Story: "Of honour and love" - A Sicilian tale - Prologue
This is the prologue of a story loosely based on "The Godfather" characters. It's been a while since I wanted to write a story with these themes - a noir about love and vengeance, hopes and regrets. And I wanted to set it between America and Sicily. "The Godfather" lovers will recognize some characters, but I think that it could be technically defined an "AU", since I'm going to develop a slightly different storyline, and to present many original characters. So basically you won't need to have seen the movies to understand what's going on.
Here is the prologue in English. The same prologue and the first chapters can be read in Italian here
Title: "Of honour and love" - A Sicilian tale
Chapter: 1/?
Author: Flora
Rating: R (all throughout) - for explicit violence and some sexuality
Disclaimers: Inspired to the characters created by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola. I don't earn a cent by it, except for a lot of fun. As always, thanks to susa_938 for her help and advices.
Of Honour and love
A Sicilian tale
- PROLOGUE -
Las Vegas, Nevada. Winter 1959
The room is lit with cold neon lamps, a white merciless glow which seems to bare and strip the flesh from every line, every profile.
The man has his wrists tied back behind a chair, and a gun pointed to his temple. He quit crying long ago. Now he’s weeping softly, rocking back and forth, as a rivulet of blood spills down his forehead to collect in the creases of his neck, soaking the collar of his elegant blue silken shirt.
He tried to ask for explanations, he begged to know, but he stopped talking after the third attempt, after the man who stuck the cold steel barrel into his ear beat him on the head until he almost passed out - and all this, in a dark, dead-cold silence. The only noises, the buzzing of the fan turning to idle and the dull ticking of the clock hanging on the wall.
There had been other sounds before: the trill of the casino bells, and the delicate tinkle of silvery roulettes, the croupiers’ calls, and the persuasive rolling of slot machines, scoring another win - and another one, again and again. And he - he’s now wondering how come he ended here, how it might ever be possible, when barely a while ago he was busy enjoying his private little fortune surrounded by beautiful women and well-dressed people who cheered and clapped their hands after a new winning bet - and everything seemed to have finally turned the right way. Everything was so perfect. So perfect.
But there isn’t anything perfect now, in this damp underground. The sparkling mirage of the casino is only a blurred memory, the shattered fragment from another life flowing indifferently without him upstairs - and the metallic taste of blood is infecting his mouth like a sore.
He jerks his head up when he hears the rusty door creaking on its hinges, and for an instant he believes the pain clouded his sight, for there is no way what he sees could ever be possible.
The young man who entered the room escorted by two other people is well-dressed, in an elegant black suit of Italian tailoring, but even so a familiar flash of memory gnaws at his temples making him stagger on the chair. The young man approaches him calmly, silent and confident, a pace he would recognize even with his eyes shut, and there is no way he could be mistaken now. He recognizes him all of a sudden, and finally terror possesses him, cutting his breath short in the throat and drying out his energies. Now he knows why he’s been taken there. He slides down the chair like a lifeless rag doll and his bladder suddenly empties itself out in a warm spurt, soaking his trousers.
“Nice to see you again after such a long time, Fabrizio. Strange are the circumstances of our encounter, don’t you think?”
Fabrizio shakes a blood-sticky strand of hair off his eyes and tries to hold back the tears, as the revolting stench of piss is clenching his nose and his legs start trembling without control.
“Michael...”
The young man in black stops before him and gestures to the other people in the room to stand aside. His expression is friendly, even pleased - maybe for having been recognized almost instantly. But Fabrizio couldn’t ever forget his face - and those quiet, unforgiving eyes. Eyes like coins of burnished silver. He tosses on the chair, suddenly feeling helpless under that gaze and trying to free his hands, but the firm voice of the man pinches him on the spot. “So kind of you to still remember me after all these years.”
Fabrizio raises his eyes, face distorted by fear and surprise and he babbles, “I pray you, I beg you Michael, whatever happened in the past we can discuss it, we can be reasonable - “
“Ah, Fabrizio. You always were an amusing man.” Michael brings his hands to his hips, pushing the flaps of his black jacket aside, and Fabrizio can see the butt of a gun glimmering softly under the cruel white of the lamps, “but time for games is over, I’m afraid. I’ve come to settle the score.” He pauses and his eyes suddenly become cold and dark, abandoning every semblance of pleasantness in an instant. What’s left is terrifying in its blind fury. “It’s time to pay for Apollonia. It’s time to pay for Angelo.”
Fabrizio is weeping openly now and stammers out something, he shakes on the chair, as Michael’s grin widens on his smooth handsome face, baring the perfect white of his teeth.
“Did you really believe you could fool a Corleone, Fabrizio? Did you think you could come to America from Sicily and make your own fortune here, in my casinos - and that I wouldn’t spot you?” He gets close to him, brushing his face with a finger, an expression of complicity now in his dark eyes, “or maybe you were convinced I would forget about you, Fabrizio? I would forget your face?”
He stands up all of a sudden, placing himself in front of him, and taking out the gun with a swift almost casual gesture. “Unfortunately for you, I never forget anything Fabrizio. Anything. But knowing this won’t be of any use to you now, I’m sorry.”
“Son of a bitch,” babbles Fabrizio, “I’m here under the Molinari family’s protection. They are going to make you pay for it, if you just - “
Michael laughs softly, and it’s like a gentle lethal purr down his throat - more frightening than any menace. Fabrizio is annihilated by it.
“You are so naïve, Fabrizio. It was the Molinari people who handed you over to me. They would do anything to make the Corleone family happy, and you are one of those things that can make me very, very happy.”
Fabrizio shakes his head, sending his hair slapping against his cheeks, his face filthy with blood and dried mucus; he tries to cower, to shield himself somehow, but there is no place to hide. Nowhere to run to. He knows it. Blind with terror he watches Michael slowly raising his arm and adjusting his aim, his face quiet and focused, like that of a boy intent on some private game of his.
“It’s over, Fabrizio.”
The shot explodes violently through the motionless air, and after an instant Fabrizio collapses dead-weight and lifeless into the chair, blood spilling copiously from the hole between his eyes, the acrid smell of gun-powder floating lazily all around.
Michael observes him in silence for a few moments. He turns round handing the gun to one of the men near him; then, without a glance back, he opens the door and leaves the room.
Here is the prologue in English. The same prologue and the first chapters can be read in Italian here
Title: "Of honour and love" - A Sicilian tale
Chapter: 1/?
Author: Flora
Rating: R (all throughout) - for explicit violence and some sexuality
Disclaimers: Inspired to the characters created by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola. I don't earn a cent by it, except for a lot of fun. As always, thanks to susa_938 for her help and advices.
Of Honour and love
A Sicilian tale
- PROLOGUE -
Las Vegas, Nevada. Winter 1959
The room is lit with cold neon lamps, a white merciless glow which seems to bare and strip the flesh from every line, every profile.
The man has his wrists tied back behind a chair, and a gun pointed to his temple. He quit crying long ago. Now he’s weeping softly, rocking back and forth, as a rivulet of blood spills down his forehead to collect in the creases of his neck, soaking the collar of his elegant blue silken shirt.
He tried to ask for explanations, he begged to know, but he stopped talking after the third attempt, after the man who stuck the cold steel barrel into his ear beat him on the head until he almost passed out - and all this, in a dark, dead-cold silence. The only noises, the buzzing of the fan turning to idle and the dull ticking of the clock hanging on the wall.
There had been other sounds before: the trill of the casino bells, and the delicate tinkle of silvery roulettes, the croupiers’ calls, and the persuasive rolling of slot machines, scoring another win - and another one, again and again. And he - he’s now wondering how come he ended here, how it might ever be possible, when barely a while ago he was busy enjoying his private little fortune surrounded by beautiful women and well-dressed people who cheered and clapped their hands after a new winning bet - and everything seemed to have finally turned the right way. Everything was so perfect. So perfect.
But there isn’t anything perfect now, in this damp underground. The sparkling mirage of the casino is only a blurred memory, the shattered fragment from another life flowing indifferently without him upstairs - and the metallic taste of blood is infecting his mouth like a sore.
He jerks his head up when he hears the rusty door creaking on its hinges, and for an instant he believes the pain clouded his sight, for there is no way what he sees could ever be possible.
The young man who entered the room escorted by two other people is well-dressed, in an elegant black suit of Italian tailoring, but even so a familiar flash of memory gnaws at his temples making him stagger on the chair. The young man approaches him calmly, silent and confident, a pace he would recognize even with his eyes shut, and there is no way he could be mistaken now. He recognizes him all of a sudden, and finally terror possesses him, cutting his breath short in the throat and drying out his energies. Now he knows why he’s been taken there. He slides down the chair like a lifeless rag doll and his bladder suddenly empties itself out in a warm spurt, soaking his trousers.
“Nice to see you again after such a long time, Fabrizio. Strange are the circumstances of our encounter, don’t you think?”
Fabrizio shakes a blood-sticky strand of hair off his eyes and tries to hold back the tears, as the revolting stench of piss is clenching his nose and his legs start trembling without control.
“Michael...”
The young man in black stops before him and gestures to the other people in the room to stand aside. His expression is friendly, even pleased - maybe for having been recognized almost instantly. But Fabrizio couldn’t ever forget his face - and those quiet, unforgiving eyes. Eyes like coins of burnished silver. He tosses on the chair, suddenly feeling helpless under that gaze and trying to free his hands, but the firm voice of the man pinches him on the spot. “So kind of you to still remember me after all these years.”
Fabrizio raises his eyes, face distorted by fear and surprise and he babbles, “I pray you, I beg you Michael, whatever happened in the past we can discuss it, we can be reasonable - “
“Ah, Fabrizio. You always were an amusing man.” Michael brings his hands to his hips, pushing the flaps of his black jacket aside, and Fabrizio can see the butt of a gun glimmering softly under the cruel white of the lamps, “but time for games is over, I’m afraid. I’ve come to settle the score.” He pauses and his eyes suddenly become cold and dark, abandoning every semblance of pleasantness in an instant. What’s left is terrifying in its blind fury. “It’s time to pay for Apollonia. It’s time to pay for Angelo.”
Fabrizio is weeping openly now and stammers out something, he shakes on the chair, as Michael’s grin widens on his smooth handsome face, baring the perfect white of his teeth.
“Did you really believe you could fool a Corleone, Fabrizio? Did you think you could come to America from Sicily and make your own fortune here, in my casinos - and that I wouldn’t spot you?” He gets close to him, brushing his face with a finger, an expression of complicity now in his dark eyes, “or maybe you were convinced I would forget about you, Fabrizio? I would forget your face?”
He stands up all of a sudden, placing himself in front of him, and taking out the gun with a swift almost casual gesture. “Unfortunately for you, I never forget anything Fabrizio. Anything. But knowing this won’t be of any use to you now, I’m sorry.”
“Son of a bitch,” babbles Fabrizio, “I’m here under the Molinari family’s protection. They are going to make you pay for it, if you just - “
Michael laughs softly, and it’s like a gentle lethal purr down his throat - more frightening than any menace. Fabrizio is annihilated by it.
“You are so naïve, Fabrizio. It was the Molinari people who handed you over to me. They would do anything to make the Corleone family happy, and you are one of those things that can make me very, very happy.”
Fabrizio shakes his head, sending his hair slapping against his cheeks, his face filthy with blood and dried mucus; he tries to cower, to shield himself somehow, but there is no place to hide. Nowhere to run to. He knows it. Blind with terror he watches Michael slowly raising his arm and adjusting his aim, his face quiet and focused, like that of a boy intent on some private game of his.
“It’s over, Fabrizio.”
The shot explodes violently through the motionless air, and after an instant Fabrizio collapses dead-weight and lifeless into the chair, blood spilling copiously from the hole between his eyes, the acrid smell of gun-powder floating lazily all around.
Michael observes him in silence for a few moments. He turns round handing the gun to one of the men near him; then, without a glance back, he opens the door and leaves the room.