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My Eyes Are On You

Chapter 1: The Facade

Masterlist

Word count: 17k (it's a bit long, so strap in lol)

Michael Corleone x Obsessive!OC

Warnings: Mental illness, obsession, minor stalking, psychopathy, description of blood and injury, description of violence, depression, organized crime, gun violence, extortion, eventual smut, etc.

Summary: You—Cecilia Nicolosi—can easily be described as perfect by your friends and classmates. Not only did you have amazing grades, a kind personality, and a beautiful family, but you even received a full ride to Dartmouth College in Massachusetts. But what happens when you meet Michael Corleone, a man who threatens it all—unknowingly cracking your meticulously crafted mask with a single smile thrown your way. You might not show it—hiding behind the mask of indifference—but, no matter where Michael Corleone decides to go, your eyes will always be on him.

Dividers created by: @uzmacchiato

This Work is Inspired by:

"The Other Woman" by: @melis-writes

"Dangerous Game" by: Emonaculate on AO3

Check these fics out! The writing in both is amazing 👏

The Fic is also cross posted to ao3!

My Eyes Are On You AO3 Link

A necessary truth you learned as a young girl was that your reputation matters: not everyone cared about who you were on the inside, instead creating an image of you from their own perspective.

This was especially important in the late 1920s when the Great Depression left your family name as the only stable form of ‘currency’ your family had.

Although your tight-knit community came together to help support one another during those trying times, nobody had the money—nor time—to care for people outside of their family and circle. That is, unless they knew you were good for something.

This is what your parents had to live on when they fled to New York in 1911. Your father had gotten into some trouble with some ‘businessmen’ in Sicily and ended up taking your mother with him as they left.

With the clothes on their backs, two shared suitcases and their meager savings, your mother and father had to drift from relatives and friends' homes as they built up their lives in the big city.

Despite your fathers hasty decision to leave Sicily—with a woman who wasn't even his wife—your family name stayed intact.

Your grandfather had been a central figure in Palermo, Sicily, working as a traveling priest like his forefathers in the Roman Catholic church. His kindness and willingness to help lead many to know of and respect your family.

Not long after immigrating to NYC they ended up in Greenwich Village, a neighborhood budding with a community of Italian and Sicilian immigrants. Many friends from both your father and mother's past had ended up in the little borrow.

Your father quickly found work as a construction worker, often working long hours for pennies on the dollar. Your mother has been lucky enough to snag a nanny and housekeeping position for a well off American couple.

Your parents drifted from home to home, building their savings and trying to create a family of their own. At the time, life was good, both were young, money was flowing, and they were unmistakably in love.

It didn't take long for them to find and purchase a home nuzzled into the heart of Greenwich.

With a space of their own, they finally felt comfortable enough having children, and

In 1916, they welcomed your older brother Leone. He was the blessing they always dreamed of, inheriting your fathers eyes and mothers curly mop of hair. Not too long after, your older sister Isabella was born in 1919.

Then, in the spring of 1922, you—Cecilia Nicolosi—came into the world, welcomed by the warmth of your mothers bosom.

As a child, you were brought up with all the love your parents and older siblings could spare: speaking Sicilian and Italian—along with English—so you wouldn't forget the roots and traditions of your family's home.

After you learnt to walk, your parents weren't home often, leaving you in the hands of trusted friends and neighbors. However, when they were, there was never a quiet moment in the home.

Your mother often sang as she cooked in the kitchen, her melodic voice often enticing your older sister into dancing. Your father, invigorated by the familiar folk songs of home, would occasionally place your smaller feet on top of his and danced Tarantella with you in the kitchen. It was fast paced, lively, chaotic and usually ended with you father collapsing in a chair with you on his lap and laughing loudly.

Your brother always reminisces about these moments. He always described them as 'warm’ or 'comforting,’ yet, you never understood how those emotions were supposed to feel. But they never mattered. There were more important things to worry about.

It didn't take long for your younger sister to be born into the surprisingly gentle December of 1928, when the frigid air was easily fought off by a nice pair of worn gloves.

However, while the winter was merciful, the stock market crash proved to have been more devastating than a brutal winter.

As rapid deflation occurred, many of your neighborhoods, including your mother, lost their jobs. The couple had been reluctant to let her go, but they couldn't provide the money she deserved.

You were just a girl then, but you could vividly remember how everyone in your community came together. Even though many families were drowning in debt, they still pitched in what they could afford to support those in need.

Neighborhood gardens sprouted up, allowing those in need to pick what they needed. Even the local corner store converted into a second hand shop when suppliers started disappearing. Cheap clothing and necessities like secondhand school and job uniforms were donated and quickly bought up.

Your family had been lucky enough to have had savings stored into the floorboards of your home. Your mother had always been sceptical of leaving her hard-earned money in the hands of strangers. Most of your fathers savings had disappeared, but he was still able to keep his construction job as he was one of the few who could work efficiently with electrical wiring.

It was probably the only reason you and your siblings were able to continue going to school. It also helped when weird men started appearing and asking for ‘protection money.’ Even so, there were still instances when your family had to go to bed hungry in an effort to make the money last.

Your brother was 17 at the time and insisted on finding work to help support the family. He soon started to help as a courtroom writer, taking short-hand notes of cases after getting an internship through the local high school.

At first he was mainly placed to work on small, petty crimes committed by first time offenders. However, when a journalist in a high profile mafia case couldn't make it to trial, he snuck in and took his spot.

He used this opportunity to write an article for his school newspaper on the defendant, Francesco Rossi. He was charged with three counts of assault with a deadly weapon, and drug trafficking after attacking officers while being arrested. During the trial, it was exposed that he was a high ranking member of the Barzini family's crime ring.

Although the case seemed open-shut, the court ended up throwing out the charges on the basis of 'lack of evidence.’ Everyone knew it was corruption, but no reputable journalist would report on something so risky, at least not until Leone's article won an award and was taken up by a local newspaper. It was your brother's down to earth attitude and first hand experience inside the courtroom that led thousands of New Yorkers to tune in.

It soon made its way to the front page of a local and took a small section in the New York Times ‘Up-in-Coming Writers’ section. Your brother received 100 dollars as payment and your parents sat down and read one of the many news clips out loud to you and your sisters.

It was your first time being exposed to the underbelly of New York, but since you were getting older, your parents thought it best to teach you early: after all in New York, it would be impossible to avoid them.

The cosa nostra—or mafia as Americans call them—were businessmen that you should never allow yourself to become indebted to, unless you were prepared to pay the debt tenfold. There were five families in New York and they could be cruel to those who betrayed or disrespected their respective families' honor.

They were often wolves in sheep's clothing, promising offers that you could not refuse, only to ensnare you in their grasp and more often than not, the repercussions of getting involved with them could be brutal.

They demanded respect and fear of those they dealt with, and your father made it very clear that by no means should you find yourself associated with them. He had made the grave mistake of working for a family in Sicily and almost paid with his life.

After this lesson, you slowly started to feel more eyes on you and those of your family. They were so inconspicuous, blending into the point where everyone in your neighborhood disregarded them. After all, why would the mafia care about some highschooler’s little article?

It all came to a head after the birth of your twin brothers—Andrea and Alessandro—in the spring of 1933. Not even three weeks later, Leone was shot during his high school graduation, right as he reached out to hold his diploma.

Immediate pandemonium ensued. People rushed to help Leone where he had fallen on the stage set up on the school's football field while fathers—including your own—ran to apprehend the shooter: tackling him to the ground and beating him within an inch of his life.

You remember watching the pool of blood ooze out of his abdomen where he lay, an inky, dark red so unlike any color you've ever seen. It soaked into his light blue graduation gown and coated the freshly polished shoes of the women trying to stop the bleeding.

The viscera left an eerily beautiful scene, the blood gleaming in the summer sun while the heavy scent of iron filled your lungs: coating your tongue as if you had tasted it. Even when your gaze was interrupted by your older sister covering your eyes, you could still see the crimson from behind your eyelids.

Police and medical personnel quickly arrived, carting your brother off to the hospital. Your mother wailed into the chest of your father, unconsolable after seeing the horrific sight. Isabella, who was only fourteen at the time, did her best to keep you and Beatrice calm. At that moment as your head rested against Isa's shoulder, you realized the severity of his condition and for the first time in your life, you felt a small tear trickle into the dress of her dress.

After the man regained consciousness, he was revealed to be Francesco Rossi, the same man your brother had written about early that year. He was given permission to take revenge for the ‘humiliation’ he endured because of Leone's article. His attack wasn't just about vengeance: it was also a warning, a promise that anyone who spoke out or thought of sullying their name, would be dealt with accordingly.

After staying in the hospital for a month he was immediately shipped off to jail. He couldn't get out of this trial and was later convicted and sentenced for his charge of attempted homicide and assault with a deadly weapon. However, it seemed that the judge who worked the case had been paid off, because he was only sentenced to the minimum time for each charge, only receiving seven years with possibility of parole after 24 months.

Your mother had broken out in sobs after the sentencing. The public defender assigned to Leone's case had expected to get the maximum of 25 years and was visibly outraged at the obvious corruption taking place.

Not only did Francesco Rossi have an extensive criminal record beforehand, but he also showed no remorse during the trial: yelling obscenities during your family's victim impact statements, and interrupting the judge as he proceeded with the sentencing.

The next couple of weeks were quiet in your family home—no songs spilled from your mothers lips and the bountiful laughter that once filled the halls dried up. The only reason your mother got up most days was to take care of your twin brothers or stay in the hospital with Leone.

Although community members came and provided support by taking you and their siblings in their own homes, it never quelled the worries of your mother and father, who had slept at Leone's bedside at the hospital where he fought for his life.

Leone was loved by your community—being viewed as a martyr—and while your parents and siblings worried, people noticed that you oddly never showed any physical signs of sadness during the whole incident—not a single tear he woke up a month later.

You only noticed how differently everyone in the neighborhood started to treat you when you heard the Italian couple you were staying with, whispering about you late in the night.

“È un piccolo diavolo, non vedo amore dietro quegli occhi morti,” Mrs. Agliate mumbled to her husband in the dim light of her kitchen. Her voice was low, but heavy with distaste for your entire being. She went on and on, disgusted by your lack of tears and emotion for your brother currently in the hospital. Mr. Agliate tried to shush her but unbeknownst to them, you lay awake on the small bed with your siblings in their living room—reliving the horrificly loud gunshot and watching the blood splatter behind your eyelids.

Other small things started to happen. Whispers of neighbors when you walked home from the garden, other kids avoiding you on the playground at school, or parents refusing to take you in even though they were happy to take your siblings while your parents were at the hospital or working.

You were strange, deadpan in a way any normal 11 year old shouldn't be, especially considering the fact that her beloved older brother had just been shot and on the cusp of death.

The problem was that you couldn't bring yourself to feel anything. It wasn't like you cared much about what your classmates called you behind your back or thought of you. However, when the whispers and teasing turned physical—like pushing and tripping you in school hallways—you realized that all of it was…. extremely annoying.

It was irritating how persistent some of the local children had been calling you piccolo diavolo, or little devil. It only got worse as they became even more physical and in the process, your school uniform and books would be soiled with whatever trash they decided to throw while you walked home.

The most annoying part was that you weren't in control of the situation. You couldn't control how they decided to torment you each day and you….hated that feeling. You hated being helpless. You hated how it brought you back to the moment when your brother was shot—small, useless, helpless.

Whenever your mother was home, she would always ask why your uniform was messy after school. She would pester you for answers, but instead of answering, you would rattle off the same excuse as before, and they always worked. Although she was worried about you, your older brother's condition came first—as well as the medical bills.

You remember that evening, sitting in the little alcove window in your shared bedroom, looking down at your street where children your age played. It didn't take long for you to get bored of watching them, instead taking notice of a small group of birds sitting on the electrical lines just above. All were uniform in size, shape and color. However when a new bird showed up, just slightly differently from the others, they fought it off.

You watched them fight, fascinated by the ruthlessness of the birds. Plums of feathers fell to the pavement like ash and the only thing the new bird could do was fly away. Their chirps were almost celebratory as they resumed their places on the line.

It was almost as if a mirror had been held up to your life. It wasn’t just at school that you were outcasted, but your own community.

Compared to your perfect older siblings and your three innocent younger siblings, you were the black sheep. You weren't overly outgoing, or tried to make conversation. You just…existed, but that wouldn't cut it.

That's when you realized you needed to change. It was a hassle being different, but maybe being like everyone else—or better—would change things. You didn't have to feel helpless anymore.

•

It was surprisingly….easy, to adapt and change how others saw you. All three months of the summer after Leone's shooting were spent cozying up with the kids in your neighborhood. A few well placed smiles—or tears if it came to it—had people falling into the palm of your hand.

Your parents continued on as normal even as you began to be more outgoing, but whether they knew it was an act, alluded you. They didn't treat you any differently—mostly because they were busy with paying off the medical bills—but they always made sure to show their love for you all.

Once your brother fully recovered, he began packing to go to Dartmouth college as he originally planned. He had received a full ride for his article and planned to pursue investigative journalism to bring light to injustices at the hand of the Mafia. He couldn't bear staying quiet, even if his silence afforded him safety.

Your parents vehemently protested. They didn't want him to get himself killed after surviving his previous shooting. However, that September he snuck out in the middle of the night—only leaving a handwritten letter—and went to live in the dorms and get ready for his first semester.

Everyone had been outraged initially, but your family slowly started healing from the trauma caused by the Cosa Nostra. The grip of the great depression had also started loosening its hold on your community.

Finally in 1939 the great depression came to a close and yours and many other families were able to get out of debt, allowing for more economic mobility.

Your mother was finally able to pursue her dream of opening a bakery that sold Italian and Sicilian desserts. With the small amount of savings she had left she found suppliers and started crafting recipes. It quickly took off and became a hotspot for young couples in the area. Your father, who had worked as a construction worker for about twenty-eight years, was finally promoted to project manager. It was mostly an administrative role, but with your father aging past his prime he took the position happily.

Isabella had taken up ballet and ended up being scouted at one of the concert halls she performed at. She was currently living in the dorms at Juilliard, living out a dream she never knew she had.

Your family wouldn't have been able to send her without the generosity of your community. Each person pitched in whatever they could afford to send her off. Isabella had always gone out of her way to help those in need in your community so it was natural that everyone loved her.

She would often babysit the children of couples busy with work, or helped tutor those who were struggling in subjects like English or History. She even considered becoming a teacher before she was scouted.

Isabella was also extremely beautiful, her curly, dark brown hair, olive skin, roman nose and friendly personality made it easy for community members to part with their money.

You had also begun growing into your beauty as you made your way through high school. The game of cards you had started at 11 years old had paid off well in your favor. Nobody dared calling you ‘little devil’ anymore, instead they clamored to be in your presence. You surrounded yourself with student council meetings, tennis, curated friendships, and clubs you couldn't care to name.

The mask you created had become a state of being, a persona that had become as familiar as breathing. Each activity was a checkbox ticked off all in the pursuit of a future you curated. You had no time for petty feelings like romance unless it benefited you.

The only people you couldn't seem to fool were Mrs. Agliate, and Leone. It was odd how perceptive the woman was and you knew that if you faltered at any moment, the vultures wouldn't wait to pick at the scrapes of your ‘perfect’ reputation.

On the other hand, Leone's suspicion was more subtle. Whenever he was home to visit, it felt like you were under a microscope, each action you took felt like it was under observation. Neither of you mentioned, or even talked about it, but the feeling lingered.

In the end, your efforts paid off as you graduated top of your class and received a full ride to Dartmouth, just like your brother. You had always admired your brother's work and going to Dartmouth had always been an important destination for your future plans.

Although you grew up not feeling things the same way most people did, you still tried to have a connection with everyone in your family. You always made a point to read Leone's newest article, see Isabella's performances, do Beatrice's hair every morning before school, and take Andrea and Alessandro to the movies whenever you were free.

It was your way of showing you cared for them and in the summer of 1941, your whole family was there to listen to your valedictorian speech at your graduation.

As you walked across the same stage your brother had been shot on all those years ago a feeling of accomplishment traversing your spine. It was a satisfying experience, watching the fruits of your labor clap as you finally received your diploma.

That summer you spent as much time with your family and working before leaving. For the first time in what felt like years, your whole family was together, and it showed with how loud it was in the evenings.

With all the money flowing in, your family decided to throw a large graduation party for you at Washington Square Park the night before you were supposed to leave. Your parents hadn't been able to do the same for your older siblings due to money problems and your brother basically running away, so this was their way of compensating.

Many neighbors—close and distant—came to show their support, mostly by dropping off a small gift and a large pan of food. As you were the guest of honor, you greeted each and every person by name. You found that memorizing faces came easy to you so you used it to your disposal.

Classmates, teachers, and even the principal of your high school came down and gorged themselves on the authentic Sicilian food your mothers bakery and a local, Italian owned restaurant provided. In typical Sicilian fashion, your family partied until late into the evening. Strangers were welcomed with open arms, and curtigghiu was exchanged on the hottest topics in the neighborhood.

You mostly spent your down chatting with your best friend, Rebecca. She was a child of the couple your mother nannied for. Becca had basically been raised by your mother and when she came to visit her freshman year of high school, the two of you hit it off.

“You'd think that four years of playing tennis would give you some stamina, but here you are,” she teased, laughing at how flushed your face had gotten. A lot of your admirers had made sure to pester you throughout the party: asking for dances and the like. Soon one of your underclassmen dragged you back to the dance floor. All Becca did was wave at you as your new partner whisked you away.

She giggled, amused at your continued indifference to romance. You on the other hand felt tempted to dig a heel into the boy's foot as he slowly inched his hand lower than what was appropriate. You almost did, until you noticed Leone watching you from the side of the dance floor.

Excusing yourself from your dance partner—who reluctantly let go of your hand—you made your way over to where he stood.

“Hai crisciutu tantu Lia,” he said fondly, pulling you into a gentle side hug, secretly providing you a damp handkerchief. You immediately took it and whipped the boy's sweat off your hands. You were glad you wouldn't have to whip them on your new baby blue shirt waist dress.

Leone had grown into his frame after college, looking exactly like your father when he was young—aside from the curly hair. He towered over most, standing at 5 '11 and while he spent most of his time sitting behind a desk, his frame was lean and athletic.

Many women at the party commented on his handsome face, but the ring in his finger drove most of his admirers away.

Your sister in-law, Emilia—who was Italian-American—sat on a chair not too far away. She was the assistant of one of the senior journalists at the New York Times and the both of them hit it off. As an Italian-American she had grown up surrounded by culture of both worlds, yet it was Leone that helped her dig deeper into her heritage.

That was almost three years ago, and now they were about to have their first child in less than a month.

“You've grown much more than I ever will,” you teased, standing on your toes to imitate his height. Before you could trip over yourself, he pushed your shoulders down so you could stand normally. He laughed at your childish action and led you away from the dance platform.

“Is it wrong of me to check up on my sister?” he joked, continuing down a less populated trail. You laughed in response, years of pretending has taught you a lot about social cues. Before you could speak, he interrupted.

“It's just…I was worried about you,” he said, pausing and choosing his next words carefully, “I know that you've been…acting like everything's normal and you seemed so tired out there.”

That stopped you in your tracks. Has your expression revealed it? No, it couldn't have. Your cheeks were aching with all the smiling you had been doing all evening. Your act was perfect, seamless in the way Hollywood actors could never replicate.

“Cecilia, please listen to me,” he said, placing his hand on your shoulder to grab your attention. You smiled again, biting your tongue to stop a deranged giggle from spilling out. Your hunch had been correct.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” you said lightly, throwing out a baffled chuckle as you shook your head, but you knew from his expression he wasn't buying it, “pretending? What do you even mean—”

“Lia, It's okay, you don't need to deny it. I'm your brother, I would never hurt you.”

By the way he said it, you knew he was being sincere. Looking him in the eye, you listened to what he had to say.

“I've known for a while now that you've been…like this, but I've done some surveys and you're not alone in this,” he began placing a hand on the crown of your head. “I'm worried that you'll burn yourself out if you continue acting like everything's fine.”

“What do you suggest I do then? Go back to being the piccolo diavolo?” you said blandly, dropping the facade. Why bother to place the veneer on with him knowing?

“I just want you to know you have someone in your corner. Dartmouth is far from Greenwich and you've never been away from home long,” he said, pulling you into a loving hug.

“I just don't want you feeling overwhelmed or lashing out like earlier.”

He wasn't wrong. Recently you've been getting more…violent urges.

You returned the hug, genuinely feeling comfort in his presence and words. He was the only one to ever notice your inward dilemma and want to help you. It made sense since he caught on so fast, afterall he was an investigative journalist.

“Has anyone else noticed,” you questioned as you both pulled back from the hug.

“No, I don't think so. I guess your personality changed so gradually that I only noticed after coming back for Christmas break during my first semester,” he said, chuckling to himself in remembrance. “It was like meeting a stranger wearing your skin. It was just…jarring.”

You smiled slightly at how he pretended to shiver as if he was getting the heebie-jeebies all over again. He laughed and the two of you walked back to where the party was held. Leone had always done his best to show his love after the shooting.

Even years later he still feared being killed due to his career. The district attorney had cracked down on violence against reporters and chances of him being killed were lower than ever, but there was still the possibility of a rogue mafioso acting out.

Before you could return to the throng of people, Leone spoke up.

“If possible, could you call me every two weeks? I've started researching your…condition and want to be able to share any findings with you in the future.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand in agreement as you slowly put up the veneer again. With your conformation, he slowly let go of your hand and walked over to where Emilia sat. You watched for a couple of moments as he placed a kiss on her head, exchanging a few words before going off to grab a couple more Bonèt cakes she had been eating all evening.

You spent the next couple of hours talking with classmates and enjoyed a few more dances with Isabella as a band—which was really just a group of neighbors who enjoyed traditional Sicilian and Italian music—played late into the night.

After your talk with Leone, you felt lighter on your feet. You no longer were alone with your secret and could openly confide with someone who wouldn't judge you. It was liberating and your smiles became a bit more genuine for the rest of the night.

•

The next morning you woke up early, staring at your bedroom ceiling and contemplating your future. Isabella was sharing a room with you and Beatrice since Leone and Emilia were staying in her old room. You could hear their soft breathing as the neighborhood roused from a night of deep sleep.

Everything was quiet and you didn't have to wear the ‘mask’ at the moment, yet a pit had still formed within your stomach. Leone was right in pointing out that you've never been far from home and while you knew you could adapt to the new environment, it would be jarring to be by yourself. The thought just made you more determined to play your cards right.

Your thoughts drifted to your childhood. Memories of playing dressup with Isabella, helping Bea ice skate for the first time, and baseball games with your brothers flew around in your head, but your reminiscing was interrupted as your mother burst through the door.

“Buongiorno picciriddi,” your mother exclaimed, but all she got was groans from your sisters. Turning on the light she yelled louder, “Isa, Lia, Bea arvìgghiati¡”

She had prepared a large breakfast for the whole family to share. It was a mix of Sicilian and American breakfast foods. The kitchen smelled heavenly and everyone clamored to get into their respective seats.

Before everyone could dig in, your father stood up to give a small speech.

"Today, we celebrate Cecilia's success as she takes the next step in her future,” He said, tearing up as he continued, “I would like to say that I am proud of you Cecilia, it has been an honor watching you grow into the woman you are today.”

You smiled, face flushed as you moved over to hug your father, “Grazzi papà, you have done so much for use. It's only natural that I make you proud,” you replied, placing a kiss to his cheek. Moments with your family were always the easiest to decipher. He chuckled, ruffling your hair and with that, you all began to eat.

You only place a couple arancini, scrambled eggs and a sausage roll on your plate as you didn't want to get sick on the six hour long train rides. The food was delicious as per usual, but you couldn't quite place the emotions you were currently feeling. It was dulled, muted like the sound of a radio underwater—you knew it was there, but couldn't quite place what was being communicated.

“You're feeling melancholy," Isabella said as she helped you wash the dishes, “I felt the same when I was moving into my dorms, even though they're not too far away. You'll feel better soon.” She places a kiss on your forehead before returning to her work. You loved how understanding she could be.

After breakfast your family piled onto a bus to get to the nearest train station. Your mother was in tears as she watched you hauled your two suitcases and duffle bag out of the bus. Wiping her tears, you kissed her cheek and gave her the tightest hug you could manage. Each one of your family members received a hug—Beatrice's hug took the longest as she couldn't bear to separate from you. With one last wave, you boarded your 6:00am train to get to Hanover.

The train ride had been quiet with most of your time spent reading or watching the sun peak over the trees and hills of the rural areas in Rhode Island. It was very different from what you were used to: the concrete jungle was all that you knew. However, the natural beauty of nature was something you could appreciate.

After about four hours traveling, you got to Boston and boarded another train to get to Hanover in New Hampshire—which would take about two more hours. Taking two trains was cheaper than taking a straight shot to your destination, however it was a bit annoying traversing the Boston train station. The cost of both train rides came out to be around eight dollars, which was just in the budget you allotted yourself from your savings

The sun was up by the time you made it to Hanover, New Hampshire at 12:38pm. You exited the train station and made your way to the shuttle stop that would take you to Dartmouth's campus at 1pm.

As you walked to the stop you took the time to look at the beautiful scenery. It was a small, quintessential, New England styled college town housing many families and students alike. Some facets reminded you of Greenwich, like the many brick buildings, but unlike New York, Hanover had a variety of greenery and was much quieter than what you were used to. The streets were clean, allowing couples and families to walk and enjoy the warm afternoon.

You watched the people walking by—specifically, a young, Sicilian man around your age walking the opposite direction a few feet in front of you caught your eye. He looked like any other college student you've happened to pass once you arrived, but something about his presence reeled you in.

Maybe it was his delicate features or the way his olive skin glowed under the sun, but the urge to find out more about him was almost uncontrollable. You had to stop yourself from staring. But, you couldn't just go up and speak to him without probable cause.

Looking down at your suitcase, your eyes caught on the loose handle that had been bothering you. From the handful of glances you got, he seemed to have a more withdrawn disposition but you knew that placing yourself in a compromised position would draw him in.

Once you were a couple paces away, you subtly ripped the leather of the handle allowing it to fall to the ground. Clothing and undergarments spilled onto the sidewalk for all to see. You yelped in faux embarrassment, frantically diving down to pick up your belongings. A curtain of your dark hair covered your face, adding the finishing detail to the pretty little picture you were painting.

Your gamble had worked as you heard footsteps stop and a strong pair of hands appeared in the corner of your eye, picking up one of your cardigans. You looked up and were met with beautiful dark brown eyes.

They reminded you of a doe, wide and surprised as if he hadn't expected to make eye contact. His dark hair was wind kissed and looked extremely soft up close. You wondered what it would feel like to card your fingers through it.

He flashed you a tentative, almost shy smile as you grabbed a skirt just in front of him. You breathed in, so subtly that you only got a faint hint of his cologne. Your heart rate kicked up and your fingers started to tremble ever so slightly.

He smelt clean, not in the way of cleaning products or air fresheners, but of something so distinctively him. Something so personalized that it couldn't be replicated. There was a hint of spice to it. A sharp addictive quality that you've never felt before. It was odd how easily this man that you've never met before had caused the once composed, flawless persona you portrayed to quack so easily.

You scrambled to throw all your clothing into the case. You weren't used to being so frazzled but before you could plan out your next five steps, you felt a warm hand ensnare yours. They were soft—smooth unlike your fathers—with the privilege of not having to do physical labor.

“Here, let me do it, you seem flustered,” he said gently, and maybe you imagined it, but you swore his thumb caressed your hand. You stood up, watching intently as he finished getting all the clothes into the case and clasped the latches. He soon joined you in standing but instead of handing you your suitcase, he tilted his head inquisitively.

“Where are you headed,” he asked, smiling once again—probably at how flushed your face was.

“The Dartmouth shuttle stop,” you said with a slight wobble in your tone while you settled back into your seamless persona.

“Are you an incoming freshman?” he asked as the two of you began walking. It seemed that he knew the way there as he led the way for the two of you. A warm breeze trickled by as the two of you fell in step with each other. The trees provided a nice cover from the sun as well.

“I am, I start the first week of September. I just got here from New York actually,” you said sweetly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “my name's Cecilia, thank you for your help by the way.

“It wouldn't be right to just leave you like that,” he said chuckling as he continued, “I also go to Dartmouth. Usually a lot of freshmen start showing up in town around this time.”

That was perfect. A commonanality anchoring the two of you would mean a chance to see him again, but you would need an actual name if you were to look him up in the phone book.

“Well maybe I'll get to see you on campus. By the way, what year are you in?”

The rest of the walk to the stop continued as such, you gently probing him for information and while giving hints in return. You found that he was also from New York—most likely raised in Hell's Kitchen if your observations were correct—and was currently studying to become a mathematics professor.

He didn't seem to have much passion for the subject and when you tried to probe him for more he avoided answering. It was like a shadow had fallen over his delicate features so you distracted him by questioning if there was a tennis team you could join, even though you already knew the answer.

He was like a puzzle you couldn't find the prices to: a picture you so desperately wanted to see.

You had been so focused on probing him that you didn't realize you had arrived at your stop. You were tempted to tell him it was the wrong station, but you didn't know the area well enough to lie confidently. It was a shame you couldn't spend more time with him.

He carefully placed your suitcase on the bench in the little stop shelter, making sure the latches wouldn't burst open again. How sweet of him.

“Well, if that's it I'll be heading off,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. But he lingered, making sure to check whether you had made it on time to your stop. He was effortless in his temptation, yet all you could do was thank him once again as you watched him leave: his back growing smaller as he walked out the same way he had appeared.

•

For the last two weeks of August, you spent your time becoming acquainted with the campus and town of Hanover. However you always find your mind drawn back to him. It was easy to deny how your eyes betrayed you, carefully searching the faces of booth attendants at freshman orientation. Each empty smile a recruiter threw your way didn't compare to the small one he had given you.

You chalked it up to wayward curiosity, lingering even as Becca chatted your ear off while you walked to your dorm. Her excitement was almost infectious as she gushed about the social service club you both signed up for. You humored her, but not for the same reasons. You were excited to climb the social ladder, turning your new campus into your playing field.

Becca just so happened to be a piece in that. She was practically a sister to you, but also helped you blend in naturally. You weren't in the habit of keeping people close, but she was an exception.

It was also quite easy convincing her to apply to Dartmouth even though she wanted to go to school on the west coast.

Becca was always a bit stubborn, but you knew that going off by herself wouldn't be any good for her. She was overzealous in her need to get away from her protective parents, but going so far would only isolate her.

At least at Dartmouth, she could spread her wings away from her parents' grasp, all the while staying close to loved ones in New York.

After orientation the next couple of weeks blended together. Classes, club meetings, student senate voting, and new friendships all overlapped.

You of course went through the motions naturally, slipping into your ‘all America girl’ persona as you got to know your professors and upperclassmen. It was irritating how they acted as if you were a child, treating your suggestions for charity fundraisers as inconsequential before implementing them during the next meeting.

You had really wanted to dig your perfectly manicured thumbs into the Social Service President’s eyes at that moment—Helen was a real piece of work.

The only sources of entertainment you were able to enjoy was tennis and conversation with Becca. It was like she had a sixth sense for when you were annoyed, even though you never showed it. She always did her best to cheer you up, often playing your favorite record while she braided your hair.

Tennis was also an important part of your life. It was the only reliable way you let out some steam without seeming odd.

The burn of your muscles as you lunged and the crack of your racket hitting the ball was beautiful in its ruthlessness. You were brutal with your serves, demolishing each and every opponent you played against. Every receive was flawless. Each twist of your racket is precise. Even though you weren't captain, your skill was admired by all on your team.

It was the one time you allowed your inner self to peek through as you stood on your half of the court.

It was liberating, you didn't care about the praise your skill brought you, only the raw, physical high it afforded you, though recently, you've felt that even this didn't assuage your bland reality.

That was until you saw him again.

You had gone to the library after one of your calls with your Leone. He had suggested finding a book that detailed your condition—something called psychopathy according to him—but when you saw his silhouette in the corner of your eye, the thought immediately left your mind.

He was sitting at one of the study tables with a flurry of papers strewn about in front of him. He was focused, pen scribbling notes down into a notebook as he tapped his finger against the table softly. Your pulse stalled for a moment, reeling at his sudden appearance.

You were glad that the library traffic had died down as you quickly found a spot among the shelves. Gliding your fingers against book spines, you pretended to look for a book when in reality, you were drinking in his profile.

A dark brown wool overcoat rested on the back of the chair he sat on. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up, exposing his olive skin and the angular muscles of his arms. His eyes were covered by his hair, but his plump lips curled around words you couldn't hear.

Only then did you notice a young woman you recognized from your Key club sitting….directly next to him.

Why was she sitting so close?

Are they dating?

Have they slept together—?

You continued down the bookshelf to find the one you had been recommended: you hadn't intended to take long.

It was just a coincidence that you saw him at the library. It also just so happened that you watched the girl—her name was Wendy—pick up her books and leave at 6:13pm. It was by chance that the both of you stayed until 8:34pm before you watched him collect his papers and leave.

It was just a coincidence that you just so happened to pick up the pen that he had placed between his teeth. You hadn't intended on keeping it but what was the harm. You could always return it to him the next time you saw him.

•

It seemed that fate, or whatever god you didn't believe in, had been on your side recently.

It was like a switch had been flicked and whenever you were around common areas on campus, he was around.

That's how you accumulated…fragments of him.

It had started with the expensive pen: which you didn't dare use, instead displaying it with your other pens on your little desk in your dorm room. You didn't want the ink to run dry.

Next came the scarf he had forgotten in the mess hall. You and a group of friends had decided to have dinner that night when you spotted him. He was among a group of upperclassmen yet he sat on the outskirt of the chaos.

At first glance, he seemed introverted, but you knew him better. Even when he didn't speak, he still had a grip on the direction of the conversation: always being a step ahead.

You considered going up to talk to him, but you were concerned how you would react. It was too early and you wouldn't be able to seem normal.

If you were going to speak a word to him, it would be on your own terms. You would have control of every variable to make sure the second meeting would go perfectly.

“Cecilia, where you listening?” Becca whispered, lightly nudging your knee underneath the table. She always pulled you out when you got too deep in your thoughts.

“Ah, yes I guess I'm just tired,” you lied, rubbing the back of your neck as you chuckled. In reality you were calculating the best way to break into his apartment start an interaction. “Calculus has been really draining.” It hadn't. It had been awfully easy.

“Me too! Wendy was telling me about a tutor she'd been seeing recently, right Wendy?” Becca said, leaning forward to see where she sat on your right. You had slowly started drawing her into your web to find out her relationship with the man you had been watching.

Wendy perked up at her name being called. She was a small thing with shoulder length blond hair and muddy green eyes. While her appearance made you think otherwise, she was actually quite talkative.

“Oh yeah! I get tutored in math by this one upperclassman on Saturday afternoons,” she replied, chewing as she spoke, “He's actually sitting over there,” she said waving at the exact man you had seen her with a couple days ago. He must've seen her because he shot a small wave back before turning into his own table conversation.

“Oh…what's his name?” you asked smoothly, your smile growing colder as you sat relaxed in your chair. However If one were to look any closer, they would notice how tense your shoulders were and they way your right hand gripped your spoon too tightly.

“Michael Corleone, I think. He's a bit withdrawn, but really nice once you get to know him,” she replies absentmindedly, as if the syllables she just muttered hadn't changed the trajectory of your life. “If you need tutoring from him, I can give you his phone number. He's so stinking rich that he never asks for payment afterwards.”

You watched her intently as she tore out a piece of paper from her journal and scribbled down a number. You had already memorized it by the time you folded it into your purse. It was the perfect way to naturally speak to him.

Becca had really helped you out with this one. You'd have to get her that lipstick she'd been fawning over last weekend.

You spent the rest of the evening humoring the girls, but when you noticed him—Michael leaving with a couple friends, all you wanted to do was follow. That's when you noticed a bundle of fabric fall out of his bag.

You excused yourself to your dormroom, walking calmly towards the exit where you found a black, well worn scarf. Swiftly, you picked it up and left the dining hall to your dorm room where you stuffed the glove with the rest of your artifacts.

After that, many miscellaneous fragments found themselves in your possession. A discarded button, a hair comb—with a dark strand still attached, and even a sweat soaked wife beater he had shoved in his wchool bag. Your little shrine soon started to overflow and yet you had still refused to speak to him.

You had the chance when he came in to help revise the Social Service Club's budget, but the minute you heard his soft voice, your composure cracked—heart palpitating in your chest as you attempted to step closer to him.

A searing heat crept up your spine to the hollow of your throat where it threatened to spill an uncontrolled fit of deranged giggles. They would have certainly been unleashed if it weren't for Becca handing you a plate of food.

You slide on the mask again focusing on the sound of her voice. Showing embarrassment, you took the plate but in the moment it was the familiar heat flooding between your thighs that mortified you the most.

Each item was like a placeholder, a temporary high that allowed you to keep a piece of him close.

But whenever he was in your presence, the moment his name was even mentioned, you faltered. It was humiliating how one man could break down your barriers without even trying, yet something about being disarmed, about giving up the reins of control was so addictive that you hardly cared.

(You reveled in the sensations, taking pleasure in the threads of his being. You had never experienced such a strong fixation on someone like this….)

•

Saturday mornings always started with your regular phone call with Leone. His research had stalled at the moment, but the both of you had an enjoyable conversation: updating each other on life. Your niece had been growing quickly, and was no longer the same size as the pictures they sent you when she was first born.

You were standing by a telephone hung on the wall, just outside the dining hall. It was the closest and most private phone to your dorm room so you made it a habit to call before breakfast.

The temperature had started to drop as winter finally settled in—even though it was still October, snow had started to fall.

Small clouds of vapor escaped your mouth while you spoke, wishing Leone and Emilia a nice day before hanging up.

The silence was all encompassing and for a brief moment, you felt vacant. The violent urges and responsibilities of your day to day life were blessedly distant.

‘Just a few moments,’ you thought to yourself, ‘just a few moments to myself is all I nee—’

Only for someone to clear their throat behind you. You shifted, expecting Carson to have come back for your number. He had been bothering you a lot as of late, cat-calling you during tennis matches and attempting to join the clubs you were in to get closer to you.

“You're Cecilia, right?” said a voice not too far behind you, it was more subdued compared to Carson’s, “my professor recommended me to you for some advice.”

Your body reacted before your mind could catch its bearings. You knew that voice. It was the one you imagined right before bed, holding the scarf up to your nose while indulging in your fantasies.

You turned around, smiling evenly before you spoke, "That would be me, can I help you?”

Your eyes immediately honed in on Michael Corleone. His face was lightly flushed by the wind: a light shade of red that looked perfect on him. Small snowflakes dotted his dark hair that was blown through and messy from the wind.

He stood a couple feet away as if he were trying to respect your privacy. His hands were in his pocket, the other holding a folder of papers. His posture was awkward, borderline shy as he began to speak.

“I have a service project I'm working on and my professor suggested going to you for some advice,” he replied, handing you the folder.

Outwardly, your hands were as steady, taking the folder and flipping through the pages of neatly scrawled notes. On the inside, your once calculated plan of approach had fragmented into an obsessive mess of longing and deep desire. You wondered if he remembered you from all those months ago.

It only got worse as he took another step forward, close enough for your body to become subconsciously aware of how near he was.

His cologne invaded your nostrils, breaking your already threadbare sense of resolve further.

“It's a good rough draft—the partnership with the local high school is nice—but it needs a bit of work,” you fibbed. A necessary lie. In reality, the draft was already pretty strong with only a few banal mistakes, but you might as well take advantage of this opportunity.

“It's still early, how ‘bout we discuss details over breakfast?”

He agreed, leading the two of you to a more secluded table before starting to work. By throwing yourself into work, you mitigated the effect he had on you.

You loved being the center of Michael's attention. His dark eyes speared yours whenever you looked up, gazing at you so intently that you couldn't help but quiver. You wanted to freeze this moment in time: to relive it again and again till the end of time. Watching the way his soft features scrunched as he thought was more invigorating than any tennis match.

He absentmindedly chewed on the cap of his pen, a light sheen of saliva coating the surface.

You would have to…borrow that later.

Michael was setting up a little student-led program, creating a tutoring system through the local high school to help struggling students bring their grades up. It was one of the prerequisites needed for him to graduate and become a professor. It allowed high schoolers to gain volunteer hours as tutors and help him gain teaching skills in the process. It was well planned overall and you made sure to offer any help—if needed—in the future.

You never really cared about charities, volunteering, or fundraisers. All the praise you got from working in the Social Service club rolled off your skin like sweat after a tennis match, never fully penetrating your carefully curated persona. Today however, you were glad you didn't quit that club.

“—those are just some suggestions of what I would do, it's a really good proposal,” you said, voice sounding steadier than you felt.

Breakfast had long since ended. Most of the students roaming about were leaving to study or run some errands. You weren't going to push your luck today, so you passed back the papers you had been examining.

“Thank you again for the help,” he said in return, gathering up his papers before returning them to his folder. “By the way, did you ever join the tennis team?” he asked, giving you a knowing look as he leaned back in his chair.

He remembers me. Of course he remembers. We were meant for each other.

You giggled, covering your mouth: gentle and demure, all the while biting back the more unhinged laugh threatening your vocal cords. “I'm surprised you remembered that,”

“It was definitely a striking first impression,” he teased, “I'm surprised I haven't seen you around campus.”

I've been avoiding you. You disturb yet fascinated me in ways I cannot explain.

“I've been so busy with different clubs that I barely leave campus—or my dorm room—at times,” you said, why would you leave when everything you needed was sitting right in front of you?

“You haven't explored Hanover yet?”

“I mean, I did a little before orientation, but haven't had the time since.”

“I know a nice restaurant in town that I think you'd like, would you like to go with me? Not today I mean, but in the future.”

Your ears began to ring, mind spiraling into obsessive compulsion. Say yes. It's obvious he feels the same. God, he had no clue who he was letting into his life.

He looked almost hopeful as he looked at you, tapping his pointer finger on the table. A small yet adorable smile sat on his lips as he awaited your answer.

You almost wanted to say no. You couldn't risk exposing how utterly obsessed you were with him. It would end you if anyone—let alone him—found out, but as you were about to decline, a sudden compulsion to possess, to take up space in him like he did for you, took over. You wanted him to love you. To go each and every day living and breathing for you.

There was no avoiding it now, you were too deep in it to refuse the pull. He's the one who asked you, so no harm: right?

“Sure, what day is best for you?”

•

Everything had fallen into place after that fateful day.

It was like taking a breath after being held underwater against your will. It was freeing, not having to deny the feelings you held for Michael anymore.

The initial meeting at Clines Restaurant was like a dream come true. The atmosphere was comforting, almost reminding you of New York, and soon the meeting developed into a weekly affair.

He never let you pay, always covering the tab before walking the both of you back to the shuttle bus. He always went out of his way to make sure you got to your dorm room safely even though he lived off campus.

Michael was never loud, or particularly outgoing, yet the conversations the two of you had were always interesting: topics varying from New York, Isabella's recent rise in fame, or even anecdotes about his family, when he was in a good mood.

You found out he had a sister—Connie—the same age as you and how his mother was a fan of music just like your own mother. Even stories about his brothers and father interested you to no end.

He made everything so easy when you were with him, even when you were fighting your inner desire to smash your lips against his and ruin him for another woman who tried.

Interactions never stopped at Clines, instead leaking into campus whenever either of you spotted each other, making sure to greet the other as you went about your day.

However it seemed that some people had begun to notice.

“You seem awfully…chumy with that Corleone guy earlier,” said a voice behind you in the locker room. The tennis teams had held its monthly match between the men's and women's teams. It was meant to foster camaraderie between the two, but in reality it was just a way for the men to flirt with the women and vice versa. Nobody either side ever took the matches very seriously, at least till you stepped on the court.

In past matches you often let the men win, not wanting to bring extra attention to yourself. However, Michael had decided to come to view the match after you mentioned it to him last week. There was no half-assing anything when he was around. It was all or nothing.

You ended the day winning all four of your matches against the opposing team, causing a stir among the stands.

Normally you were a beast on the court, but today it had been as if you were possessed, systematically dismantling your opponent's resolve before ending the round with a devastating serve. The cheers were oppressive, clouding your mind, but you persisted.

Michael had somehow made his way down from the packed stands, giving you a little Keggy the Keg—Dartmouth's mascot—plushie in a tennis skirt. It was definitely from the campus giftshop, ugly and cheaply made, yet you adored it as it smelt faintly of Michael's cologne.

“Nice gift Mike, you give this to all the girls you know?” you teased, giggling as you toyed with the plushie in your hand. You did your best to keep your sweat off of it to preserve his scent.

He laughed, attempting to take the plushie back, but you moved away before he could grab it. His cool hand brushed against your forearm, causing goosebumps to prickle across the expanse of your skin: you shivered silently.

“You seem to like it well enough. You obviously don't want to give it back,” he joked, shoving his hands back into his trouser pockets. He held that mischievous look about him as a smirk spread across his lips. It was almost like he knew what you were feeling.

“You already gave it to me! You can't take it back now,” you goaded, placing the plushie in your duffle bag. “Besides, I deserve it after winning all my matches.”

“Mhm, definitely,” he hummed lowly, taking a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear. You hoped that the heat in your cheeks would be mistaken for exertion instead of attraction. “I think you also deserve a nice dinner. Want to stop by Clines later?”

“That sounds nice, tennis always works up my appetite.”

The both of you decided to meet after you freshened up, leaving you to collect your things. You felt over the moon: four matches won and a gift from Michael got rid of any train of thought you had before.

But It seemed some of the girls on your team were intimated after your performance.

“He was just congratulating me on my consecutive wins,” you say, whipping the sweat off of your brow with a towel before throwing it in the laundry bin. “Besides, he's like that with all of his friends.”

“Yeah, maybe his bed-friends,” she said, scoffing behind her hand. A couple girls snickered while a few heads turned to your direction, curious to see your reaction to the obvious bait she was dishing.

Your eye twitched subtly as you looked at yourself in your locker mirror.

This skanky bitch doesn't know who she was messing with.

You wondered how she would react if everyone on campus found out she was getting down with Mr. Brady—the girls tennis coach, married with a daughter in the grade below her.

You reveled in the prospects of her public humiliation, a wave of euphoria trickled down your spine, but you didn't have time for that right now.

There were many ways to end this tramps goading. You could smile like you always did, laugh it off and move on, but that would mean giving her control: you would rather die than allow her a sliver of power over you.

Or, you could cut off her tongue with a butchering knife attempt to instigate a fight with some sympathy tears, but nobody in this locker room of vipers would willingly take your side. Tears tended to work better on men anyways.

They all wanted to see you—the definition of perfection—fall, shamelessly hoping you would falter in the moment.

You'd have to nip this in the bud.

You inhaled through your nose, using your iron clad resolve to end her life this whole altercation.

“Well, I guess everyone sees the world through their own…habits,” you said sweetly, but the sharpening smile on your lips said otherwise, “I mean, why else would you assume something like that if you haven't been indulging?”

The locker room went silent, the only thing you could hear was the buzzing thoughts of different ways to kill this hussy. The tension had sky rocketed, smothering any form of conversation. Dozens of eyes watched you and the girls every move, eating up the tension like a pack of wolves.

It was as if you could hear their thoughts:

‘Who would cave first?’ But you already knew the answer.

You had already won.

She floundered, face growing red with mortification as she tried to recover from your unexpected retort.

“At least I'm not the one acting like I'm above the rest of the student body, Little Miss Perfect—what a suck up,” she scoffed, but a nickname like that meant nothing to you. You didn't give a shit what others thought of you.

Her fate had been sealed the moment she decided to cross an apathetic bitch like you.

You turned to her, taking a singular step forward as you started down into her eyes.

“Confidence often looks like arrogance to those who lack it. Maybe do some introspection before our next match. You could definitely benefit from it,” you replied, leaning by her ear, whispering so only she could hear “By the way, tell Mr. Brady I said hi. I'm sure the two of you will be very…busy tonight.”

You almost laughed at the pathetic expression that bloomed on her face. All the blood in her face had drained, leaving an ashen husk to stand in front of you. Her eyes were wide with fear and unsteady tears filled her water line. It looked like she was about to cry.

You took a moment to admire your work, another victory to tack on to your belt before you left the locker room behind, leaving murmured gossip in your wake.

You had dinner with Michael and couldn't afford to be late.

•

“So, how have you been? You haven't been answering my calls as of late,” Leone questioned, after you finally managed to call him.

“Sorry, I've been…busy,” you said, void of any emotion. This call was a waste of time.

“We both know that's not true,” he said, voice firm but never accusing. He could probably tell how out of it you were by the sound of your voice. “I know winter break started over there. Mamà and Papà are wondering when you're coming home. You missed Christmas yaknow.”

“I don't want them seeing me like this,” you said, looking at your reflection in your dorm room mirror. You looked tired, drained in a way you had never been before.

“You gotta tell me what's wrong if you want any help Lia,” he said, pleading with you to open up. “Is it the thing with Pearl Harbor? You don't need to worry about that. I highly doubt they'll attack the mainland.”

You almost broke when he mentioned it, reminded of what you could potentially lose. Your eyes burned as you brought the scarf up to your nose, but the scent of his cologne had long since faded.

A couple days after your tennis match, on December 7th, the Japanese had launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. Michael had been away at his parents home, celebrating his fathers birthday.

Normally you wouldn't give a shit about something like war, but it was when Michael informed you he was enlisting, over the phone, everything changed.

Your breath stalled. It was as if your world had crumbled around you.

The mask slipped, allowing a more genuine side of yourself to come forward.

You had done everything in your power to convince him not to enlist, pleading with him to see logic and realize he would likely die, but he didn't listen: fueled by patriotism and the desire to protect his country, he left, leaving you a letter that detailed his unit and hopes to stay connected.

That had been days ago and ever since, you hadn't left your room unless you were going to the bathroom or to eat when Becca left to go back to New York.

She was extremely worried at your sudden decline and even missed her first train to stay with you, but she couldn't get out of her family plans. She urged you to go home and see your family but you didn't want to be seen in such a vulnerable state.

You had made sure to see her train off before collapsing in bed. She had left on the 20th and it was currently the 26th. This definitely wasn't your proudest moment.

It was like all the life had been sucked out of you when Michael left, leaving only a shell of what once was. You couldn't bring yourself to do anything: only spending your time drafting letters that would never be sent. He obviously didn't care for you if he could leave so easily.

You were glad that school had closed not too long after Michael had dropped out.

“Whatevers going on, just know it's going to pass,” Leone said, trying his hardest to be optimistic and give you some encouragement, “find a way to overcome it.”

You sat there for a moment allowing his words to sink in. It gave you an idea: if you couldn't be around Michael, get close to his family.

He had mentioned that his father was holding another birthday to celebrate with friends on the 30th this month, even hinting at inviting you to come and meet his family before he enlisted.

It might be a bit late, but if you could get in somehow, you could befriend his sister or mother and have a direct line to him.

The only problem was finding the exact address, all you knew was that they lived in New York but you would make it work, you refused to give up.

“Tell mamà I'm headed home on the earliest train,” you said, sitting up from your bed.

“Wait, are you gonna tell me what's wrong—” you cut him off by hanging up. You got up and neatly folded the scarf, socks and pen into your suitcase. Then, you grabbed the Christmas presents you wrapped for everyone and stuffed them into your tennis duffle bag. You already had a suitcase stuffed with your clothing from earlier in the month, so you quickly left for the nearest train station.

The long train ride home allowed you to clear your head. There was no way you'd give up on Michael, if you had to enlist you would, but only if your plan with his family didn't work. You wouldn't mind putting your life on hold.

You had finally started coming back to your senses about an hour into your trip. It was late and most of the train car was empty, allowing for you to let down your guard. The quiet atmosphere allowed you to empty your thoughts, welcoming the blessed silence once more. You used this time to look up the names and addresses of each Corleone in the newest release of the New York phone book.

One Vito Corleone was registered to a home in Staten Island in the Todt Hill area. A few other Corleone's were registered to live there but that was the least of your concern. If you showed up the day of the party with some authentic Sicilian pastries, you were sure that you could find a way inside. Maybe you could pretend to be a delivery girl. You just need to find out the time of the party and you would be set.

By the time your train stopped in Greenwich Village, your mind had been made up. Before that, you would need to go home first.

It was practically 2am yet the moment you set foot in your home, your mother dragged you into a tight hug.

“Cecilia! Hai n'idèa di quantu sugnu statu prioccupatu?” she scolded, breaking the hug and pulling your ear as she spoke, “You miss Christmas and don't call in almost two weeks—tu scemu! I have to ask Leone to call for me!”

“Mi dispiaci mamma, ouch! Sorry, I—s-someone I knew enlisted and…I guess I was mourning even though he's alive,” you said, voice faltering as you followed the hand that pitched your ear. Your mother immediately let go and held your face, her warm hand rubbing the apple of your cheek.

“This person must've been quite special, no?” She questioned talking your hands into her own. You nodded, face flushing as fake tears threatened to spill.

“La mia figghia, why didn't you come home?,” she questioned, gently placing a kiss on your cheek. “is he a boyfriend of yours—”

“Mamà—” you interrupted, not wanting to get into your situation with Michael. You understand how Isabella felt when she brought her first boyfriend home.

“Let me tease you, you're always so composed,” she said, laughing as she led you to the stairs. “Anyways, go to bed, we can talk in the morning. Bona notti Lia.”

“Bona notti, Mamà,” you said, climbing the stairs to enter your childhood bedroom.

•

With the morning came your family's questioning. Your mother, ever the gossiper, exposed that you had been ‘bedridden’ in grief after your lover had enlisted in the marines. Beatrice ate the story up, asking what your lover looked like and if college was like the movies she saw with her friends. You tried to deny her retelling—even though it was basically true—but it seemed like everyone had already accepted it as fact.

You ended up receiving all of your presents that day, in return passing the ones you bought in Hanover. You bought your father a watch and your mother got a new rosary. Andre and Alessandro got a new train set to share, Bea got a necklace, Isa got a pair of pointe shoes, and Leone and Emilia got a reservation to a spa. It had been a bit pricey, but the monthly stipend that came with your scholarship helped.

Spending time with everyone in your family—and getting to know your little niece—had been a much needed change from the often shallow, vindictive life of college. It was like taking in a breath of fresh air, even though the air in New York wasn't the best.

With you back in the neighborhood, you saw many of your neighbors and children you used to play with. It was also odd seeing the once youthful faces of distant relatives and family friends grow more wrinkled and become gray with age. You imagined yourself at that age alongside Michael, watching your grandchildren play: it was something you had never considered before.

Before Michael, you had always assumed you would be a spinster for the rest of your life. Allowing another person—let alone a man—have access to your body in its most vulnerable state, unnerves you to no end. Sexual desire was also an alien feeling, never once had you felt a pull to a man or woman. The only exception to this rule was if you somehow found yourself marrying someone who could help provide for you.

With Michael, that could all change. You could see a future with you and him as equals, finally allowing someone to see your true self; but that would only happen if your plan worked.

That afternoon—during prime business hours—you called a number registered under the name Tom Hagen. You assumed he was a house keeper that lived on the compound so he was your best bet, even if you didn't like leaving things up to chance.

“Hello, this is Tom Hagen speaking,” said a voice through the speaker of the phone. You had called from a phone booth a neighborhood away just to make sure you couldn't be traced.

“Hello, this is Marìa, we were wondering the best time to drop off the desserts?”

“Desserts? Oh you must be from Nonna’s Sicilian Treats,” the man stated, shuffling a few papers before he spoke again. He sounded inexperienced, a faint waver in the confident tone he tried to portray. “Where did you get this number? The order should be listed under Carmela Corleone.”

“Well, this was the secondary number listed,” you said calmly, pulling lies straight from your ass, “The first was unreachable at the moment so we tried this one. Could you reconfirm your order?”

The man seemed to loosen up, sighing softly as he spoke again, “Um…We ordered seven dozen citrus cannoli. Come on Tuesday at six thirty pm. The party starts at 7pm but wear your work uniform or carry some branded boxes when you arrive. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No worries, we'll come on Tuesday. Have a nice day Mr. Hagen,” you said cheerfully, hanging up the phone and walking home.

The morning of the 30th, you asked your mother for permission to visit Michael's family. It was all just a formality, you would have left even if she said no, but she agreed.

She was surprised at first, not expecting you to be so invested in a boy after years of disinterest. She soon relented when she found out you wanted his fathers favor. You played into the heartbroken ‘girlfriend’ role who was hoping to win the favor of her prospective inlaws.

The previous night you had called Nonna’s Sicilian Treats—a family run bakery not too far from Staten Island—and informed the owner that the Corleone order would be delivered by a hired hand, not the bakery. The owner—an older Sicilian woman—questioned it at first but after a bit of persuasion she agreed to have the order ready for pickup at 6pm.

You had managed to pick up and transfer the desserts across the city, changing into a plain uniform from your mothers bakery at the subway station. They were a bit cumbersome, but manageable to carry once you tied both boxes together.

The worst part was the 52 minute ride to Staten Island. You had to switch train cars twice after an accident on the train. You had made it a few minutes later than you hoped, but the cannolis were safe and the last leg of your journey was pretty short.

The cab you had called dropped you off a little ways away from the home. It seemed like Michael's family had more than just money.

The men the gate proved as such, both sporting a neutral scowl meant to intimidate anyone who wasn't invited.

Expensive cars and cabs were parked in front of the gate. There were fewer than you expected, leading you to believe that it was a more intimate event for close friends of the family.

A man was taking note of each license, writing them down in a note book before he noticed you. He looked like a reporter, his questioning eyes reminding you faintly of Leone. Luckily, he didn't come up to speak with you, it must be protocol.

Even with you so far away, you could still hear the faint chatter of party guests as they entered a separate building. Muffled Sicilian folk songs were being played on a record player as well, growing louder as you approached the bodyguards infrastructure of the gate.

“State your business,” the taller man demanded, crossing his arms. He seemed to have let his previous guard down now that he was talking to someone he perceived as ‘harmless.’

“I was told by Mr. Hagen to drop some pastries off at 6:30,” you said meekly, allowing for the man to lessen his guard even more. “It was an order placed by Carmela Corleone.”

The man looked down at his watch and glanced at his partner before he nodded, “Head through the gate and take a right. The guest house kitchen should be open by now.”

“Thank you,” you said, smiling as they allowed you through. A couple camera shutters went off from behind you, but you didn't turn around. Hopefully they didn't get your face in any of them.

The bodyguards instructions were simple enough and soon you found yourself in the entrance of the kitchen. The shrill voices of women and aromatic spices hit your nostrils as you stepped inside, only for you to run into a broad chest.

Your first concern were the boxes, adjusting your hold to make sure they wouldn't fall. A large, firm hand grabbed your shoulder, stabilizing you.

“Woah—sorry about that doll, you good?” the tall man asked, each word saturated with a mixed Brooklyn-Italian accent. His tone was loud and almost aggressive in his shock: immediately alerting you that he had a brash character.

You nodded as you did a quick once over, noticing that he was much thicker than you originally expected—filling out the shoulders of his dress shirt and vest snuggly. A curly mop of brown hair covered the expanse of his head while a certain swagger permeated the air about him that reminded you of the street thugs that sometimes roamed Greenwich.

It was then you looked him in the eye, smiling as you adjusted your hold on the boxes and subtly shifting to remove his hand from your shoulder. He seemed to be too entranced by you to even notice, eyes flicking downward all too quickly before meeting your own.

A charming smile lifted his lips as you allowed him to unlace and took one of the boxes. “Here let me help ya with one of those,” he said casually, “Must've been annoying carrying these in yourself.”

“Thank you sir,” you said politely, following him deeper into the guest house. “It wasn't any trouble.”

“Just call me Sonny, I'm not that old yet,” he said, chuckling as you both entered the kitchen where a group of women worked. This must be one of Michael's older brothers. While he seemed to be the exact opposite of Michael, you could sense a faint resemblance in the way they both smiled.

“Ma, we got desserts,” Sonny yelled, causing all the women to look over to where the two of you stood.

“Desserts? Oh finally, I've been wondering when they would come” an older woman, who you presumed to be Michael’s mother, said. She whipped her brow with her apron and took the box that Sonny held, opening it to smell the pastries. “They are citrus flavored, no?”

“Yes, there are about seven dozen splits in each box,” you said, looking around and noticed a photo framed on the kitchen window sill. “Is that Michael?” you whispered softly, pretending to not recognize him in the photo: loud enough for Sonny and Mrs. Corleone to take note.

Sonny's face soured at the mention of his brother's name, but held his tongue of whatever he was going to say. It seemed that everyone—besides Mrs. Corleone—dimmed down at the mention of him, but the atmosphere soon picked up as his mother brightened.

“Oh, you know Michael?” she questioned as you set the box down on the counter. “He glosses over everything on the phone. I only get anything when he's in front of me, but he's rarely home. I never know if he's made any friends at college. What's your name dear?”

“Cecilia Nicolosi, signora,” you replied, analyzing her face for her reaction. A smile soon bloomed on her face.

“I've heard of you! Michael mentioned you once before earlier this month,” she explained, laughing at the coincidence.

It seems like all your hard work has paid off. “I didn't expect Michael to mention me,” you replied, laughing as a woman around your age peeked out from behind Mrs. Corleone.

“We were surprised too! Michael has always been a bit of a wet blanket when it comes to this kind of stuff,” she said, chuckling while wiping her hands in a towel. She looked similar to Michael, having the same black hair and delicate features as him. She was about to speak again but was cut off by Sonny.

“Who wouldn't want to keep such a pretty young thing like her hidden,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “I know I would've if I was in the college boys shoes.”

“Sonny, bastanti,” Mrs. Corleone scolded, slapping his back to chase him out of the kitchen. “Shouldn't you be out there warming up the guests with your father? Get out of the kitchen!”

“Alright! Alright,” he said, embarrassed by his mother coddling. The girl from earlier came forward, looking you over with curiosity.

“I'm Connie by the way, Michael’s younger sister,” she said, lifting a hand to shake. Just by her disposition you could tell that she was a nervous and sheltered young woman. You doubted she had many close friendships due to her life in the shadows of the men around her. Luckily for her, you would change that for the betterment of the both of you.

With your target in sight, you threw on your sweetest smile and took her hand in greeting. She immediately brightened at your friendliness, dragging you into conversation as she started working on dicing a few tomatoes. You strategically inserted yourself into the kitchen, finding your own cutting board and helping with the smaller tasks like peeling potatoes and dicing onions.

Connie and Carmela—she insisted on that instead—took turns questioning you about school and how you met Michael. Connie seemed entranced by the stories you told of your college life. You could tell that she romanticized the concept of a college romance—reminding you of Beatrice's fascination with romance.

By the time you finished dinner, you knew that you had Connie in the palm of your hand. Just by the look in her eye, you could tell that she admired you. It became even clearer when she asked you to stay for dinner.

“I couldn't possibly stay, I'm not even dressed properly,” you said humbly, calculating her reaction to be insistent to get what she wanted.

“It's fine, I have so many dresses in my closet, I don't mind if you borrow one,” she said proudly, dragging you out of the kitchen and into the garden. “My friend Lucy was supposed to be my plus one, but she couldn't make it today.”

The both of you didn't have overcoats on so you huddled together as you ran to the main house, giggling when you slipped on the grass.

The two of you enter through a back door and she immediately takes you upstairs to what you presumed to be her bedroom. It had light yellow wallpaper and a cozy canopy bed in the center of the back wall. Framed pictures of artists she seemed to like and Hollywood movies covered some of the shelves, adding a bit of character to the bedroom.

Her closet was almost bigger than your bedroom back home, with racks and shelves full of the nicest shoes and dresses you had ever seen. Although your family had been doing well financially as of late, you doubted that you could afford even the cheapest dress in this closet.

“I was thinking you might fit this dress,” she said, pulling out a simple forest green cocktail dress. You placed it flush against your body where the hem came just below your knees. The sleeves were long, stopping at your wrist and the fabric was cool to the touch.

“It's a little too long for me, but since you're a bit taller it would probably fit you,” she said, making her way out of the closet. “Put your clothes in that black bag over there so you can grab it later.”

Once you put the dress on, you admired yourself in the full length mirror. The fabric accented your skin tone and flattered your figure. It felt a little snug around your hips, but as long as you didn't move too much it was manageable.

Slipping on your reliable Mary Janes, you left the closet. Connie beamed once she saw you, taking your hand and racing the both of you back to the kitchen.

You grab a dish along with the other women and walk into the dining room where a large oak wood table rests. A couple chairs were already occupied by a few guests, but most of them were up and about, mostly surrounding the man of the hour.

The familial resemblance between him and Michael was plainly visible. The dark hair with hints of grey and the dark brown eyes were just as striking as Michael's—maybe even more so. He was currently holding a glass of wine listening to the voices of the men around him. An air of quiet authority seemed to emanate from him, even without speaking, he held the conversation in the palm of his hand.

The conversation soon died out once you plated the food onto the table. Traditional Sicilian foods filled the expanse of the table, filling the air with aromatic scents. Before anyone could serve themselves Vito stood up to give a small speech, thanking the men for the many years of friendship shared and wishing for many more. Once everyone said “Cent'anni,” everyone began to serve themselves. Your cannolis were a hit and soon only a handful was left on the platter.

Connie brought you to the head of the table where her father sat. He perked up as you both approached, observing you with a look of cold yet open curiosity.

“Father, this is Cecilia—a friend of Michael's—could she stay for dinner?”

His eyes landed on you, thoughtful in their expression before speaking. His voice was raspy and low, speaking in a slower, more thoughtful cadence. You couldn't help but wonder who Sonny took after since he was so unlike his father and mother.

“You are…Cecilia Nicolosi, no? The one my son goes to school with?”

“Yes Signore, Michael and I have become close as of late,” you said, respectfully lowering your head in greeting.

“You are the first he's ever mentioned,” he stated, stroking his chin as he continued to speak, “do you have a relative of the name Matteo Nicolosi?”

“Yes, he is my grandfather on my father's side of the family.”

He nodded and took a moment to ruminate over what you said before he spoke again, “You come from a kind family, your grandfather helped organize and pay for my mother's funeral. You are welcome at my table”

“Thank you signore,” you replied as Connie dragged you to the middle of the table where two empty seats sat. The majority of the guests present were older Sicilian men and their wives. Conversation was boisterous, laughing about anecdotes of the many years of friendship held with Vito Corleone.

Sitting on your left sat Fredo Corleone and facing you was Tom Hagen, who was actually Michael's adoptive brother: not a house keeper. Fredo was almost as outgoing as Sonny but was easy to talk to, conversation flowing smoothly between the two of you. Tom was focused on your words but didn't add all that much. You could feel the curious eyes of Sonny where he sat at the left of his father. The hours passed between you and the siblings: Connie filling you in on gossip, learning which husband was cheating and who was caught at a brothel.

By the end of dinner, you had successfully ingrained yourself into the Corleone family. You were even allowed to stay afterwards to help clean dishes and meet some of the children of the family.

By 11:38pm you pry yourself from Connie, only after giving her your number you were able to go home. Mama Corleone packed you some food to take home, placing it in the black bag with your clothes. Connie insisted you keep the dress and sent you off with a tight hug and a wish goodnight, hoping to see you again in the future.

•

Almost four years had passed since the moment you befriended the Corleone family, but you still longed for Michael's voice.

For the first three years he was gone, he sent letters sporadically, detailing all he had learned and seen during his time deployed. His letters would sometimes be neat while others hurriedly scribbled in almost unintelligible handwriting, yet you cherished them all the same. Each one was placed in a lock box you bought second hand in Hanover.

You wrote many replies, finally using the same pen you had borrowed from him. Sometimes you would send small pictures of yourself playing tennis or college newspaper clips. A spritz of your perfume added the final touch before you sent it off.

However, in the last year of his time abroad, letters from him had slowly come to a halt. You had heard from Fredo that he was promoted to the rank of Captain and was featured in a Life Magazine in 1944. He had received a Navy Cross after displaying bravery in battle. You made sure to buy two copies of the magazine, cutting clips of the first and putting them in a frame that sat on your dresser, while storing the second in your lockbox.

It was the first time you had seen his actual face in years and it showed. His delicate features had sharpened, showing his transition into manhood. The head shot was perfect, illuminating his dark eyes so beautifully that it almost disguised the horrors of war he had seen. The warmth that had once been dimmed, lingering in the small quirk of his lips. You had spent multiple occasions just staring at the framed photo you had made.

When you weren't re-reading letters or doing extra curricular activities, you were working on your education. You were planning on becoming a Cardiologist, seeing how your fathers health had begun to deteriorate in your senior year of high school. He had refused going to the doctor until he started having chest pain in 1944. He was diagnosed with heart disease. Ever since he started working at a desk, he hadn't gotten the exercise he needed to work off the extra fat in his system. Since then, he has been working on improving his health but your family still worries.

You and Becca continued being roommates on campus, spending as much time as possible together even with your busy lives. During the first year, you introduced Connie to Becca and the both of them became fast friends. The three of you often hung out during breaks from school, going to the movies, you teaching them to play tennis, or even sneaking Connie out to go swing dancing, but it seemed that Connie held a particular fondness for you.

Carmela had once told you how glad she was that Connie had her own friends outside the family. She had always been sheltered compared to her brothers, rarely forming any meaningful friendships during her time in school. The only other close friend she had was Lucy Mancini, the daughter of a soldato who worked for Vito.

Carmela had wanted Connie to make friends outside of the family business, as she called it. The two of you were Connie's closest confidantes outside of her family, yet it had been surprising when she told the both of you that she was getting married that August.

You knew that she had been seeing a guy named Carlo, but you never thought he would propose. His eyes tended to wander whenever you or Becca were around. He was like a mosquito: the type to latch onto a girl and suck her dry leaving only an itchy sore in his wake. You knew this and even warned her, but she laughed it off, saying that you were just being cynical.

“You'll understand when you get into a real relationship,” Lucy said, giggling openly as she spoke again, “I'm sure guys would line up to get a taste of you if you weren't so hung up on Michael—”

“Lucy! Don't even start,” Rebecca interrupted, placing her glass of water down on the waiting room table. It had been hot the week of the wedding rehearsal and as the maids of honor, you, Becca and Lucy had been allowed to take a break as Connie tried on her dress the day before her wedding. The three of you were currently waiting for her to step out of the fitting room where her mom was helping her. “Besides we all know you have no right to talk—especially with how you've been acting.”

Lucy had been making a fool of herself all week: flirting with Sonny of all people and like the idiot he was, he reciprocated. Everyone who saw them interact knew that this farce would come to a head soon.

“What do you mean? I'm just being friendly with my bridal partner,” she said innocently, sipping her glass of wine. Lucy had on occasion hung out with the three of you, but she never became a true friend. She was more of an acquaintance you had to tolerate even though she often got on your nerves.

“Friendly my ass. I'm not going to stop you, but if you ruin this for Connie, don't expect us to go easy on you,” Becca stated looking at you for confirmation. You nodded, staring Lucy down. You didn't appreciate her attitude.

Becca never liked Lucy, yet she cared for Connie enough to stay civil. You placed a hand on her shoulder to help her calm down. It wouldn't be long before Connie stepped out and you didn't want her to see the three of you fighting.

“Let's remember why we are here: to support Connie. Lucy, you're a grown woman so do as you wish but don't expect any help when things go wrong for you.”

Lucy huffed, downing the rest of her wine as Connie stepped out of the dressing room with her mother in-tow.

“What do you girls think! They finished adding the last alterations,” she gushed, stepping on the platform and twirling around in her dress. The dress was simple, sporting a lace neckline and sleeves while the silk of the dress had a faint reflective quality to it. The train was long and the veil longer. You hoped she wouldn't overheat tomorrow.

“It looks beautiful on you Connie,” you said, passing her a glass of water. Her face was flushed with exertion. The boutique she booked had been quite stuffy. “I love the lace detailing, it's definitely gonna help cool you down.”

Connie smiled, wiping a stray tear from her eyes with the handkerchief you had given her. Carmela took Connie's hand as she stepped down from the platform.

“You'll be the star of the show Constanzia,” Carmela said, kissing her forehead before sitting down. “The whole family will be there for you. Even Michael wrote in saying he'll be there.”

“I don't know Mamà, you know he's been avoiding the whole family,” she complained, dejected. She now stood in front of the large mirror next to the dressing room. As much as she hated to admit it, Connie loved her older brother dearly and hoped he would come support her.

Even after Michael had been injured and sent home after his promotion to captain he hadn't shown his face in New York or at Dartmouth. You had heard that he planned to enroll the following fall but he didn't bother sending any letters or even calling you. Last you heard from Carmela was that he was living in his apartment in Hanover recovering.

“I'm sure he'll show, it would be down right cruel if he didn't,” Becca said, turning to glance at you. She was still wary of Michael after the way he caused you to spiral all those years ago. You met her eyes and smiled, hiding your inner glee at the mention of his name.

All the years you've invested into this family are finally paying off. Michael might be avoiding you now, but you would make him realize that there was no escape the moment he allowed himself to be ensnared by your web.

You knew Michael and skipping his sister's wedding was not something he would do. He was too loving even though he didn't show it. He would probably show up late in order to further distance himself from the family, but that didn't matter to you.

"Don't worry Connie," you say, pouring yourself your first glass of wine, swirling it around in your glass and admiring its deep red color, "I'm sure Michael will come to realize who truly matters. Just give him some time to explore. He'll come home for good eventually."

With that, you took a deep sip of your wine, savoring its sweet flavor as it slid down your throat. Connie began to speak again and while it looked like you were listening, you were deep in your thoughts: plotting your next moves to draw him in.

After all, the prodigal son was returning, and it would only be a matter of time before he was yours once again.

Chapter 2 ->

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