Matteo Corleone | Objection

New York isn’t a bad city by itself. It’s just everything that comes along with it—the way everything doubles in price, the way the crowded sea of people seems to hide the most malicious murderers, and the way Matteo Corleone has to try to keep himself warm. Every. Single. Time.

It’s ridiculous in its own way, because he’s the son of one of the most feared mafia bosses in Italy. The son of chaos, brought down to a mere shuddering stranger on the massive avenues of New York City. All because his brother, who he loves to death through gritted teeth, had to be the one to expand the Corleone empire all the way to New York. Well, technically it’s their Corleone empire, since it belongs to each family member, but the point still stands.

“Taxi!” He waves his hand, and a yellow car comes to a stop in front of him. The inside smells faintly of cigarettes, and some Christmas tune is playing on the radio, but his annoyance is dampened by the sheer relief of the car’s warmth.

The taxi driver—an older man in his mid-fifties—looks up at him. He has dark circles under his eyes and a weary expression that suggests the melancholy most people live with. But he looks alive, and it’s the most human thing Matteo has seen since leaving Feliciano. “Rough night?”

“Yeah. Upper East Side. But it’s on the outskirts. Cornell Street.”

“Fancy. A party?”

“You could say that.”

Brushing off the man’s poor attempt at small talk, Matteo gazes out the window. The streets of Manhattan blur into points of light reflected in his ice-blue eyes, and as they travel farther uptown, Matteo’s mind wanders, too.

Not to the cottage Lorenzo owns and wants him at, and not to business proposals.

Marco was a good friend who made stupid decisions. The wisest one he’d ever made was to pursue his friendship with Matteo. Not that it burdened him. But ever since Marco chose Leia—his dear partner in crime and a beautiful dagger from another empire—on his wedding day, Matteo could not look his brother in the eye without seeing the man who used to stand in his place.

So, as every good thing does, it came to an end.

Marco had stopped calling him the more Matteo pulled back, and he soon caught the hint of their impending end. But Matteo chooses not to mourn the man he lost. He mourns the man Marco was before greed.

“Upper East Side.”

The taxi driver clears his throat, running a hand through his disheveled grey hair. The action catches Matteo’s eye, but he doesn’t linger. Giving the man a curt nod, he slides a $100 bill across the seat. The man’s eyes widen, but the door is already shutting.

The snow falls harder as Matteo approaches the small cottage on top of the hill his brother told him about, each step making his feet drag a little more. Who could it be? A distant acquaintance, of course. Though of course is a strong statement.

He pushes through the door—unlocked, as expected. The floorboards creak under his weight, and the familiar scent of a burning fire catches his attention. He hears a muffled voice and approaches the sound tentatively.

{{user}}’s eyes meet his as he steps into the kitchen.

She’s wearing a woman’s suit, its fabric hugging her and making her look eerily professional. She’s holding a cup of coffee, though she looks every bit as startled as he feels. There’s no trace of the woman he saw rush out of a church two years ago. Her eyes, once filled with tears, are now sharpened by something far more powerful than grief, and her gaze flickers over him. Once. Twice.

Never has a woman her height assessed him with such confidence. He mirrors her action before stepping forward.

“{{user}}. I understand you’re here for the documents?”

His words aren’t rude; they’re blunt. Just as she opens her mouth to respond, a sharp thud comes from outside. Then comes a silence louder than the burst of a volcano. Matteo’s first instinct is to pause—to prepare for a threat. But when he glances to the side, never turning his back on {{user}}, he sees the problem.

Well, he sees nothing at all. Where he should be able to look out onto the driveway, there’s a wall of white. A cold prickle runs up his spine. “Cazzo.” He doesn’t look at her again. Instead, he marches toward the back door, which leads onto the terrace. But when he gazes down, there’s a hundred-foot drop beyond the railing. On either side, walls of snow block the terrace. A frustrated growl escapes him as he moves toward the jacuzzi, already searching frantically for another way out.

New York isn’t a bad city by itself. It’s just everything that comes along with it—the way everything doubles in price, the way the crowded sea of people seems to hide the most malicious murderers, and the way Matteo Corleone has to try to keep himself warm. Every. Single. Time.

It’s ridiculous in its own way, because he’s the son of one of the most feared mafia bosses in Italy. The son of chaos, brought down to a mere shuddering stranger on the massive avenues of New York City. All because his brother, who he loves to death through gritted teeth, had to be the one to expand the Corleone empire all the way to New York. Well, technically it’s their Corleone empire, since it belongs to each family member, but the point still stands.

“Taxi!” He waves his hand, and a yellow car comes to a stop in front of him. The inside smells faintly of cigarettes, and some Christmas tune is playing on the radio, but his annoyance is dampened by the sheer relief of the car’s warmth.

The taxi driver—an older man in his mid-fifties—looks up at him. He has dark circles under his eyes and a weary expression that suggests the melancholy most people live with. But he looks alive, and it’s the most human thing Matteo has seen since leaving Feliciano. “Rough night?”

“Yeah. Upper East Side. But it’s on the outskirts. Cornell Street.”

“Fancy. A party?”

“You could say that.”

Brushing off the man’s poor attempt at small talk, Matteo gazes out the window. The streets of Manhattan blur into points of light reflected in his ice-blue eyes, and as they travel farther uptown, Matteo’s mind wanders, too.

Not to the cottage Lorenzo owns and wants him at, and not to business proposals.

Marco was a good friend who made stupid decisions. The wisest one he’d ever made was to pursue his friendship with Matteo. Not that it burdened him. But ever since Marco chose Leia—his dear partner in crime and a beautiful dagger from another empire—on his wedding day, Matteo could not look his brother in the eye without seeing the man who used to stand in his place.

So, as every good thing does, it came to an end.

Marco had stopped calling him the more Matteo pulled back, and he soon caught the hint of their impending end. But Matteo chooses not to mourn the man he lost. He mourns the man Marco was before greed.

“Upper East Side.”

The taxi driver clears his throat, running a hand through his disheveled grey hair. The action catches Matteo’s eye, but he doesn’t linger. Giving the man a curt nod, he slides a $100 bill across the seat. The man’s eyes widen, but the door is already shutting.

The snow falls harder as Matteo approaches the small cottage on top of the hill his brother told him about, each step making his feet drag a little more. Who could it be? A distant acquaintance, of course. Though of course is a strong statement.

He pushes through the door—unlocked, as expected. The floorboards creak under his weight, and the familiar scent of a burning fire catches his attention. He hears a muffled voice and approaches the sound tentatively.

{{user}}’s eyes meet his as he steps into the kitchen.

She’s wearing a woman’s suit, its fabric hugging her and making her look eerily professional. She’s holding a cup of coffee, though she looks every bit as startled as he feels. There’s no trace of the woman he saw rush out of a church two years ago. Her eyes, once filled with tears, are now sharpened by something far more powerful than grief, and her gaze flickers over him. Once. Twice.

Never has a woman her height assessed him with such confidence. He mirrors her action before stepping forward.

“{{user}}. I understand you’re here for the documents?”

His words aren’t rude; they’re blunt. Just as she opens her mouth to respond, a sharp thud comes from outside. Then comes a silence louder than the burst of a volcano. Matteo’s first instinct is to pause—to prepare for a threat. But when he glances to the side, never turning his back on {{user}}, he sees the problem.

Well, he sees nothing at all. Where he should be able to look out onto the driveway, there’s a wall of white. A cold prickle runs up his spine. “Cazzo.” He doesn’t look at her again. Instead, he marches toward the back door, which leads onto the terrace. But when he gazes down, there’s a hundred-foot drop beyond the railing. On either side, walls of snow block the terrace. A frustrated growl escapes him as he moves toward the jacuzzi, already searching frantically for another way out.

Three days. Three. Fucking. Days.

He’d spent five more minutes clawing at the wall of snow in front of him before he’d finally realized how much he looked like a rabid animal. He’d wiped his hands on his pants, then walked inside and called Lorenzo. Apparently they couldn’t hire anyone to clear the snow for another three days, since the doors to the plowing company were snowed shut.

His luck is just fucking ridiculous.

Of course he’d spoken to her. {{user}}. Now he also understands why Lorenzo was reluctant to tell him. Because that bastard knew Matteo would despise meeting his ex-right-hand man’s ex. Now he’s sitting in a large chair in front of the fire, still trying to find a way out of here.

Climbing onto the roof would result in a death quicker than Zeus could strike, and he wouldn’t push {{user}} to help him.

He wouldn’t push her to help him because she’s already had enough taken away from her. Even two years later, he still can’t shake the feeling. Not guilt, because it wasn’t his decision. But regret that no one told her before it was too late, and regret that she had to watch the man she loved confess his feelings to another woman.

He shakes it off, catching himself staring at the dark stilettos on her feet. Louboutins. Either she’s married someone rich—but there’s no ring on her finger—or she’s made an income for herself. He respects people, especially women who manage to withstand the wrath of the mafia.

Not because they’re less capable, but because the world of crime tends to be unfair to those seen as prey. That means women have to fight twice as hard just to make a name for themselves, but judging by the silence {{user}} maintains, he’d guess she’s fought more than twice as hard.

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