FORTUNE'S FOOL

mikael falco. XXXVI. capulet soldier.

[marveldaily]

[fortunesfalco]

volumnia; 

“ — And I haven’t kicked you out yet.” The Underboss replies, more dryly than is necessary as her eye catches the bouquet of flowers in his hands. The blooms are large, softly coloured, thickly-petaled and entirely ill-fitting for the impersonal and boldly furnished office in which she’s built her legacy. “Are those for Lucrezia? Not quite her shade, though I’m sure she’ll appreciate them nonetheless.” 

She isn’t sure.

Lucrezia doesn’t seem to care for fragile, short-lived things any more than she does. They don’t last long in her care, and it’s a tenuous harmony at best. Still, a part of her wishes-... Vivianne stamps out the fleeting, forlorn thought before it can properly form in her head. They’ve been more recent over the last few days; these attacks of the past, these fruitless ‘what-ifs’ and alternate realities. She thinks it’s because of her injuries, still healing beneath her clothing. It’ll take weeks, she’s been told, possibly months. And the thought of remaining vulnerable that long dredges up old insecurities. 

It’s not just the attack at Il Teatro, that voice at the back of her head reminds her, it’s also because of what happened after, because of the one who found you, who carried you to the Cathedral in his arms… It’s because of Ev- “Quindi, cos'è?” Vivianne’s own voice surprises her as it rings out abruptly, putting a desperate albeit decisive end to the memories that plague her. So what is it? “Cosa vuoi, soldato?” What do you want?

    He doesn’t flinch in the face of Vivianne’s shortness, all too used to serrated words and barbed retorts. More often than not they came from his wife when she had grown impatient with him, or thought that he was being too soft-handed with this affair or that. And, of course, from his own mother and father when they were forced to communicate with him -- which he made sure they did, if they didn’t want their purse-strings tightened. But he believed that Vivianne was never cruel without reason -- and, considering the circumstances, he was more than happy to take whatever blunt words he could get if it meant she was offered some comfort, some reprieve. 

    In an effort to make her smile, he plucks a flower -- a rose, red as the blood that she had been stained with -- from the bouquet and places it behind her ear, even as she impatiently tries to drive at the point of this interaction. He cants his head, a roguish smile on his lips as he leans against his desk, considering her. Perhaps he should be less kind to the woman that sunk her fingers into Everett’s heart, ripped it from his chest, and proceeded to use it as her personal pin cushion. But Everett himself had taught him to be kinder -- and Katarina, ironically enough, had taught him to be more forgiving. 

    And there were memories that tied the two together, broken figures standing in this room. 

    “I wanted to see if you were okay,” he replied mildly, leaning against her desk slowly, deliberately. As if he had no other place to be and could stand waiting however long it would take in order for her to explain why she bit out her words so impatiently, why she seemed so intent on pushing whatever it was that haunted her away. 

[fortunesfalco]

richard iii; 

date: late summer, 2001

location: a bar in verona

with: @fortunesfalco​

“They really didn’t think we were going to fight back,” Ronan laughs, from the absurdity of the situation, in an effort not to think about the pain that’s blossoming underneath his eyes, emanating from his split lip, because one arm is wrapped around Mikael’s rib cage and he can feel warmth from underneath his t-shirt–whatever the reason, he’s nearly breathless with it as he pushes open the door to the bathroom with his free hand. “The look on that guy’s face when I hit him–absolutely worth starting my internship at the mayor’s office with a black eye.” 

He grins wolfishly and prods at the bruise forming underneath his eye, a small hiss escaping his lips before he sets to the task at hand. Grabbing a few rough paper towels from a dispenser mounted on the wall, he crouches down in front of his friend, who is now slumped against the wall. He can feel the grin on his face soften into a fond smile that he would never allow on his face for anyone else, that would normally make his stomach knot for how vulnerable it must make him look–but Mikael has always been the outlier, and stopping this particular look on his face would be like trying to stop a muscle from remembering a repeated action.

“Fratello mio, what would I do without you defending my honor?” He chuckles, resting a hand gently over Mikael’s cheekbone to hold him in place while he dabs at the blood coming from his friend’s split lip. 

    It had not been one of Mikael’s brightest ideas -- but, to be fair, it was far from his worst one. He had taken on worse odds before and had become more adept at brawling with others, which was an unfortunate result of having gotten into them so often. But these men had looked like the viking-type, rarring for a fight when there truly was none to be found. Again and again, they had “accidentally” spilled their drinks on Ronan and on the third attempt, he had grabbed the glass and thrown it on the floor. To reiterate, not his brightest idea; primarily because he really should have smashed it against the oafish man’s head. 

    That was his only regret. Being by Ronan’s side? He couldn’t imagine the day when he could regret such a wonderful, blissfully thrilling thing. The two men held each other up as they made their way to the bathroom, Mikael having paid the bartenders and security off so as not to have to do this on the streets. He’s come to discover it’s worth it, rather than having to let oneself bleed and bleed until they make their way home. But that wasn’t even a half-thought in his head -- he was far too fixated on the way that Ronan’s fingers pressed against him, sure and steady against his ribs. The warmth of his hand was bleeding through his shirt and it was all the Falco man could do to not press a slightly drunken kiss against his cheek. 

    “Live life as an honorless man,” he answered, grinning despite that sharp pang that followed. It was hardly anything to be noted, though, when he was being touched so tenderly. So much so, that he found himself leaning into Ronan’s hand, dark hues leveling with his companion’s. “Though, that isn’t saying much when speaking of a future politician.” 

[fortunesfalco]

lady macbeth & perdita; 

It’s clear that she is a mere thread in this tapestry, a footnote in some dark and unkind story. Does the truth matter when Lucrezia has her heart set on a lie? Will her voice be heard if she dare speak out, as soft as a child’s cry in the face of a roaring storm? Paola would rather stay silent. She would rather let Lucrzia build a narrative that ignores the ache of her heart and the desperate need to quiet it, in pursuit of a hopeless answer or in the arms of someone who promised her a distraction. She would rather let Lucrezia preach of a woman Paola does not recognize.

That’s not me, she thinks — unsure if she is willing herself to say the words or convincing her own troubled heart. I’m not like that.

But it’s true. She knew that Marcelo’s fists had drawn Mikael’s blood and still tenderly bandaged their knuckles. She knew that Mikael suffered at the same hands that brushed the hair out of her eyes. She also knew that Mikael — those eyes that spoke years of wisdom and kindness beyond her understand, those hands that once poured wine into her cup, those lips that once smiled at her with utter amusement — had drawn a gun to Isabella’s head and threatened to pull the trigger.

People do unspeakable things in Verona. It’s only now that Paola realizes she has become one of them. The thought might have once horrified her, filled her with fear to the brim until she ran off to yet another nameless city and hurt the people in it again.

Now, it gives her the courage to speak. “Yes.” She meets Lucrezia’s eyes, and she does not falter. “I knew. I went to see them, just as I came to see MIkael. I am sorry for seeing kindness where it did not exist; I am sorry for believing in the best of someone when I should have paid more attention to the worst of them.”

“You don’t believe me,” her voice grows firm despite decreasing in volume, “but I care for MIkael. Even when I know what it means to be a Capulet. I don’t care about any of it — I should, and I thought I did, but I don’t. I don’t care if he’s beaten someone to a pulp or if he’s put a gun to someone’s head and promised to shoot.”

She looks at Mikael for the first time, embarrassed by the truth so boldly lain out before the three of them. It’s every sentiment she’s tried to express through action, for fear that saying the words will haunt her and ruin him; she’s never known affection that hasn’t done exactly that. But with a viper of a woman hurling accusations towards her and Mikael — honorable, noble, kind Mikael — defending her, Paola has never been more sure of it.

Mikael is a good man. He’s never given her a reason to believe otherwise, and so she does the unthinkable: she trusts him.

“You’re trying to paint a picture of me as a villain,” Paola says slowly, examining Lucrezia with a thoughtful gaze as she considers Mikael’s words. Because you won’t hold yourself accountable for breaking the vow that you made to me before God, our family, and our friends. She can’t bring herself to consider what he’s trying to say; she doesn’t want to imbed herself deeper into this strange tangle of webs. “Maybe I am. I’m okay with being the villain in your story.”

“But I won’t have you misunderstanding my admiration for Mikael. I have made mistakes, and I may have betrayed him, but it was not for lack of feeling or sincere affection.”

Lucrezia felt like she had been set ablaze. A witch at the stake. Everyone around her merely chanting her on, watching as she turned to ash, their smiles reflecting in the blazing fire. This was the life she had chosen for herself. The anger. The hate. The lava that flowed through her, waiting for her to erupt once and for all. To destroy herself in one final burst of vengeance. She had always assumed that that day would happen many years from now, with a gun pointed at the head of a King, and a crown dangling delicately in her finger tips. How could she have known that a kingdom could crumble far more quickly than it had begun? She had never proclaimed to be an Oracle. Whatever magic was in her was dormant, unwilling to be coaxed out into the sunlight. Not that there was much sun these days. A cloud hung over the city, and a shadow clung to Lucrezia like a well-tailored dress.

It would have been easy to jump towards Paola with her dinner knife in hand. She could have silenced the thief who had stolen Mikael’s affections. Maybe that was what hurt more than the knowledge that she was a traitor. That she had had Marcelo licking out of her palms. Lucrezia had failed at the most important and particular part of her plan. She let Mikael wander. Had she done everything by the book, like she had for each of the years prior to this one–Paola wouldn’t have been a lamb waiting for slaughter, and Mikael might have been able to speak to her with anything other than contempt.

No, this was her fault. Her brutal anger, it should have been directed inward. She should have torn herself apart, brick by brick, bone by bone, and reconstructed whatever was left of her singed corpse. But there was nothing to be done. The damage had sunk deeply into her, and Lucrezia had become more monster than woman. More snake than any Goddess that Mikael had worshipped. He had been the one to see the viper within. The curled up reptile waiting to strike. Could he have known that her poison would have killed her before it had any chance in harming someone else?

Lucrezia put her silverware down, her hands shaking, despite her unwillingness to every tremble before anyone. “I made a mistake,” She began, her eyes turning towards her fuming husband, knowing it was unlikely she would catch his eye. “I made a mistake.” The pointed comment was reiterated as she attempted to hammer it into his head. “Despite my own beliefs, I’m not perfect. I’m not infallible. My best laid plans are buried and gone, and I’m not coming up with excuses. I’m not placing the blame.”

She turns towards Paola now, a fire in her eyes. How nice it must be to be given the benefit of the doubt, time and time again. To have the luxury of being seen as innocent and pure. Lucrezia understands more about her anger now. This was never just about Mikael. This was a deep wound, one that had festered ever since she was a young girl who had matured too quickly, and found out just easy it was to get people to like you, if only you did what they said. Paola wasn’t a child, but she was being handled as such. A delicate flower, perceived as being too stupid to truly do anything wrong. Too kind to truly have the gift of sight. Lucrezia longed for that ability to be so insignificant that no one could ever suspect them of such treachery. Of such evil.

As it were, Lucrezia was bound to be the villain in every story. The mad wife. The quick viper. The damning temptress. But Queen was not a part of that kind of story. Rarely did that kind of woman, ravaged with madness, ever hold a crown on their head for long. Lucrezia was just fucking tired.

“You’re not important enough to be the villain in my story, Paola. I’m just merely point out the hypocrisy of your sincerest beliefs. The truly naive nature of it all. You crawled into the lion’s den, into Verona, and thought it might not bite back? You visited both Marcelo and Mikael, and thought that no one might ever make the connection? No, I understand my sins. I fucked a man who wasn’t my husband. I’ve killed people to stay alive. I walk the streets of this city, and flowers have started to shy away, worried that I might be ready to rip them from their roots.” Lucrezia pauses, her hands forming into fists. “No, you’re not the villain in my story, nor will I be the villain in yours.”

She looks up once more, first to Mikael, and then, finally, back at Paola. “You’re free to go.” 

    He felt as though he was a falcon caught in a storm, tossed about by opposing gales that howled and roared at him, unable to close his wings so that he might plummet into oblivion and find respite in it -- or, at the very least, be tossed away. But instead, the harsh winds wailed upon him and he could do nothing but endure it; the tearing of feathers, the breaking of hollow bones, the ripping of wings. The taste of liquor whets his tongue, but it does nothing to abate the twisting of his stomach as he waits for the food to settle, picking away at what was on his plate, enduring as he promised himself he would do. But then he feels the weight of Paola’s gaze on him, the words that seem far too precious to be heard by any ears except for his and his alone. The tenderness of them, the gentleness that they lay bare are far too much for Lucrezia to bear witness to. 

    His head lifted and he met her eyes, so warm and sincere -- but fearful that the words might not be reciprocated in the same way. I don’t care about any of it — I should, and I thought I did, but I don’t. He felt his heart seize and his ribs ache with a very different sort of pain, one that was worth enduring. It was worth it, because Paola, sweet and gentle Paola, had endured this. The utter vulnerability of baring her heart while Lucrezia was poised with a knife, ready to stab at it with cutting words, if not with an actual blade. “Paola...” he said, a plead and a warning. For a moment, it felt as if the storm had stopped as if the winds had ceased their senseless abuse. 

    Then the sun breaks through the dark and ominous clouds of the storm that had buffeted him about. 

    But I won’t have you misunderstanding my admiration for Mikael. I have made mistakes, and I may have betrayed him, but it was not for lack of feeling or sincere affection.

   .... but it was not for lack of feeling or sincere affection...

    It was what Paola had given him -- freely and without a second thought. She had given him her affection, sincere and true and sweet. A smile that had made his day when all else seemed amiss, sage words and counsel, helping him keep his head aloft when all he knew was drowning. At a time where everything seemed attached to strings, intent on puppeteering him around until he had no semblance of self, only of the whims and wishes of the other. Perhaps that had been his fault, for allowing Lucrezia to hold his heart between her fingers, starved and wretched as it was. Perhaps it was her fault too for the tangled mess of affection and adoration that tied him to Paola now because hearing such words...had well and truly robbed him of his breath. 

    He hears the uneven rattle of silverware on porcelain plates, hears Lucrezia’s voice cut through the silence -- tainted with something he had truly never heard color it before. And, after ten years, one would think that he had heard every emotion stain her voice. Then she excuses Paola, dismisses her as though she’s a servant. Giulia had never been treated with such callousness -- then again, Giulia had never shown a light upon Lucrezia’s faults and sins. But when he turned to look at his wife, she was not looking at him at all. Her gaze was dark and unforgiving, burning with a slow, painful heat -- dark as coals. It is then that it dawns on him -- she had never once admitted that she was sorry. Repentant. That she regretted ever breaking their vow at all. 

    And that was all he wanted to hear. That, and that she loved him still. 

    But he was done handing her strings to pull at, strings that made him dance for her so that she might take his wretched heart and make it ache so terribly. Mikael rose from his chair, pushing it back while watching her. “I’ll take you home, Paola,” he said quietly, glancing at her with a nod, a quirk of his lips that might have been a smile. He pushed his chair into the table, beckoning Giulia over to give her a kiss atop her head and thank her for dinner. Finally, he looked at Lucrezia, seeing her, perhaps, for the first time. 

    “I won’t be seeing you for awhile, Lucrezia. I’ll be grabbing my things later, but in the mean time...” he sucked in air between his teeth, the slow coil of anger encircling him once more. “I don’t think I have it in me to look at you when all I can see is how my fucking wife of ten years opened her legs for the man that means to kill me. So I don’t see a reason why I will be returning home tonight.” 

     Because you still love her. 

    “Good night, Lucrezia.” 

[thebrightpreciousthings]

books i (re)read in 2019: “macbeth” by william shakespeare

Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.

[fortunesfalco]

katherine;

date: february 11th location: private residence of katarina du pont, a renovated historic palazzo near the cathedral seized by the du pont bank a decade ago time: late evening status: closed, @fortunesfalco

She would never understand love. According to many, and especially to the Disney prince that was Tomas Sabello, love could move mountains and consume, love conquered, love was beautifully warm and more powerful than anything in the world and yet in Katarina’s mind the only thing that stood clear about love, was that love destroyed. And love had always seemed to be too far for her to grasp, out of reach for the woman who prized righteousness and reason above all. Where had her heart gone?

It was not to say that Katarina Du Pont felt nothing, but she had seen far too many devastated by ‘love’ that she could not find in herself to feel any sort of desire, nor willingness towards romantic love. The woman had compartmentalized her mind and heart into neat boxes, and she was far too consumed in war and duty that such love was a stranger. But, she was not without care. 

When Mikael had called her earlier, she had only just wound down for the night, ready for bed. Yet at the tone of his voice during a call the blonde had nearly ignored, she had donned a robe and flicked on the lights of parts of her home she hardly ever ventured. ‘No,’ Katarina had told him firmly. ‘You will stay here. Not some hotel like a stranger in the city. There is more than enough food and drink, and space here for you. You should not be left alone. Not now.’ An injured bird would continue still in its attempts to fly, until exhaustion would wear them out wherever they might stand. Worse yet, they could be found by a predator and slaughtered. 

The main chandelier was bright in the windows, a beacon of shelter as warm as the fire that burned in what otherwise would have been a cold and empty guest room. Decanters were thrice checked to make sure they were full (a redundancy unnecessary, she would note later. the woman hardly drank), and weapons were taken and locked away from their displays in the receiving floor. Just in case he flew into her home in a rage. 

When a knock was heard against the doors, she was swift to open it, weapon hidden on the off chance that this was not what she was told it would be and jaw set as the blonde merely nodded in greeting, waiting to gauge where he and his mind stood before she would react. “You’re here quicker than I thought you would be, Mikael.” She remarked, shutting and arming the door the door. There was a hollowness to her voice, smoke marring the words that slid from her tongue, and turning ‘round she sought his gaze head on, arms half-outstretched to either hug or be crossed to recover in the next moment. The option was there and decision was his. A phone call, after all, was nothing like dealing with someone in person.

    The city offered no refuge for Mikael from his own fury, instead it did as Verona did best -- blew wind against the flames, causing it to rise higher and higher until all he knew was his burning. Everett offered no comfort, though Mikael still loved him for trying. The wound that Paola had left was still too fresh for him to turn to her and Mona...he did not wish to know what she had to say on the subject. Every corner he turned seemed to drive him deeper and deeper into the maze of his frustration until the only escape that seemed to be offered was a bottle of scotch and the cigarettes that he had bought with it. As he stood before he door, the bottle hung listlessly in his hand, golden liquid swishing merrily -- so contrary to the attitude of the man that held it. 

    His eyes lifted to hers as the door swung open and he stepped through, wiping whatever remained of the liquor off of his lips. Mikael Falco was dimpled ties and silver cufflinks, roguish smiles and boyish winks. This Mikael, however? Pathetic. And he knew it. That did nothing to stop him from stepping into Katarina’s arms, pulling her closer in a hug -- pressing a grateful kiss atop her head as he let out a shuddering sigh. 

    “I’m quite afraid, la mia luce, ” he mumbled into her hair, loosening his grip slowly before holding her at arm’s length, gaze meeting hers evenly. “That I was not built for this kind of cruelty.”

    Lucrezia’s cruelty. He was not built for her cruelty. Let all the world leave him with mottled scars, but this one...this would never scar. It would always be an open, weeping wound. 

    He had not realized he was crying until the salt of his tears mingled with the taste of liquor and cigarettes on his tongue.   

[faithtrustpixiedust5]

[fortunesfalco]

juliet; 

Even in the blackest of moods, there was some fragment of Juliana Capulet’s soul that remained curled—tenderly tight, no different from a baby’s dimpled apricot fist—around a sliver of light it kept, so stubbornly, for itself. When the fist unfurled, the reflection sliced through in an exhibition of enchantment. It came in forms that made Juliana ache pleasantly, with enough poetry soothing as balm: vivid paintings and rippling sculpture and devastating music, the primordial tug of words upon her heartstrings, and more. When the darkness strove to eclipse her, the relentless light blazed, provoked, dazzling. This was how she found herself walking the streets of Verona on a February afternoon, with a tune on her tongue and entirely too many bag-straps caught in her hold.

            It was indiscernible, even to herself, the tune she hummed; a honeyed, songbird sweetness caught at the back of her throat. Juliana couldn’t recognise it – but it came to her like a dream, cloud-soft & deliciously transcendent, and in a manner far from any norm of hers, let it carry her through the day. 

There was something, after all, to be said for the simple pleasures in life, wasn’t there? 

Pleasures such as raspberry gelato for breakfast off of a street-side stand on the way around the corner from Capulet manor, all sour-sweet creaminess coating her tongue for the hours trickling after, lingering, explosive flavour. Such as a fresh manicure that left her hands kneaded to a pliantness, perfumed with honeysuckle, palms gentle and nails sharped to a vicious, violent siren red, perfectly matching the pucker of her mouth. Such as hours spent throwing away blood money, gathering garments & eatables, shoes & toys, books, preparing a hefty sack-load of goods to anonymously deliver to those, too many of them, who needed some beauty in their lives as well. Such as an earned cup of coffee.

Cornflower blue silk clung to her legs as she slipped into the café, and the dark-haired slip of a girl’s palms reached out to settle its restlessness, smoothing them over wrinkles in fabric that weren’t there to begin with. All she managed was a single step towards the counter, before a voice wrapped around the vertebrae of her spine and tugged her back, coaxed her cheek to turn, and the rest of her appendages to follow in kind. The voice made her stomach twist, but the words it shaped nearly had her rolling her eyes. “Not just yet, Signore Falco,” Juliana responded, managing a concoction of reticence & facetiousness that she was willing to let the beautiful man decipher on his own.

Dark eyes surveyed the display in front of her. That day, as for the many days prior, she no longer attempted to conceal the shameless analysis. Why should she? There seemed to be no one left who hesitated to underestimate & taunt her, regardless of how ignorant she allowed them to believe her. “Taking our coffee with Irish inspiration today, are we,” came her remark. It had all the trappings of a question, except for her desire to let it be one. 

Signore Falco. 

    His lips tugged up into a wan smile at that, seeing his father instead of himself answering such an address. One would think that he had grown used to it at this point in his life -- having exorcised his parents’ presence from the company over a decade ago. But memories are far more difficult to be rid of, and he was constantly reminded of such. Now more than ever, since his fabricated memories only seemed determined to scour him of whatever happiness he might have had with his wife. Now they were all tainted and rotten, Matthias’ touch overlapping Mikael’s, the Montague man’s lips pressing against his wife’s skin...

    There were times where he doubted his ability to play the part of an executioner. Now, though -- now he would gladly feel the blood of Matthias fleck across his face. 

    Ivory teeth grit down. His jaw popped. His fists clenched. Only to slowly unclench at that the sound of Juliana’s voice, so contrary to Lucrezia’s. If there was ever a woman who was the opposite of his wife in every which way, it was Juliana. She had never reached for the crown, while Lucrezia clawed for it each and every waking moment. She was gentle with the hearts that were laid at her feet, whereas Lucrezia shattered them like broken wine bottles upon a marble floor. Juliana was peonies and forget-me-nots, while Lucrezia was belladonnas and oleanders.

    And as she watched him, he watched her -- grinning at the unabashed curiosity of her gaze. Though he wasn’t keen for her to know of the extent of his heartache, he was glad to know that their future don would be one who cared for her underlings.   

    “I reached for the cream, but found this instead.” He quipped, eyes narrowing rather inquisitively. Cosimo would likely flay him for sullying his daughter’s appetite so early in the day -- but he was in need of company. Why should he let his misery consume him whole -- all by his lonesome? “Would you care to join me, principessa?”

[fortunesfalco]

PHONE CALL | M&E

Everett: [ A beat of silence. ] ... Christ.

Everett: Before I have to bail you out of jail while you're awaiting the inevitable manslaughter trial, what the /hell/ is going on?

Everett: She's not doing an exposé on you, is she?

MIKAEL: Do you know me?

MIKAEL: Would I be so fucking FURIOUS if an exposé were being written about me?

MIKAEL: Read it yourself, it's plastered all over the fucking gossip page.

MIKAEL: I will nail the pen to their hand and see how they feel about their shitty writing, then. I will wring her skinny little throat and enjoy watching her die.

[fortunesfalco]

PHONE CALL | M&E

MIKAEL: I swear to FUCKING GOD, Everett, never before have I thought murder was a preferable solution to my life's problems before now.

MIKAEL: For the last 30 minutes I have fantasized about slitting Isabella Gagliano's throat with my own two hands.

MIKAEL: And before you try talking me down, it's too late. I'm driving over to the paper right now.

[fortunesfalco]

lady macbeth & perdita; 

Are you a sheep, or a wolf?

I am neither, I don’t belong in the same categories as either of you. The words expand in Paola’s throat, fighting to get out. If she was a braver woman, she would say it. If she was a stronger woman, she would say it. Instead, Paola stays silent. She searches Lucrezia’s eyes — ignoring the daggers in wait of her pale throat to come closer — and wonders what she’s done to be laid out on the flames. She has only pursued Gabriele’s story and his body to put to rest; she cannot imagine Lucrezia giving a damn about her Gabriele. Not when she has a man like Mikael on his knees before her, worshipping the ground she walks on and savoring every word on her lips.

Only when Mikael comes to her side does Paola feel the churning in her stomach still. Her chest floods with warmth, and her admiration for him nearly bursts out of her skin when he comes to her rescue. Though she can never forget the image of him putting a gun to Isabella’s head, she knows she’s already forgiven him.

She’s seen too much of him, that noble soul and that wretchedly good heart, not to.

But he may not forgive her. Deflating like a balloon pricked with a needle, Paola locks her eyes with Mikael and lets him see it all. All the regret and loss and grief and shame; all the tenderness too, for both him and Marcelo both.

She hates that she cannot lie to him. She hates that she will disappoint him.

She hates herself for doing it in the first place, too.

“I’m no wolf but I suppose I’m not a sheep, either.” Her voice is quiet, steady now that Paola knows what she’s been summoned for. This is a trial and an execution both, with Lucrezia and Mikael holding their weapons; the two were vastly different, and yet they manage to wound her the same way.

“I can’t say Marcelo and I were close, but I cared for them. We slept together for… for some time.” She doesn’t have anything to explain to them both, but with the tangled mess her feelings for Marcelo and Mikael have become, Paola finds herself continuing her ramble as if she’s at confession and the Falcos are her deliverers. “I knew they were a Montague, but I’m not a part of the war; I thought it didn’t matter. I thought it wouldn’t touch me.”

“I… I didn’t understand then. I still don’t think I understand now, but I never saw cruelty in them. I saw pain, yes — but it wasn’t until later that I saw their cruelty.” She nearly flinches at the memory of Gabriele’s name in their mouth, the brutal image Marcelo painted for her with their words alone. “I am no wolf pretending to be a sheep. But Marcelo — Marcelo was a mistake.”

“And I’m sorry they hurt you, Mikael.” Her voice hitches as she remembers the sight of a freshly injured Mikael. His appearance now is nothing by comparison. “Forgive me.”

For a few moments, everything is silent. Paola’s confession comes out like an atomic bomb, one that Lucrezia hadn’t been expecting to come so easily. She underestimated the woman’s adoration for her husband. The truth slipped so easily from Paola’s lips that Lucrezia couldn’t help but be shocked for a single beat. That is, before Lucrezia moved around the table, taking a seat while placing the empty wine glass beside her.

“Giulia, I think it’s time for dinner,” Lucrezia said, no sign in her voice as to whether she was happy or upset with the current developments. She knew Mikael was furious with her, and she knew that her guest was nothing short of terrified when it came to the situation she found herself in. And she should have been. Paola had come willingly into Lucrezia’s clutches.

Giulia came out with the food, and placed the dish in front of Lucrezia who didn’t bother to see if her companions had taken their respective seats. Instead, she picked up her fork and knife and started cutting the meat that was in front of her. Her cuts were gentle and patient. Just as she would be. The truth was already hanging out unclaimed in the air, it was now her time to catch it, and shape it into the story that they all needed to know.

“Did you know?” Lucrezia began, turning towards Paola for the first time in a few minutes, her voice quiet but strong. “Let me rephrase–Did you know, when you came over here to visit Mikael after he came home from the hospital, that it had been Marcelo that did that to him?” Her voice didn’t raise, every syllable was as collected as the last. She wasn’t screaming, she was digging. Lucrezia wanted to bore her words into the woman’s head until they stuck. Despite all of her fucked up feelings, the thought hadn’t even occurred until now that Paola could have actually walked into their home with the knowledge that someone who she actively had a relationship with had harmed Mikael so brutally.

“And, more than that, after you came and visited Mikael–After you saw him in that state, did you see Marcelo again? Did you see Mikael half dead, and still go back to Marcelo?”

Her voice was steel. Every movement of her tongue was another lashing, but she remained level-headed, her hands occupied with the utensils she held and the food that was at hand. There was nothing to be done until the woman atoned for her sins, just as Lucrezia was forced to do every day of her life. Paola was a wolf, whether she wanted to use that terminology or not. In her was the power to destroy everything Lucrezia had ever worked towards, and the woman would do so without even realizing she had. Never before had a danger presented itself so clearly in her midst. Paola held knowledge of the trappings of Mikael’s heart, and the connections to have it stop beating.

Anyone who spent time with Marcelo wasn’t someone who was a little lamb. Marcelo had a reputation that was far more brutal than Lucrezia’s could ever achieve. They were known for their fighting prowess, their harshness, and their unwillingness to ever forgive or forget. If what Paola was saying was true, then the fragile shivering creature in front of Lucrezia was far more deadly than originally anticipated.

Lucrezia knew she wasn’t playing a fair game, that she had home field advantage. Except for the very fact that Mikael had already chosen a side, and it hadn’t been her. It wasn’t her who he sought to protect. As if she was the monster in the room, and not the rosy-cheeked devil that played a rousing round of innocence. No one who survived in Verona could be an innocent, and in Paola’s own words, she had slept with the best of them.

    Her words echo in his ears -- a forlorn song. 

    She said she wasn’t a part of the war, and that was true. To him, she hadn’t been. She’d been something removed from it, a place of solace and sanctuary in a city that no longer offered the notion of any such thing. But Paola had proved the exception to it all; she had been easy to laugh with, easy to talk to, and easy to forget with. His brows drew together as he looked at her, studied the porcelain features that truly looked as though they could never wrong him. His mother had always said that his fatal flaw was his heart -- and it easily it could be swayed by nothing more than saccharine words and the bat of long, dark lashes. 

    The longer he looked at her, the more he realized how heavy his mother’s words were with their truth. 

    It was why he turned away, eyes falling shut as he wiped his hand over his face, as though that and that alone could undo the last couple of moments. The last couple of days. Maybe even the last ten years. He did not have it in him to be angry with her, to begrudge her for taking comfort in a creature who seemed built for cruelty and cruelty alone. And she had cared for them, had cared for them so much so that she invited them into her bed. Mikael’s bones ached. His jaw throbbed. His ribs heaved. 

    The same hands that had brutally marred him, had touched her. Had held her and caressed her. Had beaten him within an inch of his life, until every breath seemed to be a punishment for living. 

    Giulia placed the food before them, but placed a neat glass of scotch beside Mikael’s water. He cast her a thankful glance before taking a long, leisurely sip from it, thankful for something to focus on other than the rancor that was beginning to fester in his stomach. So then he took another sip, and another. He looked at his glass before setting it down, noting that one-third of it was already gone. If he wanted to survive the rest of this devil-thrown-dinner, then he would have to ration it well. It was a thought that immediately went to waste because, in the next moment, Lucrezia’s voice rang in the quiet of the room. 

    “Why do you keep on driving the knife deeper, Lucrezia?” He said quietly, voice low and tempered as he looked at her. His utensils clattered, unused, onto the plate before him. “Are you hoping to minimize the size of your sins by comparing it to Paola’s? Is that why you have brought her here?” It was an ill-fated tactic, a last-ditch effort that only served to exacerbate one’s own falls and shortcomings. Many men within the boardroom had tried to use it before, blaming this or that. Their assistant or their partner. People with power were so ill-disposed to holding themselves accountable for their actions. 

    Just as Lucrezia refused to hold herself accountable for breaking the vows that they had taken years ago. 

    “Paola apologized.” Finally, he turned his eyes towards her. A painful ache began to knock against his ribs. He looked away. “Paola apologized for something she shouldn’t have to apologize for. Yet you sit here, trying to shame her simply because you won’t hold yourself accountable for breaking the vow that you made to me before God, our family, and our friends.”

    Paola apologized, and he still had yet to forgive her. Lucrezia refused to apologize, and he had begun to forgive her already. 

    Mikael looked at his plate of food and sighed, thinking of the medication that he would have to take in an hour. After a moment, he picked up his utensils and began to eat -- pointedly ignoring the two women in favor of the meal before him. 

[fortunesfalco]

coriolanus; 

setting: february 4th, it’s monday morning and as cyrus and @fortunesfalco step upon the stones of the divide, light peeks through the clouds hanging overhead. it casts a streak of pale brightness atop the wreckage, painting a tale of a city once again torn in two.

“So, this is where it all happened?” This is where it could have all ended but luckily for him it hadn’t because then he would have one more regret to add to his already long list and to have been absent for the fall of Cosimo Capulet would have been close at the top of it. “The bombing was still on the news when I landed in Milan in November. I thought—” He remembers what he thought, that there had been a chance his mother had somehow found herself among the wreckage. But he had felt no panic because a large part of him doubted it — he would have known it, somehow, if she had died. Though a smaller part of him had wished for it. 

It had been months since he had last spoken to her at that point and years since he last had any meaningful conversation with her, not that he considered anything she said to him to be conversation. Nor meaningful, at that. It had always been half truths or no truths with her. And he was weary, tired of all her bullshit.

Nevertheless when his feet had touched Italian soil, his thoughts had speared toward her instantly as if she had been a beacon on fire and he a revenant. And while his thoughts had raced to his mother, he had taken his time in making his way back to the place that had molded him. He felt the pull of the city, his city, and most importantly, he heard the call of destruction wailing in the night like a mother longing for her child to come back. It had been almost two weeks since the bombing when he returned last year and the mess it made had awoken something in him, something that would answer Verona’s call to devour. 

“I thought the damage would have been worse closer up but it looks quite poetic against this backdrop — like a ruin now, split right down the middle.” Cyrus turns to Mikael Falco, wondering why they even bothered. “Are you sure you need to rebuild this? Tourists pay a lot to take pictures with broken things. And that boat ride across the Adige could make a pretty penny.”

    He surveyed the ruin with a furrowed brow, picturing the Falco name upon a fine brass plate. This would be his gift to the city that had never appreciated him, an homage to the parents that had never once thought him truly worthy of the illustrious and respected name. He combed his fingers through his hair, thinking of all the work that would have to be done in order to accomplish the vision he had laid out -- a new bridge, stronger than the last but imbued with the stones of the bridge that had been rent apart by the petty grievances of two mobs who had been at war for so long that they had begun to repeat what affairs they were fighting about. “This is all where it happened,” he confirmed with a nod, turning to Cyrus with a rather curious quirk of his brow. 

    “I’m surprised we aren’t still on the news,” he mused, turning to look back at the ruin. Was it not worth noting how the bombing had happened? Or why? Or who had committed such a violent act against a city that had enough violence in it? “But there’s no doubt the rest of Verona is glad to have shined in a less-than-ideal limelight for a short amount of time.”

    Cosimo for one, was likely relieved to not have to smother the story. The more government eyes there were on Verona, the less likely select clientele would be willing to visit. And they needed to in order to see and hold the products for themselves. Whatever could have possessed the Montagues to make such a bullheaded move, he wasn’t sure, but in their determination to fuck over the Capulets they had almost done the whole city in. “The grand attraction of the Castelvecchio was that it had withstood against the test of time for so many years,” Mikael explained, slipping his hands into his pockets. “And then it had been rebuilt. Destruction is poetic, si, but the true beauty is seeing destruction give way to creation. That, mio ragazzo, is what we will attempt to do.”

[fortunesfalco]

imogen;

Dark brown eyes flit almost lazily to the paper scattered across her desk. The headline is one she knows—and knows well, having worked alongside the journalist who first uncovered the beginnings of what was turning out to be a gold mine of information on socialite Lucrezia Falco. “Unvetted?” Isabella challenges evenly, attention settling on the man in front of her.

“I understand your anger, signore, but I don’t blackball my writers for the hell of it. If something horribly incorrect and gross happened to make it through editing and into the paper, then yes—I would be looking to right the wrongs.” It goes without saying that Isabella believes in the validity of her writers and the stories that they produce. It then follows that she also believes that such unvetted, slanderous little tabloid pieces would have been caught long before publication.

Isa gathers the paper on her desk, settling it into a pile before neatly placing her hands atop it all. “The truth is our livelihood here at il Giornale,” she says. “I won’t force people out of their job just because of an apparent lack of communication between you and your beloved.”

    He watches her, lips curling in disdain at the manner in which she addresses him -- the anger that had once been a raging fire growing in its fury but transforming in its manifestation. The disgust on his face was clear, utter repulsion painting itself across his features in the glint of his gaze and the curve of his mouth, fingers curling into the paper that he held in his hand. Never before had he been so enraged as to consider the possibility of removing such a vile person from this earth, but now here he was, utterly possessed by the possibility of it. 

    “Unvetted.” He hissed, fingers clenching tighter, the sound of crumpled paper punctuating his accusation. When she called them her writers, he couldn’t help but let out a bark of incredulous laughter, utterly devoid of any sort of mirth. Instead, there is only scorn. She, nothing more than a snake beneath the heel of his boot, truly thought herself a lofty little thing, didn’t she? A thing with wings that could escape whatever consequences there would be to her actions -- her lies and slander. “I think, Isabella, you forget something. You forget that none of ‘your writers’ are yours -- they’re the public’s, are they not? Do you not live to serve the people of Verona? Disgusting, how the media has gotten it into their head that they can dictate the truth and deprive the people of what actually is the truth.”

    “You think you’re untouchable because you have put yourself on a soapbox and are shouting louder than others, with your words and your articles. But you are not. You have flaws, weaknesses, and secrets. You think because you are protected because you’re placed in the public eye, but you forget, Isabella, there is no protection offered here. Especially for the irrelevant, inconsequential likes of you.” If he had less integrity he would have spit in her face. He would have grabbed her by the throat and throttled her then and there. But he remained controlled -- for the most part -- eyes alight and burning with disgust as he looked down on her. 

[fortunesfalco]

lady macbeth & perdita;

The way Lucrezia said dearly sent a shiver down Paola’s spine. She hadn’t forgotten Isabela’s words of warning; she never once let herself confuse beauty for good. All that glittered was rotten, and Paola knew it. She met Lucrezia’s smile with one of her own, unable to help the way her grip tightened on Mikael’s arm.

She was hopelessly out of her league among the Falcos. The danger and the truth of the situation was not lost on Paola, though she was helpless to resist it. When the devil called, you did not deny him. You surrendered with your chin held high, knowing you were walking into hell’s jaw because the alternative would be far, far worse.

Lucrezia smiling at her, Mikael beside her, Paola wondered why the hell she had been summoned.

“I’m glad to see both of you are recovered.” Yet politeness still won out. How silly of her, an orphan from a foreign city pretending she knew how to play this game. The rules were lost on her, and she stayed silent when Mikael spoke. Uncomfortably, she shifted her weight in her seat and stared at Mikael blankly. They had been arguing? And her name had come up? None of it made sense; none of it was right, and it made her bones feel like straw beneath her skin.

“Thank you, Giulia,” she whispered when she was handed a glass of lemonade. She didn’t take a sip — she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t poisoned. After all, Paola had no idea what game they were playing; she had no grasp of the rules, so she would take no risks.

Besides, of course, accepting the invitation.

“I’m sorry if I’ve brought up some tension,” Paola finally said, her voice shaking as she fought to keep her tone light. “If you would like some time alone before dinner…” Please, let me leave and run away and never come back.

Lucrezia didn’t waver. Not once. Every cut Mikael drew with his words hastily healed itself, the blood not even able to slide down her arms, her neck, her hands. This feeling wasn’t regret. It was cold, raw anger. The sort that she hadn’t ever really felt before. Everything about her was usually burning fires. Every touch searing, every look melting. Lucrezia was accused of being many things, but it wasn’t ice that was so easily relatable to her. Ice always felt too fragile and delicate, whereas a flame could burn forever with the proper amount of fuel.

Lately, she felt the fuel start to fall away. December had been a month that dragged on, and it ended with her heart in her throat, and her hands clutching for dear life at the knife that had been held to her like a promise. Death had never felt so cruelly real before, and suddenly it clawed at her at every waking hour. A knocking at the door. A ringing of the Church bells. Death was all around them, and she wouldn’t let herself, or Mikael for that matter, be subjected to its clutches before their time.

And it hadn’t been their time yet. Everything was still so close, their fingertips brushing against each fever dream like lost lovers in the night. When would they be able to grasp onto it all? Not now. Not like this. She could feel the contempt radiating off of her husband. The disappointment thick in the air. Proving that Paola was just another woman in Verona wasn’t about to change anything, but at least she would expose a traitor in their midst. Sleeping with the enemy while trying to crawl directly into Mikael’s heart. Could there be a worse crime?

“Then I’ll tell her the truth,” Lucrezia begins, acknowledging Mikael’s words but not being persuaded in either direction except her own. “Sit.”

It isn’t a suggestion. It isn’t even merely a demand. It’s a command. Something that she wouldn’t suggest ignoring, not when she can feel the glass in her hand shake. Paola had proven to be nothing more than what everyone else in the world was. A liar. A cheat. And Mikael, with his stupidly open heart would have been willing to believe any lie that came out of her perfectly shaped lips, as long as she spoke the words nicely.

“We were arguing because I made a mistake. At least I owned up to it. Every horrible thing that I’ve done, I’ll gladly own up to it all. That’s why I’m not as much of a threat as people that walk through life pretending to be a sheep, when in reality, they’ve been a wolf all along. What do you think, Paola? Are you a sheep, or a wolf?”

Her words hang like a fog around the pleasantly lit room. Despite any preconceived notions, the Falco’s didn’t live in a dungeon or a lair. Their home was bright and airy, with harsh edges that are softened with the right textures. Inviting someone into their dining room wouldn’t have sounded any immediate alarms, but it is in the normality of it all where the danger lies. Anything that looks perfect is bound to have cracks.

    There were a number of things that Mikael didn’t like -- he wasn’t fickle or difficult to please, but there were certainly a number of things that made him irritated. The utmost of them being when those in power held it over the head of those beneath them, those who were so obviously cowering in fear. That was what his parents had done to him, more or less; he had craved their validation for so long, had wanted nothing more to please them, and they tried to hold that over his head, still. For so long, his wife had done the same to him, but now that his lips had been sweetened by her affection, he knew how rancorous her displeasure could be. 

    Now she was to know his, in turn. 

    He couldn’t abide the way that she seemed to lick her chops at Paola’s obvious discomfort, keen to let her languish in it. There was nothing he could do to assuage the discomfort that seemed to radiate off of the woman beside him, just as surely as he knew that any attempt to help her would be ill-received by his wife.  That didn’t keep him from snapping at her though -- a wounded wolf was one that didn’t take well to the demands of others. He looked at Paola, a half-smile etched on his lips, eyes seemingly mild. Sit, Lucrezia had hissed. “Sit or don’t sit. Hell, Paola, you can sit on the table for all I fucking care. Ah -- and don’t worry, you can drink the lemonade. Giulia likes you, she wouldn’t put anything in your drink that wasn’t meant to be there.” 

    But then she continued on, bull-headed and stubborn like a child that had just been caught in the midst of their lies. So they continued to lie instead, digging themselves deeper and deeper into their grave. For some reason, though, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Paola. He couldn’t bring himself to meet those wide, doe-like eyes -- didn’t dare confront that pale face that brought him such warmth. 

    “That’s e n o u g h, Lucrezia.”

    He looked up at her, disgust etched onto his face. Disdain in his eyes, as they had once been in hers. DIsappointment carved on the edges of his mouth into a cruel frown. 

    “Stop playing games with her like this, she’s not some little mouse that you can bat around.”

    Finally, he looked at Paola, eyes muted, brows drawn together. Truly, he didn’t know what to believe. The only truth that he knew was this: he cared for Paola. In the short time they had known each other, she had been nothing less than a blessing. While he was with her, his smiles had come easily, his laughter had been genuine, and for once in this horrible, godforsaken city, he had felt the fire in his heart alight. Not in the way Lucrezia ignited it, where it razed all else, but in the way that a hearth was lit -- calling one home. 

    “You know who did this to me, yes?” Mikael paused, eyes flickering between hers. “It was Marcelo Rosso. Lucrezia claims that you’re...close with them. And I don’t believe it.” She needed an explanation, she needed to know why -- 

    “I don’t think you’re capable of being with someone so cruel.” 

[fortunesfalco]

lady macbeth;

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    The shirt fell away -- and with it, any semblance of his self-control. His gaze licked at the unblemished skin that was before him, the perfect curves and willowy limbs that would have made any mortal fall upon their knees in awe. And here he was, having her put on this little show for him and him alone. She was his, and his alone. And he was going to remind her of that each time, remind her that he had fought for her and would continue fighting for her until she admitted it without prompt, without the shedding of blood. He would make her realize that their souls were tied together and that they were always meant to be. With every touch of his skin against hers, she would come to know this. 

    Then she began to move. Her fingers began to rub at her clit, the other hand caressing her breast ardently, silken hair tossing back as she voices her satisfaction. And to think, he hasn’t even touched her yet. But he will, soon, just not yet. He hoped to see how wildly she would drive herself, falling into Eros’ sweet embrace, before she begged for him to relieve her -- his lips twitched crooked into a half-smile at that. The sweet sound of her pleading for him to let her come, to fuck her with his hand around his throat until she was gasping, was the greatest victory he has ever, or will ever know. 

    “A show is what I want,” he murmurs, eyes falling to watch the movements of her hands, idly palming his heavy cock in tandem with her motions. “And if I must be cruel to you in order to get what I want, then so be it.” 

    Suddenly, his hand grabs her wrist, pulling it away from her clit. Whatever satisfaction she had been giving herself was paused. She wanted her to be cruel to him, and so he shall be. He placed himself between her legs, ignoring the pangs of pain that ricocheted through him as he moved. Idly, he nosed at her clit, her wrist still in his hand, gaze measured and mischievous. “If you touch me, I stop. Think you can keep your hands to yourself, cara mia? I would hate to have to punish you for disobeying me.”

    Mikael placed a kiss to her inner thigh, biting into the tender flesh gently. Another followed, then one more until his lips were pressing against her clit. He looked up at her with a smirk, curious to see whether or not she would listen to him, or if her preference for his cruelty was more insatiable than her need to please him. Slowly, he laid his tongue upon her, licking and sucking, eager to hear the sound of her name falling from her tongue. If there were a heaven, he never wanted to step foot past the pearly gates. For this, right here, was the only paradise that he would need, this Eden between her legs that allowed him to gorge himself on the forbidden fruit. He hummed against her, patience be damned, fingers sinking into the flesh of her thighs as he roughly pulled her closer, tongue delving into her cunt.

[fortunesfalco]

imogen;

date: the past location: il giornale, isabella’s office status: closed to @fortunesfalco

If Isabella had a dollar for every time someone was displeased with that she allowed to be published in il Giornale, she would be rich.

Mikael Falco isn’t the first to demand an audience with her, but he is one of the few that she entertains–if only because of his connection to la mafia and his wife. Lucrezia Falco. She’s sure that she is the reason why he’s coming, and the journalist can’t really blame him. If someone published an article about Celeste in that way, she’d be livid, too.

Isa sits at her desk, fingernails clacking against the keyboard of her laptop as she awaits his arrival. It’s 11:57 am. Absentmindedly, she wonders what kind of man he will be: a punctual man, an early man, a late man. Judging by the note left by her assistant–He’s… Really angry, signora–she bets that he’ll be early for their meeting at noon. 

“Signore… Falco, is it?” the woman asks, gaze flitting from her screen to the door that creaks open without so much as a knock. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

    Loving Lucrezia was never an easy thing -- it was a God-given task bestowed upon him that challenged him each day he awoke with breath still in his lungs. But as of late, there was hope that it might get easier. She had been nothing short of doting and affectionate, purring in his ear and pressing sweet kisses to his cheek whenever she had the chance. That was all ruined though, shattered like the sound of thunder in the silence of the night, the moment that he got the news alert on his phone. 

    He had flung it across the room in his anger, shattering the screen that flickered faintly before dying. But the headline of the article would forever be burned in his mind. 

    It shouldn’t be believed, he knew that. He knew that. But he remembered how disdainfully she had looked at him before, the disappointment that reflected in her eyes when he hadn’t been able to abide the thought of her killing a young girl. It would be so easy for her to lose herself in another and forget him. It would be so easy for her to break the vow that they had taken before God. 

    “Isabella,” he hissed, a sneer of disdain on his face as he throws the paper in front of her, the headline glaring at them both. “Explain why you haven’t been fucking blackballed writing unvetted, slanderous little tabloid pieces like this.”

[falcolucrezia-blog]

ft. @fortunesfalco

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