Japanese word for sea urchin.

Clione: 'Clione' is the Latin name for sea angels.

Hakugan: His name means 'snow goose' in Japanese.

[w-i-m-m]

[lospartisanos]

* ◟ : 〔 ÁLVARO MORTE, CIS MAN + HE / HIM 〕 SALVADOR RODRIGO FLORRES-DELGADO , some say you’re a FORTY FIVE YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both EFFICIENT and IDEALISTIC, one can’t help but think of MONEY, MONEY, MONEY by THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT when you walk by. are you still the OWNER, BOSS for  LE DÉDALE CLINIQUE, THE HANGING MAN, even with your reputation as THE MAGNET? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and STRING-CALLOUSED FINGERTIPS NERVOUSLY TAPPING ON THE DESK WHILE IN DEEP THOUGHT, GLASSES FOGGING UP FROM THE STEAMING COFFEE, A CHESSBOARD FROZEN MID-GAME, although we can’t help but think of EL PROFESOR ( LA CASA DE PAPEL ) + DON VITO CORLEONE ( THE GODFATHER ) + HANS GRUBER ( DIE HARD ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

cw: orphanage, car accident, death, stillborn, kidnapping, torture

“ ━━ ◤ FULL NAME: salvador rodrigo florres-delgado “ ━━ ◤ NICKNAMES: salva, sal, el león “ ━━ ◤ DATE OF BIRTH: 23rd of june, 1985 “ ━━ ◤ PLACE OF BIRTH: burgos, spain “ ━━ ◤ PLACE OF RESIDENCE: queens, new york “ ━━ ◤ MARITAL STATUS: widower “ ━━ ◤ OCCUPATION: owner of le dédale clinique, former university professor “ ━━ ◤ CRIME ASSOCIATION: the hanging man (boss) “ ━━ ◤ POSITIVE TRAITS: strategic, methodical, efficient, intuitive, level-headed, perceptive, charismatic, persuasive “ ━━ ◤ NEGATIVE TRAITS: idealistic, manipulative, secretive, ruthless, obsessive, quixotic, sentimental “ ━━ ◤ TV TROPES: the chessmaster, smart people wear glasses, tranquil fury, xanatos speed chess, manipulative bastard, affably evil, badass bookworm.

you don’t have the pleasure of remembering your parents. the last time you saw their faces was such a long time ago that you are not even sure if the vague memories you still have are real or just some false recollections that your brain formed from various other faces you’ve come across in your life.  –– no. growing up in an orphanage, you learned the way of life through books and street smarts that were taught to you by the older kids at the place. the latter lessons, admittedly, were less than pleasant. important, of course, but far from the joyful memories you’d expect a child to carry. maybe that’s why you appreciate the comfort of a book, even all this time later. at least they didn’t leave your body dappled with bruises.

you remember your eleventh birthday with exceptional clarity. just a few weeks before the big day, one of the staff members of the orphanage announced that you will be going home. it was a strange and a foreign concept to you. you didn’t have a place to call home… at least not in a traditional sense. this life was all you knew. it was your grandparents – the parents of your mother – who wished to bring you and raise you, after learning that you were left behind in a place not quite befitting a child. you remember your eleventh birthday, because it was the first time you were on a plane. several hours of flying later, you were greeted by the lady liberty herself, waving her torch at you from below.

over the years, you became fluent in three languages. your native spanish (which you never wanted to forget), english (with the help from a tutor hired by your grandparents), and italian — the mother-tongue of your grandfather. you were a quick and clever student, too. perhaps it was your literacy which was a step higher than your other peers; perhaps it was your determination not to disappoint the people who brought you into their home and invited to their family. by the age of fourteen, you were able to switch between all three languages and keep up with the conversations without any trouble. this was a chance at new life, a new future – and you weren’t going to be the butt of a joke or the punching bag for the other kids any longer.

fast forward. you’re nineteen, freshly enrolled in university, studying psychology and philosophy. a double major, eh? some may call you a try-hard, but you didn’t listen to those kind of talks. you enjoyed hard work and felt elated being able to see the results of your labour. you were constantly swimming through piles upon piles of books – some of them were your textbooks, some of them were completely unrelated to the subjects you were studying. what else could you have wished for?

not too long after, literary was put aside, because something – or someone – took the centre stage in your life. elena was beautiful and intelligent. and funny. so incredibly funny. perhaps her dry sense of humour was not everyone’s cup of tea, but you couldn’t get enough of it. you saw each other in lectures. soon enough you started running into each other, completely coincidentally, before classes, too. not long after came meetings in the evenings… those, however, were no coincidence. a lingering touch, long and intimate gazes, soft whispers. sure enough, by the end of your courses, almost at the same time as you hung your phd diploma on the wall, you put a ring on elena’s finger.

domestic life suited both of you. it would have been surprising if the two of you didn’t click together like two perfect pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. not many high-school or even university ‘sweethearts’ manage to survive a married life (or even last long enough to experience it), but the two of you seemed to be an exception to that rule. you took up a teaching position in the very same university, she became a child therapist. what more could anyone ask for?

you had no idea how they found you. you would later learn that one of your students was a close associate to the organisation at the time. the hanging man was a name you vaguely heard about here and there, but didn’t know much more than a simple fact – you didn’t want to get them angered. one mission. that’s all they wrote. your assistance would have been great appreciated, too. you knew not to dip your toes in waters that were too deep for you to wade… but the six-figure check at the end of the adventure was too tempting not to accept. it wasn’t selfish, either. with elena pregnant, it was money you could absolutely use – leave the brownstone for a nice family home in the suburbs. wouldn’t that be nice?

you didn’t tell your wife what kind of deal you have struck. if things went south, you didn’t want her association to anything that was going down. she was too important to you. you weren’t lying to her… not really. you were simply glossing over the truth and avoiding certain topics as to not raise any suspicion. a one-time deal with people of questionable morals. what’s the worst that could happen?

the mission was completed without a hitch. smooth as it could possibly be. if you were to be honest with yourself, it was almost exciting. exhilarating. nothing can quite compare to the feeling of a brilliant plan being executed brilliantly. however, there’s an old saying that the greatest highs are often followed by the greatest lows. you didn’t know how true that particular saying was until you received a phone call mid-celebration of the success.

some people like to think that a drunk driver surviving a car-crash that ends in fatally injured victims is some kind of act of god, forcing them to wallow in survivor’s guilt for the rest of their lives. you know it’s not true. the reason they survive is so that the people who were close to the victims could take their revenge. so that you could take yours.

your eleventh birthday was memorable to you, because you were granted a gift you could never forget. your thirty-fifth birthday is engraved in your mind, because you were ripped away from the two loves of your life — your beloved elena, and your stillborn daughter; the ambulance did not manage to save neither of the two in time. it was also the last birthday you ever celebrated.

you were the one to darken the doorstep of the hanging man this time. seething with fury and with vengeance burning in your heart, you were going to pay any given price to see justice served. or, at least, what you perceived to be justice at the time. after all, you had plenty of money to spare now, didn’t you? you also didn’t come empty-handed, impressing the boss-man with the detailed research that that kept you busy for the last several weeks. it was the only thing that kept you from reaching insanity. maybe you were already far too late for that… but jokes on them, your thoughts were never more clear than they were at the moment.

a mission driven by vengeance and justice – the head of the hanging man couldn’t turn away from that. he didn’t even take your money. instead, he asked something else in return. a collaboration. you would become a full-time associate of the organisation. well… what else did you have to lose? of course you agreed to the terms. anything to get you to the destination.

and so… there you were. in some dingy and damp basement, with a slowly draining bottle of cognac by your side, watching two soldiers of the hanging man beating the living shit out of a kid that couldn’t be older than twenty-five. you didn’t flinch once, didn’t make any expression for that matter. simply watched life slowly fading from the eyes of the man who killed your family, the same way the liquor faded into nothingness.

the following years went past with you working closely with the hanging man and offering your insight and assistance during their missions – be it an assassination, a heist, a kidnapping. your brain and your vast knowledge in many different areas (thanks to countless hours spent with your nose in various books) earned the respect not only from the leader of the organisation, but other members, too. you couldn’t complain. you also couldn’t lie – it was exciting.

yet, not even your wildest dreams, could you imagine the final mission given to you by your boss — his own assassination. not a real one, mind. a staged fake assassination of the hanging man leader was a matter that needed meticulous planning to be believable enough that even the less-informed members of the organisation would not be able to tell if it was a stunt or not. the only people who knew about said plan in its entirety was the boss-man himself, you (of course), and the capo. after the deed is done, you were to take up the leader’s mantle yourself, with the capo in question becoming your most trusted consigliere.

today, you’re sat at the top of the pyramid that is the hanging man, and you are thriving. heists are planned to the smallest detail, the assassinations are clean and meticulous. you are all running like a well-oiled machine and you wouldn’t want anything else, not anymore. this is where you belong. this is your calling, even if you wasn’t aware of that before. sure, some members of the organisation leave something to be desired, but you would be a fool to think that change of the governing figure in the gang would not cause some kind of cracks that needed patching.

you’ll be alright. you have to. after all, the worst thing that could ever happen to you… had already happened.

[randomgodfatherthoughts]

A few Tom Hagen headcanons

1) Tom is not an animal guy. He can appreciate that they're often beautiful or sometimes cute but they're too unpredictable and messy for Tom who is anxious, sensitive and something of a neat freak.(Look at the way he so tentatively reaches out to touch Khartoum, as though he's scared of the horse.)

2) Tom has assimilated so much into the Sicilian culture of the family who adopted him that he doesn't quite fit into either the Corleone's world or the outside world. He's fluent in Sicilian, has an Italian wife, uses Italian hand gestures and(in the book) he even has Italian facial expressions. He doesn't have Sicilian blood though so he'll never be fully accepted by the family and the other mobsters, but he's so Italian in every other respect that he seems odd to non-Italians. They find him a little unsettling and strange and because of this he was largely excluded from drinks and other after work events, when he was working for the top law firms Vito got him into. He'll always walk between two worlds.

3) Tom secretly loves dancing with Theresa. It's one of the things he enjoys most, though never in front of the family it's one of the few times you seem him drop that business like exterior.(Blame Robert Duvall for this, The man is completely obsessed with dancing)

(4) Tom is a stress eater. He eats more when anxious, also as an excuse to avoid talking during tense situations, and no one makes him more anxious than his brothers. (Watch in the Chinese food scene, he's the most anxious of all of them, and he crams his mouth with food, partly from anxiety and partly to stop him from expressing his fears for Michael.

5) Tom is permanently exhausted as he works so much(Go read the book, the man does just about every job you can possibly imagine) and on the rare occasions he gets to relax he just melts into the chair or drapes himself over the nearest last object. It's one of the few sloppy things the almost impeccably neat Tom does.(Look at him when he sits in a chair, he slumps into it and he's always got his feet up, like he doesn't have the energy to sit upright)

6) Tom considers his loyalty to be one of his biggest strengths but he secretly knows that it's also one of his biggest weaknesses. That he's participated in some way, in so many unspeakable crimes because he is so loyal. He's more grateful than he can ever express to Sonny and Vito for saving him from a lonely death as a child and so terrified of finding himself unwanted, unloved and back in the gutter that he'll do almost anything to avoid losing his family and the status he now holds. He rarely allows himself to think about the crimes the family commits, and he feels guilty when he does, but he's not nearly as ashamed as he knows he should be.

[ceeturnalia]

Andy Warhol – John Wayne Trial Proof (F. & S. II 377), 1986

nine things for @elismor

last song: kenny rogers, the gambler

favorite color: that shade of brown that's also purple that's also the color of my new favorite hoodie

currently watching: yellowstone, which works best as a piece of fiction if you think of the central characters as a crime family à la the corleones? rip wheeler = tom hagen yes or fuck yes??

and shogun, which honestly. also about a crime family.

relationship status: newly committed to a red ford bronco

current obsession: home decor in the shape of disembodied hands

last thing you googled: "big jake daddy quote"

wait why is this only six things. @elismor explain yourself

[theknightofivanhoe]

Justice League: Question’s Hard Drive Ch 2: Table for Two

Table of Contents

The journey in Question’s shiny royal blue 1960s Pontiac GTO was spent in deathly silence. Question himself focused on the road leading through the dimly-lit labyrinth of streets. Not a word was said between him or Huntress who sat looking out of the window. Right now Question’s mission had quite literally gone from infiltrating an office building in order to discover ties between CADMUS and Lex Luthor, to satisfying his scantily-clad, fiery-tempered vigilante girlfriend with a proper date in order to discover ties between CADMUS and Lex Luthor. Question was, Question was asking himself, which eating place could Huntress agree on without it being a front for the Court of Owls for instance? With all the connections that rattled through the detective’s head, the options were few.

“So, did you have a place in mind?” Question’s hushed inquiry pierced Huntress’ virtually unknown train of thoughts and she inclined her striking, tan face towards him. “The Princess of Mars club includes some rooftop tables.” she suggested, smirking romantically as she propped her elbow on the windowsill of her door and rested her head on her fist. “We can gaze up at the stars while we -.” “That’s a negative.” This terse response from the detective caught Huntress off guard. “I’m sorry?” she asked once she had processed this refusal. “That restaurant likely lets people on its roof so the Church of Blood has a vantage point to kidnap innocent families.” Question warned as he drove on. Huntress just pinched the bridge of her slim nose in despair. “Can we please not have another one of your idiot conspiracy theories again, Q? I’m worn out from tonight’s mission.” “Well I’ve got mountains of information to search if we’re going to connect CADMUS to Luthor.” Question replied intently. “Q, all I’d like is for us to just take it easy first, just for tonight.” Huntress protested. “Learn to work hard...and play hard.” She finished this with a devilish grin spreading on her lips, eyebrows bobbing up and down under her mask. This, along with how Huntress crossed her naked legs, was enough to send Question’s heart racing and remind him why their bond grew so strong since he joined in her pursuit of crime lord Steven Mandragora.

“So, how does some jazz and pasta at Brando’s Pastaria sound?” Huntress asked again. “That has Snaky Doyle’s name on it.” Question objected, but Huntress scoffed. “Snaky my butt! Anyway if you spot anything wrong, let your girl handle it.” “Like how you handled Black Canary?” Question shot back rather wryly. That got Huntress spluttering indignantly. “How about you don’t mention that blond bimbo in the middle of our date?” “I’m just saying - ” “Alright, one last try before I smash your head through the windshield; Corleone and Brazzi’s. And enough with your idiot conspiracies.” Huntress ended this with a certain amount of threat to her voice, facing the roadway again. “We went past the only lane that would have taken us there.” Question plainly told her. “...and?” Huntress asked, glaring at her bizarre admirer through the corner of her eye. “And there’s a good chance Corleone and Brazzi’s is a front for a sect of Kobr-” “Q!” “Okay, okay, Corleone and Brazzi’s it is!” The detective immediately backpedalled when Huntress sharply rounded on him again. The Pontiac was taken in an immediate u-turn now that the decision had been made. “Sometimes I wonder how…” Huntress muttered with a palm to her forehead. “Eccentric charm…” Question reminded her, focusing through his blank mask on the new route. This made Huntress smirk, her smokey dark eyes fixed on him and she propped her chin on her fist again. “Can’t argue with that…”

Corleone and Brazzi’s was not too shabby, a vast multi-storey restaurant in a thriving part of Hub city with classical-style pillars, statues and plants in large urns. Buzzing with relatively mild activity, the restaurant had men in tuxedos eating and drinking with ladies in elegant gowns and gentle piano music twinkling in the background over all the polite chatter. “Name…?” a moustached man standing over the guest list, the restaurant host, asked the figure that stepped up to him. “Question.” came the low, mysterious voice that caused the host to pause and look up at the visitor in the blue fedora and trench coat. “Questio - I’m sorry, I don’t quite foll - AAH!” He nearly leapt a foot in the air at the sight of a face that looked like nothing but skin, with no eyes, nose or mouth to speak of! Rooted to the spot as Question himself just fixed him with an eyeless stare, the host shivered all over. Other staff and guests stopped what they were doing in confusion and shock at what they heard. But the figure in the fedora lowered his head so the brim obscured his face before everyone else could also get a glimpse. The host, to whom Question had shown his masked face, could only stand up against his desk staring at him in pure fear. What was he to do?

“Don’t mind my date, sweetie.” A raven-haired woman appeared at Question’s side, smiling reassuringly. Out of her mask, gloves and boots and now wearing a gloss-black high-neck, sleeveless minidress with a pair of fashionable stiletto sandals and a black satchel slung on her shoulder, Helena lay a hand on Question’s shoulder while coiling her other arm snugly around his lower torso. “It’s not often Q-utie here ‘faces’ life at its fullest, is it, baby doll?” “…Table for two, please?” Underneath his mask, Question didn’t seem to take Helena’s teasing very well. “Name of Question and Helena…” Still nervous at this seemingly faceless man, the moustached host decided they didn’t look like they would cause any harm, hopefully. “Uhh…yes, yes, uh, certainly, Mr - uh - Question - uh - sir… We have - ah - ah, Table 5, it’s right - right by - by the window…you can hear the pianist pretty clearly, uh, sir…” he stammered, shakily writing on his list. His nervousness made it hard to jot the letters down. “You’re a peach, hun.” Helena commented in a sultry way, gently pulling Question along by his waist as her stilettos clicked across the waxed floor tiles.

“‘Faces life?’ Seriously?” Question hissed under his hat’s brim as they waded past the slightly apprehensive guests who he had to keep from seeing his mask. “Come on, Q! Is a sense of humour too conspiratorial for you too?” asked Helena who strutted beside him enjoying how people glanced at how gracefully she moved, not to mention her choice of attire. “It was Christmas cracker-tier.” Question said indignantly, “In fact, Christmas crackers are being looked into in connection with the - ” “What about the boys checking me out?” Helena interrupted his conspiracy-based rambling with a sly look. “You looking into that?” The minidress she now wore over her leotard didn’t show off her legs quite as much as the latter, but its hem was still short to the point of dangerous, earning some glances from some of the well-dressed men at tables the couple went past. Question noticed one man turn his head in Helena’s direction, his shoulders clenching threateningly. Pulling away from Helena’s arm, he towered over the man in the tuxedo, looking rather intimidating even as his hat’s brim hid his blank mask. “Ah…” the man uttered, trying no to shrink in his chair. “Saw something on the floor - uh, dropped something - my bit of bread - thought I’d dropped my bread…” he blabbered, immediately turning to the meal he was having. “Strange. I didn’t notice any bread on the floor…” Question nearly growled his words out, before Helena pulled him away to prevent an escalation. “Not now, baby doll…” Another man snuck a glance at her, only to get a clap round the head from the woman sitting next to him!

A reminder; Huntress is pretty sensitive to any mentions of Black Canary after their first battle in 'Double Date.'

Chapter 1

Chapter 3