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melis-writes · 1 year

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You're Still My Brother [Godfather Part II AU].

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18+, explicit oneshot.

Death is clipping at Fredo Corleone's heels and there's only one way out of Havana tonight. With chaos ensuing from the rebels and the kiss of death sealing Fredo's fate from Michael, Fredo's heart gives in. Helpless, desperate and terrified of his brother, Michael manipulates his Fredo's good nature into trusting him and leaving Cuba together. Hyman Roth and Johnny Ola are dead, or so Michael has Fredo believe in but Michael has no intention of letting Fredo leave Cuba alive.

[WARNINGS]: Heavy angst / Character death / Strangulation / Fratricide / Hurt with no comfort.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]: From one of my favourite, angsty scenes from The Godfather Part II, here comes an AU oneshot I came up with in one sitting tonight with Fredo actually leaving Havana with Michael…💔 I had always wondered what would have happened in Fredo got into that car with Michael, how he would be convinced, what Michael would say and what would come next. 🥺 Playing on emotionally manipulative strings and lies in this AU, I've made Michael seal Fredo's fate differently. This is my first Godfather oneshot/fic that isn't X Reader, romance or smut related!! 🤭💕 I definitely plan to write more as they come amidst updating my multi-chapter fics! Heavy, HEAVY angst in this oneshot with all tags/warnings applying, just a heads up!! 👀🫡

Panic. Mass confusion. Violence answers the questions of the innocent, the confused, and the helpless. Michael’s amongst them, but not one of them.

Aside from the rebels leaving nothing but destruction and the ensuing chaos in their wake around the vicinity, Michael remains to be among the very scattered few who neither fear nor react to the violence surrounding them.

Seemingly coordinated enough on New Year’s Eve, Michael’s more than well aware of the threat the rebels have been posing at all times.

It was enough to see rebels give their own lives in order to take one of the police officers in front of Michael’s eyes to convince him the rebels would take any opportunity to spill blood and fight back even if cornered regardless of the consequences.

Despite the ongoing panic, Michael knows he is in no true danger nor is he a target of the rebels just as he knows the party is over and he has outstayed his welcome as have all the guests at the president’s party.

Michael slipped through the packs of crowds rushing out onto the street and did so without attracting unnecessary attention, but the same couldn’t be said for his brother.

Fredo pushed through anyone and everyone who got in front of him the moment before the onset of the violence began.

Fredo was already running for his life with fear swelling in his heart because of Michael; the truth of his betrayal was never as clever as any lie Fredo could tell Michael or any way Fredo could pretend he didn’t cause an attempted assassination on Michael’s life.

The darkness in Michael’s heart confirmed the death wish he bestowed upon his brother by sealing the kiss of death over Fredo.

Now, no explanation, no apology, and no justification can exist in this world where Michael may exercise mercy or forgiveness over his own brother.

As death itself follows at Fredo’s heels, his only escape is to flee Havana but hiding elsewhere in Cuba will spare his life longer so as long as Fredo doesn’t return to where Michael has eyes and ears in the United States.

With tears stinging his eyes and whimpers of fear escaping his trembling lips, Fredo’s breath quivers as he sprints out of the presidential palace; taking as many twists and turns as he can.

But it’s only a matter of mere moments before the planned attack takes place at the same time; its sole benefit helping Fredo blend in with the rest of the outpouring crowd seconds later.

Michael’s chauffeur never strayed far from the presidential palace; parked just a few meters away from the side of the building with intentions to take Michael and Fredo to the airport to catch their private jet later on this evening.

Standing by the vehicle now, Michael keeps the passenger door open with one hand over its rim as he looks out for any signs of his brother amidst the terrified crowds.

Fredo has no choice but to slow down the steps of the presidential palace when he spots the rioting rebels, seeing no prying eyes over him.

Among dozens of other black and white suits, Fredo is almost impossible to spot—mirroring the same body language as other rushing guests.

The vehicles of the rebels arrived in a circle around the presidential palace, honking incessantly and powering the noise and hollering of its drivers and the other rebels.

Rebels armed with bats and clubs swing at the pillars of the presidential palace and the windows of nearby guest vehicles, only causing further alarm.

Swallowing hard, Fredo stumbles down one of the steps and frantically looks around him to find some route of escape—seeing some guests have already gotten into taxis and nearby vehicles.

“Argh—” Fredo grunts out in surprise as a couple accidentally bumps into him—ramming their shoulders into his back.

Fredo almost trips down the next set of stairs before him, catching his balance before Michael’s eyes land on his brother just across from him in his line of sight now.

“Fredo!” Michael calls out from afar, shrouded in the darkness where he stands away from streetlights or any direction crowds run toward.

Fredo freezes in his tracks, feeling his muscles instantly tense up from nothing but utter horror at the sight of his brother; pure fear triggering Fredo’s fight or flight response.

Fredo’s fear of his own brother has intensified and tripled in a matter of moments back in the presidential palace to the point where Fredo trembles in Michael’s presence and practically feels nauseous being under his brother’s gaze.

Fredo’s eyes widen as his mouth runs dry, eyeing his brother’s body language for immediate resentment and hostility.

“Come on!” Michael gestures out with his hand towards him; only appearing as a concerned brother insistent on helping his brother and escaping together.

Nothing over Michael’s expression or tone of voice resembles the putrid hatred that promised death to Fredo minutes back at the presidential palace.

Refusing, Fredo begins to slowly turn around but keeps his eyes on his brother as his body screams for Fredo to move away.

“It’s the only way out of here tonight,” Michael hollers back, noticing Fredo beginning to pull away. “Roth is dead!”

Naturally, the fate Michael planned and anticipated for Hyman Roth has failed unbeknownst to him but with Fredo’s betrayal stemming from Hyman Roth and Johnny Ola, it appears to be very convincing and tempting.

Still, the fear Fredo feels towards his own brother is all the more overpowering and there’s not a shred of trust nor hope left in Fredo to believe in Michael’s words.

Michael extends out his hand, seeing his words having no effect on his brother. “FREDO!”

Fredo forces himself to keep moving—staggering through the remaining crowd down the steps but with his head still turned towards Michael as if Fredo expects him to follow or lunge after him.

“Fredo, come with me!” Michael raises his voice above the noise of the crowds; seeing his brother is about to run off entirely. “You’re still my brother!”

Fredo’s just begun to rush off again into the crowd but stops at Michael’s words—the most convincing above all, promising they’re still family.

“Fredo!” Michael takes a step further, beginning to move in Fredo’s direction and away from the vehicle. “FREDO!”

Sensing no harm or ill intention from Michael amongst danger and chaos, Fredo’s good nature does not lie to him but coaxes his heart to trust in Michael and escape out of Havana with his brother.

In Michael now, Fredo wants to see his brother’s emotional vulnerability; despite everything, family ties and bonds never break, despite everything, Michael would want no harm to come to Fredo and certainly not here.

“You’re still my brother!”

Fredo turns back around to Michael and swears to himself he can see a pleading look in Michael’s eyes, past the shadows that keep him almost completely concealed.

Tears spring from Fredo’s eyes as he runs toward his brother, unaware he’s accepting his damned fate but giving his trust, love, and belief in safety to Michael.

Michael steps aside to let Fredo into the passenger seat, moving to the other side of the vehicle to get in for himself.

Fredo scurries inside and slams the car door behind him; a pitiful state of worry and exhaustion over him compared to Michael who still remains composed and calm.

Michael does the same, needing to give no signal or word to his chauffeur who immediately begins to drive off in the opposite direction of the presidential palace.

For a moment as Michael’s preoccupied with looking towards the chauffeur and windshield to see what’s ahead of him, neither he nor Fredo say a word to each other nor make eye contact.

Fredo peeks out the window to see hoards of people pushing into the US Embassy and pleading with the guards by the gate for safety; everyone fending for themselves in desperate hopelessness.

Fredo even spots a private jet beginning to take off as others help their family onto nearby boats and ships eager to get off the dock.

As the vehicle continues to move and navigate around the rebels and crowds with ease, Fredo flinches at the sight of the rebels setting nearby garbage cans on fire and rushing into the presidential palace itself.

With all of this occurring in mere seconds as the violence worsens and fires spread to smashed-in vehicles and broken goods from inside the presidential palace, Michael’s eyes land on his brother inside the car once again.

Fredo catches Michael’s gaze, looking as pale as a ghost with worry crossing his eyes as the vehicle now begins to slow through crowds clamoring at every angle.

Michael’s chauffeur keeps his composure, honking again and again as he continues to drive.

Michael knits his brows, gazing out both windows and somewhat concerned himself not about the damage the rebels continue to do, but what can come from the panicking and desperate mobs of people surrounding the car.

“O-Oh my God,” Fredo shudders as the vehicle finally begins to pick up its speed and separate from the crowds.

In a split second, Michael makes eye contact with the chauffeur through the rearview mirror, signaling a change in the destination; one out of sight with no one to hear anyone’s helpless screams.

Fredo doesn’t notice, nervously sitting next to Michael and looking down to see his fingers trembling uncontrollably in his lap just from Michael’s presence.

“We’re almost out,” Michael finally speaks; his voice calm and soothing enough for Fredo to believe it.

Fredo keeps his eyes on the road, refusing to relax and snap out of his alarmed state until the car drives much further down the road and Fredo’s unable to hear the rebellion behind him.

“The plane—” Fredo stammers, swallowing. “Are we getting out of here?”

“We are,” Michael reaffirms as the chauffeur takes a different turn to drive upon the side of the road where Fredo’s door faces the ocean. “Fredo—” Michael looks at his brother, “it’s fine. It’s over now.”

Fredo gives a glum nod, attempting to relax in his seat. “I don’t know what to say, Mikey. I…”

Fredo’s voice trails off as the car comes to a slow halt by the ocean; the chauffeur avoids looking towards the rearview mirror or making eye contact with either Michael or Fredo.

“I d-don’t…” Fredo’s voice cracks as he attempts to speak again, looking helplessly at his brother.

Michael faces Fredo whose almost too emotional to even realize the car has stopped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

“Mikey,” Fredo breathes out—his throat tightening as hot tears stream down his cheeks. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Fredo,” Michael turns his body towards his brother, watching Fredo weep softly and break down in front of him.

“You have to u-understand, Mikey,” Fredo pleads—emotion straining in his voice, “I w-was caught in the middle. I didn’t agree—I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t know it would end up like this—I didn’t know it was gonna be a hit or anything.”

As Michael stares into his brother’s eyes, his grow colder and Fredo’s words ring out to him with no meaning, no justification nor anything worth believing for the man in front of Michael is no longer his brother but a betrayer, a traitor and a stranger bearing the same last name.

Michael gives a small nod to Fredo as if he’s understanding of it all and figured as much for himself, but the chauffeur hits a small button over his door which immediately causes all of the doors to lock.

“Michael—” Fredo croaks, flinching from fear and looking towards his passenger door in alarm.

“Fredo, look at me. Look at me.” Michael detracts Fredo’s attention from reaching out to attempt to open his passenger door—facing his brother directly again. “Listen to me.”

“I d-don’t want anything to happen to you, Mikey,” Fredo blubbers, sobbing.

“Look at me,” Michael cups his brother’s face with both hands, feeling Fredo’s warm tears against his palm. “I know. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Never, ever,” Fredo gives his head a little shake, clutching onto the fabric of Michael’s trousers with a shaky hand. “Y-you’re my brother, my brother—”

“I know,” Michael repeats again, eerily calm compared to Fredo’s distraught state on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

“I c-could never live it down,” Fredo hiccups, his knuckles turning white from how hard he grips Michael’s trousers.

“And you don’t have to,” Michael replies, wiping a stray tear away from Fredo’s cheek.

“I’m s-scared, Mikey, when you look at me like that—”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Fredo,” Michael lies, “you know that. Wouldn’t I leave you to your fate there if that’s what I wanted?”

“Y-yeah, I guess—” Fredo smiles weakly at Michael, comforted by his brother’s lies. “I love you, Mikey. I j-just want you to know that.”

Shallow, empty words with no meaning that register nothing to Michael. He chooses to ignore them, unshaken by what’s to come next.

“I know,” Michael kisses Fredo’s forehead, slowly moving his hands down to Fredo’s neck.

Fredo’s eyes snap open in terror as Michael wraps his hands around his throat firmly just moments after. “Mikey—"

“Goodbye, Fredo,” Michael immediately begins to exhort force over Fredo’s throat—crushing his esophagus.

Fredo wheezes and whimpers, but can get barely anything other than a whine out. He attempts to thrash out at Michael with his hands but Michael tilts his body back while pinning Fredo onto the car seat to avoid his grip.

Kicking at Michael in the twisted position his body is in doesn’t help nor does kicking at the chauffeur’s car seat who gazes out the window to watch the waves of the sea; completely ignoring the murder ongoing in the back seat.

Fredo’s lungs burn, begging for air as Michael squeezes and applies as much pressure and might as he can with his hands to Fredo’s throat—watching Fredo’s helpless movements slowly coming to a stop.

Wide-eyed and terrified as the life and strength choke out of him, Fredo stares at Michael who remains to be much more physically strong and fit than his brother.

The cold, lifeless expression on Michael’s face doesn’t change throughout as the color drains out of Fredo’s face as Michael continues to strangle him; his grip far too overbearing and tight to squirm out of.

Just a few moments in of helplessly trying to pry Michael’s fingers off his throat, Fredo feels his life slipping away and falls unconscious seconds after.

Michael doesn’t stop there. To ensure his brother’s death once and for all in front of his own eyes, he clutches Fredo’s head in his hands and with one sharp swerve of his hands and arms, snaps his brother's neck.

A sickening crack can be heard out before Michael lets go of Fredo’s lifeless body plopping back down onto the car seat.

Michael breathes in deeply, staring at the corpse of his brother next to him with no reaction; only the relief he’s felt and continues to feel upon having his enemies assassinated.

Not a shred of remorse, guilt, or regret clouds Michael’s judgment or chokes his thoughts.

Michael reaches towards Fredo’s passenger door as the chauffeur unlocks it without looking back; nothing goes through Michael’s mind as he pushes open the door to kick his brother’s corpse out.

Fredo’s body tumbles out of the vehicle and off the ledge leading straight into the ocean on this side of the road.

From the sound of loud traffic afar and waves crashing upon the shore, Michael doesn’t hear Fredo’s body drop into the water nor does he bother to watch it sink.

Instead, Michael sits back in the vehicle and shuts the door as his chauffeur begins driving again, pretending as if nothing happened.

In the chauffeur’s best interest, nothing did happen and he only picked up Michael from the presidential palace. The chauffeur never saw Fredo or even heard that name; the chauffeur isn’t even aware Mr. Corleone had a brother.

“To the airport, Mr. Corleone?” The chauffeur spoke for the first time since Michael got into the vehicle.

“Yes,” Michael confirms, “I have a private flight to catch to Lake Tahoe.”

#the godfather #the godfather part ii #godfather fanfic #michael corleone #michael corleone fanfic #fredo corleone #melis-writes #godfather fanfiction #godfather au

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lostloveletters · 1 year

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Bruised Fruit Chapter 4 (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: In the Bible, Cain killed Abel, and when confronted by God responded, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” But Michael isn’t Cain, and Gloria isn’t God. She doubts he’d answer her if she were.

Note: Thank you everyone who's read the fic on here and AO3! Your support means a lot to me🖤

Warnings: Angst, canonical major character death, emotional manipulation. Sexually explicit content that involves vaginal fingering.

Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content. I will block you.

Chapter 3 | AO3 Link | Masterlist

“Were you at Guadalcanal?” she had asked, his eyebrows raising in the slightest display of surprise. “I remember reading that article in Life magazine about you. My brother was there, but he won’t talk about it.”

That was the first conversation she had with Michael after Fredo’s brief introductions between them. A clumsy encounter, awkward, even, as she could tell Michael was politely tolerating her presence for his brother’s sake until she couldn’t help but bring up Guadalcanal. Suddenly, Fredo was dead, and Gloria began to suspect Michael had never truly left that island.

She could only piece together what had transpired on Michael’s disastrous trip to Cuba. No coincidence that Fredo’s death occurred just after Hyman Roth’s assassination made the front page of The Daily News. The bell had tolled both for he and Rocco Lampone, one of Michael’s caporegimes who was shot by federal agents immediately after taking out the hit, according to the paper.

At the same time, Gloria struggled to wrap her head around Michael ordering his own brother’s death. Perhaps it was her own attachment to Jackie, but she couldn’t imagine a situation where she’d even consider that an option. She and Jackie didn’t talk often, but they were as close as they could be considering the circumstances.

She wouldn’t have even considered the possibility if Michael hadn’t attributed Fredo’s death to drowning when he broke the news to Gloria. Though she tried not to show it, she’d taken pause at that detail. Even after a few drinks, he was a good swimmer, often hanging out at the hotel’s pool with whichever waitress of the week had caught his attention.

Michael’s eyes widened when Gloria teared up. She’d been able to keep herself composed throughout his mother’s funeral and wake, but not knowing Carmela much at all helped that. Fredo was a better boss than other people she’d worked for in the past. She supposed she considered him a friend.

“He was always so nice, really, everyone at the hotel liked him,” she managed to mumble. “I’m so sorry, Michael. Losing your brother—I can’t even imagine.”

He reached out and caressed her cheek, her tears rolling down her face and onto his hand. He stared at her, silent for a moment. “You’re here, darling. That’s all I need.”

She took his hand from her face and kissed his palm, giving him a weak smile. His gaze was dark, dense and sprawling like the bare trees that hadn’t yet begun to bloom so early in spring. So easy to lose her way if she weren’t careful in the daytime, helplessly lost at night if she dared attempt to do so. She could see herself, so minuscule reflected in his eyes like an omen.

Finally, she broke his gaze, wiping her eyes. He gave her a hug and a soft kiss on the cheek that lent her some warmth, allowing herself to wallow in his embrace. She sniffled, rubbing her face in his shoulder without care as to the makeup and snot that she’d surely smeared on his clothes. He shifted one hand from around her back to stroke her hair, his fingers getting caught in the microscopic tangles and stray curls she struggled to keep under control. His comfort was all she’d be offered, and she accepted it as long as he’d provide it.

Minutes passed before Michael put his hands on her shoulders, telling her in a gentle voice to take a hot bath to calm her nerves, and that he’d be just outside if she needed anything. Reluctantly, Gloria nodded, though she didn’t leave her spot, even when he was outside, instead staring at her feet, her arms wrapped around herself. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt so helpless, so morose.

Michael glanced back at the house, his young fiance no longer in view. Gloria, Latin for glory. Reminded him of attending mass as a child. Supposedly echoed by choirs of heavenly hosts in the presence of the Almighty, a being so extraordinarily divine that to gaze upon His visage would cause certain death. Until the end of time and beyond that, Gloria, Gloria, Gloria en excelsis Deo. Forever and ever. He sighed. Gloria.

She’d been so deceptively earnest in asking him about Guadalcanal when they’d first met, clumsily paired by his traitorous brother. He almost couldn’t help but humor her question, and the subsequent ones that followed, betraying her knowledge of what transpired on those nightmarish islands but a desire to understand it all the same. She had thanked him for being so honest, a striking smile on her face that made him feel like it was reserved just for him.

He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, but she had made it so difficult, pretty and wild with a gleam in her eye that made him want to indulge her despite all reason. So he indulged her question about Guadalcanal, and then almost every other request she’d made, doing so while stewing in the fact that she was yet another reminder that he was merely a man, a slave to his base desires.

Coaxing her into calling him by his first name had been a bit of a challenge. In every other circumstance, he’d expect to be addressed as ‘Mr. Corleone’. Instead, he was inexplicably frustrated by her insistence on maintaining the veneer of professionalism despite his being uncharacteristically personal with her. So, he brought those damn service medals with him all the way from New York to Nevada. Hadn’t even looked at them since he returned from his exile in Sicily.

The banquet hall had been practically empty, save for a handful of other employees setting out utensils ahead of Johnny Fontaine’s dinner show that evening. ‘I’d like to show you these somewhere private, Gloria. They’re very personal to me,’ he’d said, his voice low so only she could hear.

She gave him that same striking smile when she agreed to go up to his room with him. He wasn’t a man many people said ‘no’ to, and she wasn’t a woman who said ‘no’ to many men. A morbid part of him wanted her to, just to see what would happen, test his already dwindling self-control. He could feel it slipping from between fingers when the door clicked shut, wondering how she could be so calm, alone in a room with a married man. Either she’d done so countless times before or hadn’t been expecting him to fold. Probably both.

Her fingers had brushed his World War II Victory Medal, then his Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal, then, while he described how he earned his Navy Cross, she finally uttered his name in a raspy lilt. Michael sounded almost foreign coming from her lips, part of this secret they were sharing—hotel rooms and service medals and first names. As soon as she pinned the Purple Heart to his lapel, her manicured hand lingering on his chest for just a moment, his ego howled for a taste of blood. Tiger, she called him, lurking in the dense jungle, fiery eyes stalking his fox-prey as she chased pleasure without a thought for him until he pounced, and, in turn, consumed her, razor-sharp maw dripping with her passion.

Hearing about her other dalliances, never from her but always in passing, made him silently seethe with a raging possession he knew he had no right to feel, but did nevertheless. She had clearly assumed that he would be a quick and casual fling like every other man she saw. He resented those men not just for their proximity to her, but at the ease with which they seemed to be able to cut things off with her. Every time he told himself a visit would be the last, he’d habitually slink back to her in the still of the night. He supposed giving in to those instincts served some purpose higher than simply giving in to desire. If he hadn’t, he would have been alone, without hope for another son.

Little else good had come from his family’s tenure in Nevada, and upon receiving confirmation from Tom of Frank Pentangeli’s suicide, had quickly come to the conclusion that they could get a chance at yet another fresh start in New York. Besides, with the newly created vacuum of power there in light of Roth’s and Pentangeli’s deaths, he needed to move in quickly to maintain control.

Gloria sat in the bathtub, watching her fingers prune beneath the foggy surface. She had run it scalding, tears streaming down her face as she allowed the hot, perfumed water to engulf her. When it had cooled enough to not be painful to the touch, she splashed some on her face. A knock at the door caught her attention.

“Gloria? It’s me.”

“Come in.”

Michael opened the door as narrowly as he could to slip inside, not wanting to chance anyone catching a glimpse of Gloria in her state of undress despite the bathroom being in the master bedroom, which few people were allowed in, anyway. He watched as she pulled her knees to her chest, looking at him expectantly. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tie nowhere to be found as the first two buttons of his shirt were undone. He looked almost as disheveled as he did that night he appeared at her apartment.

“I decided it would be good for the family to move back to New York,” he said, sitting on the edge of the tub, his fingers grazing the top of the warm, sudsy water. “I’m going to make an offer on my childhood home tomorrow. It should close by the end of the week.”

“Long Beach, right? That’s pretty close to my parents. They’ll be glad,” she said. “Did the people who lived there say why they were selling?”

“An old associate of my father’s lived there, but he died recently. His widow put it up for sale. Doesn’t need such a big place anymore.”

“Wow, between your friend, Fredo, and your mother…it comes in threes, that’s what my dad always says.”

She knew when his thin-lipped smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, it wasn’t so simple.

“Things will be different in New York. Quieter, not as much trouble,” he said.

“So you’re leaving me here?”

He snickered, his smile more genuine as the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I said not as much.”

“I see,” she said, shifting in the tub, her bare breasts peeking from beneath the water, and she gasped as the cool air brushed her sensitive skin. She noticed his eyes on her chest. “You just here to look, or are you trying to go for a dive, tiger?” she asked, her laugh light and airy until his hand dipped beneath the water to squeeze one of her breasts.

“Something like that,” he muttered, gently tugging her nipple before doing the same to her other breast.

There they were again, those eyes like woods she’d lose herself in. This time, she did so willingly as he drew her in with his touch, his arm submerged in the bath water as he slipped his fingers between her folds, watching as she gripped the edge of the bathtub. She lifted her hips, rolling them slightly as she felt his fingers fill her.

“Michael—fuck,” she groaned when his thumb brushed her clit. “I need more.”

The sensation was odd, for all they’d done in the past, bathtubs had never been involved. Pools and showers, yes, but perhaps they’d both wordlessly come to the conclusion that something about a bath was far too intimate. She could understand why in that specific situation, something inherently erotic about him being fully clothed while she was quite the opposite, exposed and easily accessible for him.

With a curl of his fingers, a loud moan echoed through the tiled room. No one would hear her anyway. As she flexed her legs, calves burning ever so slightly, she tried digging her nails into the porcelain tub, breaking one with the force she used to grip the sides of it.

“Don’t tease me,” she growled, voice low and husky in her frustration.

Her eyes met his again, and she was something wild in that forest, a woman-beast with no regard for civility, instead venturing deeper in search of pleasure. It was how Michael had lured her in, carefully domesticating her before she could realize what he’d done. Her body jerked as she felt her orgasm building up inside her, splashing water onto the floor from her sudden movement.

His shirt sleeve had rolled down, drenched despite his efforts, but he didn’t let up, his eyes fixed on her as he felt her pussy clench around his fingers as he worked them inside her, his thumb unforgiving on her clit. Her legs shook as she came, toes curling as more water splashed out of the tub.

“Oh my god,” she moaned. “Fucking—keep going.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, and a haze overtook her mind as she rocked back and forth against his hand. So engrossed in her second orgasm wracking through her body like an earthquake, she almost forgot he was even there, instead this disembodied figure that existed only to make her cum. If only.

She shook as the aftershocks of pleasure rolled through her, eyes wild as they opened again, fixed on the man before her, so composed compared to how she’d come apart.

He pulled his arm from the water, grabbing her nearby towel and drying his hand off with it. Her knuckles were white when she released her grip on the side of the tub, chest heaving as she ran her fingers through her messy, half-dry hair.

She attempted to push herself up from the tub, and he quickly wrapped his arms around her torso, supporting her as she climbed out on unsteady legs.

“Your shirt—“

“I don’t care,” he said, wrapping the towel around her. “I’ve got others. How are you feeling?”

“Good, really good.”

He lifted her hand, inspecting her broken red-painted nail. “You sure?”

She snickered. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

As she dried herself off, he leaned against the counter, watching her. For a moment, it felt like they were in the hotel room again, no obligations or strings attached, and something inside her ached for that time. She’d always enjoyed it, but she wouldn’t have taken it for granted if she’d known what four years of it would have led up to.

She grabbed her brush from the counter, combing the knots out of her damp hair.

“Where do you want to honeymoon?” he asked suddenly.

“I don’t know,” she said, hissing softly as she painfully snagged a knot. “The Hamptons would be nice.”

“Not very exotic.”

“Well it’s not exactly about sight-seeing, is it?”

She could be a tourist any time she wanted, but when else would she have a week where having sex was not only expected, but encouraged? Even in school, she wasn’t one for museums or monuments, finding books far more engaging than the watered down information presented to them. As the likelihood of a summer wedding was rapidly increasing, the last thing she wanted was to walk around looking at ruins or statues in sweltering heat, hardly having the energy to do much else by the end of the day.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Gloria turned to him, her eyes wide. “What?”

He smiled the slightest bit at her shock. “Kay and I married in a small ceremony in New England, and then we went back to Long Island. We didn’t honeymoon.”

“But that’s the best part.”

“You’ll get your honeymoon, I promise.” He wrapped his arms around her bare torso from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. “So, the Hamptons? Beachfront, secluded–”

“Very secluded,” she emphasized as he kissed her cheek.

Her dreams that night had troubling vividity in which she couldn’t tell whether she was asleep or awake as realistic scenarios warped outlandishly. People’s faces shifted into others, desperately trying to tell her something but unintelligible nonetheless. She woke up in a cold sweat, Michael sleeping soundly beside her. Damn. It was her turn to be the insomniac.

As quietly as she could, she got out of bed, sliding her feet into her slippers and padding across the carpeted floor, hoping she wouldn’t wake him up. She slipped out the door and made her way into the living room, turning on a lamp for the slightest bit of light. Shuffling into the kitchen, she made herself a rum and coke, trying to remember something from her dreams, but came up with nothing comprehensible.

She wandered back into the living room, turning on the radio that was almost always set to the local rock n’ roll station since she’d been there. The volume of the music was low, but she could still make out the sounds of the familiar songs as she sipped her drink.

“Glo?” a small voice whispered. “I can’t sleep.”

The kids had taken to calling her that, less formal than Gloria without forcing them to call a woman they hardly knew a derivative of mom.

Anthony emerged from the dark hallway, a teddy bear tucked beneath his arm.

“Me either, kiddo,” Gloria said. “Are you hungry? I can make you a snack.”

The boy shook his head, instead walking into the living room and sitting next to her on the floor. Despite effectively moving into the house, Gloria had hardly interacted with Anthony, though that was almost exclusively his choice. She couldn’t blame him. She still thought it was too soon for her to be living there, but after Carmela’s death, Michael practically insisted.

“Do you know why everyone’s leaving? Daddy says mommy did something bad, but I think he’s lying,” he said. “He lies a lot.”

Gloria let out a shaky breath as she tried to figure how to answer such a loaded question. “He doesn’t tell me much, but I don’t–your mother isn’t a bad person, Anthony. She was just very sad.”

“Was uncle Fredo sad, too?”

“I think so. When you become an adult, you’re not supposed to talk about things like that, and some people have a harder time with it than others,” she explained. “They feel very alone, and they do things they might not normally do because they don’t know how else to ask for help.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t. I don’t think things should be that way.”

Gloria knew what Kay did, and though she wasn’t sure if she herself could go through with having an abortion, she certainly wouldn’t condemn a woman’s desperation. Still, she wondered what Fredo had done to be iced out by Michael. She felt almost guilty for considering Michael had something to do with his brother’s death, fratricide was certainly no weightless accusation. Then again, even if she confronted him with it, would he tell her the truth?

For four years, she had to face the horrifying reality of nearly losing her own brother. She wondered about the worry Michael’s family felt when he was fighting overseas. From what she understood, they hadn’t been very supportive of him joining the Marines in the first place. He had told her that the only person who congratulated him was Fredo, and the only people who regularly sent him letters were his brother, his mother, and Kay, all no longer in his life in some way.

“I’m going back to sleep now,” Anthony said.

She nodded. “Good night.”

He disappeared back down the hallway.

When she heard a door close, she threw back the rest of her rum and coke before making herself another. Some teeny-bopper’s twangy voice faintly played out over the radio, singing his song about heartbreak. The station always played the moodier songs at night, giving way to the teenagers who sounded like lovesick ghosts that haunted the airwaves. “I’m crying,” they’d wail. “My baby left me.” Few said it better than Elvis, “You’ll feel so lonesome, you could die.”

The song shifted to Ricky Nelson’s ‘Lonesome Town’. Despite his talent, she always found it funny, the California boy putting on an accent to sell records. But people put on acts all the time, different masks depending on the scene. She thought back to earlier in the bathroom, and wondered if Michael’s sudden display of intimacy was calculated on his part. His question about the honeymoon had certainly taken her by surprise, enough so that for a few hours, she didn’t think much about the implications of his brother’s death or try to talk to him about it again.

She squeezed the glass in her hand, enraged at the thought of him playing with her emotions while she was in such a vulnerable state, but more than that, angry at herself for falling for it.

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