INERTIA.

Giovanni Davide Vincelli. 30. 

[giovannivincelli]

soixanteqvinze​:

closed to : @giovannivincelli​ location : aurélie’s and nalini’s apartment  time : september 12, 1924

i’m going to kill her. i’m going to kill her, but first i’m going to kill giovanni vincelli. quick strides take aurélie to the man in question, and she pins him in place with a cold smile, brief as it is cutting. “what the fuck are you doing here?” she hisses, voice like a knife. she has half a mind to pour the rest of her drink on him, but she refrains, if only for nalu’s sake.  

still, she can’t resist getting a few more jabs in when she recalls just how much nalu has cried over him, and the trail of heartbreak since then. how shameless of him to put on that smile she knows nalu fell headfirst for back in paris. to take refuge here, in their own fucking home, when he could’ve chosen anywhere else. even the downstairs apartment would do! “don’t you have your own house to run back to?” where you have a wife? she means to say. “or whatever hole you crawled out of?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

It startles him, just a little—though it certainly shouldn’t, for more reasons than one. He’s grown accustomed to far more jarring interruptions, having spent years in the war, and—to state what’s obvious to the woman accosting him and what’s not obvious to anyone who, well, matters—he’s infiltrated the four walls of precisely the woman he should be seeking to avoid.

Giovanni Vincelli has never been known for making sound decisions. Why the fuck does she need to ask?

Still, he doesn’t show that she’s spooked him in the slightest, an easy smile taking hold of the edges of his lips and settling there. “Hello, Aurelie. It’s lovely to see you again, too.” And maybe it would be, if she weren’t such a royal pain in the ass. “I do, and the hole I crawled out of is rather cozy, but I wanted to come and have a look at yours. I wasn’t disappointed.”

[giovannivincelli]

honcyandlemon​:

Closed starter for: @giovannivincelli​ Location: Aurelie and Nalini’s apartment TWs: Gun violence

“Oh!”

The apartment has become a little crowded, and as she turns, her elbow is jostled by the man to her right, sending the contents of her drink spilling onto the nearest body. It is just her luck, then, that said body belonged to Giovanni Vincelli, her ex not-husband. 

For a moment, she can’t really do anything but look at him, and it all comes rushing back to her. France, and everything that happened between them there, was so long ago that it doesn’t stand to reason that she can still look at him and recall every emotion she felt when they were together in Paris, but when it comes to matters of the heart, Nalini has never been able to listen to reason. 

Her eyes drift from his face, down to the wet patch of champagne seeping through his shirt. She blinks, and forces a smile, and forces herself to make nice. She knows she can’t say anything here, nothing beyond friendly platitudes. She can’t tell him she’s glad he’s here, and not out there, vulnerable to stray bullets and in the thick of danger, so she doesn’t. 

“Your shirt…” she shrugs the shawl from around her shoulders, and looks like she’s going to dab at him with it, but pauses just before making contact. “Better not, hey? This is real silk.” She chuckles, shaking her head, and gestures to the bathroom. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, hm?”

He shouldn’t be here.

It settles between his ribs like a knife, this pinprick of self-reflection, and he knows that if he were to look a little closer, dig a little deeper, pull it out at the hilt - that he might feel it just a little more on its way out. So he does what he’s always done, when he’s doing things he damn sure shouldn’t be: he shoots and asks questions later.

Only this time, he’s not holding a gun. This time, he saw the chance to fight, to live, to bleed - because they’re all the same, aren’t they? - and he turned, and he walked away.

He shouldn’t be here, that much is true. But he’s not there, and isn’t that worth something?

He feels the chill race across his chest before he can decipher the source, and though he reacts with the rapid reflexes and raw instinct of a soldier, though he knew exactly what he might be getting himself into when he came here, to this house - to her house, he freezes, caught somewhere between the man he might’ve been in France and the man he maybe ought not to be... “Here.” Deft fingers pull a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and dab at the soiled white of his shirt before pressing it, the skin of his palm flush against the soft underside of her wrist, into her hands. “You’ll need it, too.” And then he nods in the direction of what he thinks might be the washroom, looking at her - not for the first time - like he wants her to show him the way.

[vieuxcarrerpg]

SOUTHSIDE

A favourite of gangsters and bootleggers alike, the Southside is designed with intense flavour to disguise the taste of bathtub gin. Combine gin, lime juice, simple syrup and mint leaves for a sweet, minty and refreshing botanical taste. 

Name: Giovanni Davide Vincelli FC: Max Irons Age: 30 Pronouns: he /  him  Occupation: Mafia Lieutenant Affiliation: The Vincelli Crime Family

HISTORY

The second son of Salvatore Vincelli, and the first to be born into his marriage to Rosa, Southside was always favoured by his mother, coddled and shielded from the consequences of his actions. As a result, he grew to be careless, acting with his heart and his emotions rather than his brain. When coupled with his hot temper and talent for violence inherited from his father, it made for an unpredictable mix. More thoughtless than malicious, his less savoury traits were only exaggerated after a stint serving in France in the first world war. He returned expecting a hero’s welcome, and instead, found the world he left behind in disarray. Blind sided by his half-brother’s defection to the police force, Southside lost his way. He didn’t mean to, but an argument with The Consigliere, his father’s closest advisor, left the man dead, and Southside was left in disgrace, with Salvatore denouncing his son’s actions and casting him aside as his successor. Despite his demotion in the ranks, he’s found he’s far happier without the pressure of the increased responsibilities on his shoulders, leaving him free to pursue other avenues of interest - namely drinking and fighting. 

CONNECTIONS

Blood & Sand, Sidecar, Highball : Southside remains barely aware of the war his siblings are engaged in, though he has the vague notion that he is a target of irritation for all three. Like his father, he is hoping for reconciliation one day. With no ambitions to regain his position as his father’s heir, he’s more than happy to remain in a supporting role for whoever does eventually inherit the crown. 

Brandy Alexander : They married too young, and Southside was not yet mature enough to make it work. In many ways, he still isn’t. He has betrayed his marriage vows, but having been the source of much disappointment to those closest to him, he’s adamant that this never be revealed to her, so that he may maintain some degree of respectability in the eyes of the last person who doesn’t view him as a burden. 

Bee’s Knees : They met in France, in his most desperate days, and back then, she was a guiding light that brought him through the darkness. Perhaps that was why things went as far as they did — a whirlwind wedding that he knew wasn’t valid, due to the fact he was already somebody else’s husband followed shortly after their first meeting. He didn’t mean to hurt her, and so when he returned to America with a false promise that he would send for her when things had settled, he thought that would be the end of it, that she would forget about him and move on. He didn’t count on her showing up several years later in search of him. Panicked and desperate to cover his tracks, he’s begged her to keep their dalliance a secret, and so far, she has. He keeps tabs on her from a distance, silently watching her stumble from one shambolic situation to another and questioning why somebody like her continues to give herself to people who don’t deserve her. 

Southside is taken by Bree

[facinaoris]

“Let me say it plain: I loved someone and I failed at it. Let me say it another way: I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife.”

— Nicole Homer, “Underbelly,” via poets.org