Out of Order
DSICLAIMER AND APOLOGY: THE CORLEONE UNIVERSE OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO THE CREATIVE MINDS OF MARIO PUZO AND FF COPPOLA. THIS FANFIC OWES ITS GOOFBALL PLOT AND MINDLESS ROMANCE TO ME. I LOVE THOSE TWO GUYS AND THE GODFATHER, AND I WROTE THIS STORY JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT. I´D PREFER NOT TO GET WHACKED. HAVE A NICE READ!
One:
Two Weeks Earlier - THE GIRL GONE CRAZY
I don´t deserve this, she thought for what wasn´t the first time in her life. I really don´t think I deserve this.
At last, she thought, this is the way you wanted it. Now swallow it whole.
She could make it. She could. She could do this on her own.
She swallowed hard and looked around, barely able to face the horrors that surrounded her, and all the eagerness, all the anticipation she had built up inside her imploded like a balloon.
Nah, she couldn´t.
She opened her mouth to speak.
"I," she stated, " am the daughter of Don Vito Corleone. I shouldn´t have to suffer this."
The small room, however, remained unimpressed.
Her shopping bags slipped from her manicured hands, slumping on the floor on each side of her body. Some three months ago, these bags would´ve been Gucci and Armani bags, containing the newest and neatest of couture and lingerie and shoes.
Today, on the other hand, they were plain brown paper bags containing cigarettes, instant coffee, cookies, a bottle of Vodka, tons of chinese duck soup cans and a pink romance novel she had started to read at the counter and hadn´t been able to put down. It was entitled "The Garden Of Tingling Passion". Which was a bit of a sad laugh considering that she was as far from Tingling Passions as anyone could be.
When she had gone out, she had wanted to buy some fresh peppers, tomato, fine squid and Pasta to cook, but had realized on the way that there was no point. She had always loved cooking, it was one of the few things she was great at, she even considered it a kind of meditation. This was something she had inherited by her mother, who had been the invincible force in the Corleone kitchen. Cooking had always calmed her spirits in situations like these.
But she hated to cook for herself. It sucked.
For she wasn´t only in a mess, she wasn´t only broke, she was also lonely, which was probably the worst bit.
She allowed her body to go limp, give in, collapse into the dusty armchair - the only piece of furniture she positively owned at the moment - and lit herself a cigarette.
She gave a snorting little laugh when she remembered how her brother had tried to permit her to smoke her delicate little designer cigarettes in his house while all his cronies lounged around puffing away gigantic cigars. That ancient-minded, misanthropic sonofabitch.
Anyway, he was gone, and so were the designer cigarettes.
Finally.
Last time she had turned her back on her family (or what was left of it), she had been granted the chance to redeem, to crawl back to shelter, but this time, she was out. Final. Full stop. No more.
She was an outkast, she had been shunned, she was considered crazy, out of line, out of order, the one who wasn´t talked about at the family receptions (which was saying something since there was usually a great deal of talking about Connie Corleone at family receptions). She couldn´t have returned if she´d wanted to, which at the moment she was pretty sure she didn´t.
If only it hadn´t been for the letter by her bank this morning, in which she was kindly demanded to hand back her golden credit card.
She continued smoking, snipping the ashes carelessly on the floo-striken carpet.
Connie, Connie, Connie, she thought in her brother´s cold, sneering voice. What´s become of you?
"Don´t ask," she croaked into the emptiness.
She took a break while liting another cigarette. Ok. She was in a desperate situation. It wasn´t the first time in her life, but ah, well.
In her mind, she skipped over all the worst case scenarios in her life (and there had been some), checking through all the tactics she had used to get out of them.
She was very disappointed when she noted that all of those tactics involved picking up the phone and calling a man.
In fact, this appeared to be the tactic in a whole.
She would´ve called Papa. She would´ve called Sonny. She would´ve called Tom Hagen (over and over). She would´ve called Michael...and things would´ve been sorted out in a way...not the best way, maybe, but they would´ve been sorted out all right.
But she had never, ever faced anything like this. And in the same second she realized this, she knew she would never swallow it, she would never bare it, she would never make it on her own.
She was no heroine, she was no loner, she wasn´t strong, she wasn´t built to stand this.
She closed her eyes as she felt desparation float trough every vein of her body like heavy liquor.
Thinking of heavy liquor, she could use some... She reached for the Vodka bottle and struggled down a large sip.
The alcohol fueled her energies once again, and turned her thoughts on a brighter level.
So it was no use denying it. She wasn´t good at doing things by herself. On the other hand - she was a hell of a talent when it came to occupy others. She needed someone. Someone who could fix things up.
As long as it wasn´t a scumbag like Carlo, her first husband, who appeared to be all hunky and muscles at first and then spent their short, devastating marriage easing inferiority complex over his general uselesness in slapping her around while she carried their baby. And who was only screwing her in the wild hope to become part of the Corleone family.
As long as he wasn´t as dull, dull, DULL as her second husband, who she had married in an act of sheer desperation and now could hardly remember, except the annoyance she had felt realizing he was only screwing her (oh and he wasn´t even good at it) to manage his way to the top of the Corleone family.
As long as it wasn´t a cheating little slimeball like Merle, who had been gone one morning, leaving a note: "Gone. Found female soulmate yesterday night. Off to Florida to found Beach Hotel. Getting married. Send you divorce papers. Don´t look for me. Hope you´re not too pissed. Bye. Merle. P.S.: Don´t bother telling your brothers about this, okay?" Merle, who had only screwed her because....oh, forget about it.
And above all, as long as it wasn´t a cold-hearted bastard as her only remaining BROTHER, Michael, who had shut the door in the face of his own children´s mother, who preferred servants to confidants, whose cold, disapproving glare would follow her everywhere, who had greedily captured her in the role of a surrogate wife, because he knew he would never in his life again encounter someone he´d let close to him..
Hell, she thought. What a bunch of bastards. Shame on you, Connie.
Too bad Papa is dead, she thought, quite reasonably, I could use someone like Papa right now...
...someone who had all the warmth, the kindness, the understanding of Vito Corleone, who would comofort her and shelter her the way she needed it, but who at the same time also had all the cunning, the boldness and virtue to attend her ailings...
And then it occured to her.
Slowly she started to smile as an intriguing thought entered her mind.
Her smile was cold, calculating. It was the Corleone smile.
She hadn´t thought about that for quite some time. But she remembered how it had been one of her favorite plots back then before she had finally quit plotting and settled on whining.
Yeah, she thought. That would do.
That might just WORK.
And it was a challenge, too. A challenge of the kind she liked. Lovely.
She hadn´t always done what was best for her. But this time, she swore to herself, she would.
Still smiling, she turned around to reach the telephone. She dialed and put the receiver to her ear.
Then she remembered how telephones weren´t working if you didn´t pay the bill.
Cursing, she dropped the dead phone on the floor, successfully whacking the cockroach that had just been about to make its way to the kitchen, and got up to look for a cell phone.
DSICLAIMER AND APOLOGY: THE CORLEONE UNIVERSE OWES ITS EXISTENCE TO THE CREATIVE MINDS OF MARIO PUZO AND FF COPPOLA. THIS FANFIC OWES ITS GOOFBALL PLOT AND MINDLESS ROMANCE TO ME. I LOVE THOSE TWO GUYS AND THE GODFATHER, AND I WROTE THIS STORY JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT. I´D PREFER NOT TO GET WHACKED. HAVE A NICE READ!
One:
Two Weeks Earlier - THE GIRL GONE CRAZY
I don´t deserve this, she thought for what wasn´t the first time in her life. I really don´t think I deserve this.
At last, she thought, this is the way you wanted it. Now swallow it whole.
She could make it. She could. She could do this on her own.
She swallowed hard and looked around, barely able to face the horrors that surrounded her, and all the eagerness, all the anticipation she had built up inside her imploded like a balloon.
Nah, she couldn´t.
She opened her mouth to speak.
"I," she stated, " am the daughter of Don Vito Corleone. I shouldn´t have to suffer this."
The small room, however, remained unimpressed.
Her shopping bags slipped from her manicured hands, slumping on the floor on each side of her body. Some three months ago, these bags would´ve been Gucci and Armani bags, containing the newest and neatest of couture and lingerie and shoes.
Today, on the other hand, they were plain brown paper bags containing cigarettes, instant coffee, cookies, a bottle of Vodka, tons of chinese duck soup cans and a pink romance novel she had started to read at the counter and hadn´t been able to put down. It was entitled "The Garden Of Tingling Passion". Which was a bit of a sad laugh considering that she was as far from Tingling Passions as anyone could be.
When she had gone out, she had wanted to buy some fresh peppers, tomato, fine squid and Pasta to cook, but had realized on the way that there was no point. She had always loved cooking, it was one of the few things she was great at, she even considered it a kind of meditation. This was something she had inherited by her mother, who had been the invincible force in the Corleone kitchen. Cooking had always calmed her spirits in situations like these.
But she hated to cook for herself. It sucked.
For she wasn´t only in a mess, she wasn´t only broke, she was also lonely, which was probably the worst bit.
She allowed her body to go limp, give in, collapse into the dusty armchair - the only piece of furniture she positively owned at the moment - and lit herself a cigarette.
She gave a snorting little laugh when she remembered how her brother had tried to permit her to smoke her delicate little designer cigarettes in his house while all his cronies lounged around puffing away gigantic cigars. That ancient-minded, misanthropic sonofabitch.
Anyway, he was gone, and so were the designer cigarettes.
Finally.
Last time she had turned her back on her family (or what was left of it), she had been granted the chance to redeem, to crawl back to shelter, but this time, she was out. Final. Full stop. No more.
She was an outkast, she had been shunned, she was considered crazy, out of line, out of order, the one who wasn´t talked about at the family receptions (which was saying something since there was usually a great deal of talking about Connie Corleone at family receptions). She couldn´t have returned if she´d wanted to, which at the moment she was pretty sure she didn´t.
If only it hadn´t been for the letter by her bank this morning, in which she was kindly demanded to hand back her golden credit card.
She continued smoking, snipping the ashes carelessly on the floo-striken carpet.
Connie, Connie, Connie, she thought in her brother´s cold, sneering voice. What´s become of you?
"Don´t ask," she croaked into the emptiness.
She took a break while liting another cigarette. Ok. She was in a desperate situation. It wasn´t the first time in her life, but ah, well.
In her mind, she skipped over all the worst case scenarios in her life (and there had been some), checking through all the tactics she had used to get out of them.
She was very disappointed when she noted that all of those tactics involved picking up the phone and calling a man.
In fact, this appeared to be the tactic in a whole.
She would´ve called Papa. She would´ve called Sonny. She would´ve called Tom Hagen (over and over). She would´ve called Michael...and things would´ve been sorted out in a way...not the best way, maybe, but they would´ve been sorted out all right.
But she had never, ever faced anything like this. And in the same second she realized this, she knew she would never swallow it, she would never bare it, she would never make it on her own.
She was no heroine, she was no loner, she wasn´t strong, she wasn´t built to stand this.
She closed her eyes as she felt desparation float trough every vein of her body like heavy liquor.
Thinking of heavy liquor, she could use some... She reached for the Vodka bottle and struggled down a large sip.
The alcohol fueled her energies once again, and turned her thoughts on a brighter level.
So it was no use denying it. She wasn´t good at doing things by herself. On the other hand - she was a hell of a talent when it came to occupy others. She needed someone. Someone who could fix things up.
As long as it wasn´t a scumbag like Carlo, her first husband, who appeared to be all hunky and muscles at first and then spent their short, devastating marriage easing inferiority complex over his general uselesness in slapping her around while she carried their baby. And who was only screwing her in the wild hope to become part of the Corleone family.
As long as he wasn´t as dull, dull, DULL as her second husband, who she had married in an act of sheer desperation and now could hardly remember, except the annoyance she had felt realizing he was only screwing her (oh and he wasn´t even good at it) to manage his way to the top of the Corleone family.
As long as it wasn´t a cheating little slimeball like Merle, who had been gone one morning, leaving a note: "Gone. Found female soulmate yesterday night. Off to Florida to found Beach Hotel. Getting married. Send you divorce papers. Don´t look for me. Hope you´re not too pissed. Bye. Merle. P.S.: Don´t bother telling your brothers about this, okay?" Merle, who had only screwed her because....oh, forget about it.
And above all, as long as it wasn´t a cold-hearted bastard as her only remaining BROTHER, Michael, who had shut the door in the face of his own children´s mother, who preferred servants to confidants, whose cold, disapproving glare would follow her everywhere, who had greedily captured her in the role of a surrogate wife, because he knew he would never in his life again encounter someone he´d let close to him..
Hell, she thought. What a bunch of bastards. Shame on you, Connie.
Too bad Papa is dead, she thought, quite reasonably, I could use someone like Papa right now...
...someone who had all the warmth, the kindness, the understanding of Vito Corleone, who would comofort her and shelter her the way she needed it, but who at the same time also had all the cunning, the boldness and virtue to attend her ailings...
And then it occured to her.
Slowly she started to smile as an intriguing thought entered her mind.
Her smile was cold, calculating. It was the Corleone smile.
She hadn´t thought about that for quite some time. But she remembered how it had been one of her favorite plots back then before she had finally quit plotting and settled on whining.
Yeah, she thought. That would do.
That might just WORK.
And it was a challenge, too. A challenge of the kind she liked. Lovely.
She hadn´t always done what was best for her. But this time, she swore to herself, she would.
Still smiling, she turned around to reach the telephone. She dialed and put the receiver to her ear.
Then she remembered how telephones weren´t working if you didn´t pay the bill.
Cursing, she dropped the dead phone on the floor, successfully whacking the cockroach that had just been about to make its way to the kitchen, and got up to look for a cell phone.