Author's Note: This is a preview chapter for a project I've been working on since mid-2021. I'm hoping to get feedback on whether this is a venture worthwhile. I'm particularly excited and hopeful about this project, and I hope you share the same enthusiasm as well. The following is what would be the first chapter in a crossover between Harry Potter and The Godfather, with Harry growing up in the dangerous world that Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola had shown a light on back in 1972. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope to hear your thoughts in your reviews.
SIDE NOTICE: The Harry Potter half of the crossover begins at the end of chapter 2.
New York, 1985
Al Neri was dead.
This troubling fact stood paramount in the mind of the old man as he sat with cold black eyes peering through the back window of the brown Maserati Quattroporte as the driver pulled up on 301 Park Avenue in Manhattan. The sedan drove up the street before parking in front of the Waldorf entrance, purring as the driver put the gear in park while leaving the engine on. The driver stepped out of the vehicle and walked around the other side, opening the door to the back passenger seat to let out his employer.
The passenger door soon revealed a cane that banged against the concrete sidewalk, followed by a pair of black Calf Derbys. A moment passed before the man stepped out onto the street in an expensive black dinner suit, a lit camel pressed against his lips.
The man reached up after taking a long drag of the cigarette and held it between his fingers, letting the smoke release with a sigh. The air was crisp in the mid-October cold, revealing the shuddered breath of the man beneath the homburg's rim.
Michael Corleone was a man in his mid-sixties, short and hunched where he stood. Age and the stresses of his life had taken a toll on the man, the wrinkled bags hanging from his eyes giving him a persistent, tired expression. Despite this, he still held himself with power and dignity, though his outward pomp and stance hid the broken and isolated heart that lay inside.
As his eyes took in everything in his immediate surroundings, taking note of a sign by the door surrounded by jack-o-lanterns proclaiming the 'Corleone Charity Ball' as tonight's event on the 4th Floor. Michael lifted his head to look up at the monolith towering over him, a sigh on his breath as he stepped into the hotel. He made his way through the lobby, not bothering to glance at anyone as he walked into the hotel elevator. In the silence the lift provided, Michael couldn't help but reflect on the past.
Michael had always tried to model himself after his father, displaying his wisdom and power to everyone he did business with while putting on the outward appearance of a family-oriented man. The truth though was that, for all his displays of familial connection, he never held his own to the value he should have when it mattered. As a result, he had driven his wife Kay away from himself: She'd grown fearful of him and, over the years, that had grown into resentment and hatred; torn between that, and the love she once held for him, had left her a bitter and haggard woman.
His son, Anthony, had learned at a young age of the coldness that lay in Michael's soul and rejected his way of life for it. He dropped out of law school and went into theatre as an act of rebellion against him. Michael couldn't bring himself to blame his son for this, knowing that his defiance was all but justified. Secretly, Michael was proud of his son's success, becoming the lead in many opera performances that debuted around the world. If he had the opportunity to tell him that himself he would do so in a heartbeat, but Anthony refused to speak to him, distancing himself from his father after what happened that night five years ago at the Cavalleria Rusticana in Palermo.
And Mary… Mary…
Michael brought a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, but composed himself as the elevator doors opened to a wave of music and laughter. Stepping out into the foyer, Michael peered through the open doors of the banquet hall. Tables uncounted littered the room with orange cloth, jack-o-lanterns, and baskets of fruit decorating their tops. A live band played on the banquet hall stage, their singer performing a jazz-like tune as people in business suits and expensive dresses chattered between bites of food, while waiters served patrons wine. Michael considered the band grudgingly acceptable, remembering the days when Johnny Fontane would serenade middle-aged housewives while teenage girls swooned. It seemed to Michael that with the singer's passing those days were long behind him, and in death, Johnny had taken the good times with him. Incoming guests milled around a white cloth-covered table set before the entrance of the hall, speaking to the receptionist to check their names off a list. He stepped toward the reception desk, looking down at the young man guarding the entryway.
"Name?" The receptionist asked in a bored tone, writing something down in his ledger.
"Michael Corleone." The receptionist paused in his work and looked up, a peculiar look in his eyes as he picked up the visitor's book.
"Let me just look you up on the list." The receptionist began flipping through his logbook, frowning as his finger skimmed through the C's and then the M's, "Ah, I don't see your name on the list, sir."
There was a moment of silence between the two, Michael's lips thinning. "...I see."
"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Corleone. Maybe I made a mistake with the listing-!" The receptionist stammered, looking a bit lost.
"You're fine, kid, I came by because I was in the neighborhood, anyway," Michael reassured him, waving it off.
"Hey! What's going on here?"
The Receptionist was startled as he and Michael turned to the address, watching as a man approached.
"Michael? Is that you?" The man asked, an elated smile looming at the corners of his mouth.
"Peter." Michael greeted, giving the larger man a tired smile. Peter Bianchi was a man settling into the dawn of his fifties with a shrewd intellect and eyes sharp like a cat on the prowl. Despite the gray hairs of his sideburns licking at his otherwise slick black mane, he was fit for his age, standing with a firm back that showed confidence.
Michael had first met Bianchi in the early 60s, fresh out of law school and ready to make his mark on the world. Starting out his campaign to take the family legitimate just a few years prior, Michael saw Bianchi as a prime candidate to work on his legal affairs during the transition. Bianchi on the other hand had been reluctant, knowing of Corleone's reputation through rumor.
However, that reluctance proved moot when Bianchi was served a draft letter from the United States government. Not wanting to be shipped off overseas to die in the jungles of a third-world country when his talents told of a promising career, Bianchi had gone to Michael for help. More than happy to provide a favor for a favor, Michael had pulled a few strings in Washington to get the young man off the hook, on the condition that he take his offer of work.
Bianchi took it happily. Since then, Bianchi was taken under the wing of Tom Hagan to familiarize himself with how the family conducted their business. To put it in simpler terms, Bianchi hadn't been too impressed with the slow transition being made by the old guard. Having a fresh perspective and the spit and vinegar of youth, Bianchi spent many months with both the older lawyer and Hagan's then apprentice B.J. Harrison. Together, they brainstormed a new course plan to transition the family's financial foundation from the casinos to real estate.
It was Bianchi's aggressive legal tactics that saw the plan through in the beginning stages, and Tom and B.J.'s experienced skills that saw it bear fruit. However, their plans were momentarily halted when Tom died of heart failure in the early part of the 1970s. Though Tom's death was a hard blow to the family as a whole, it was the combined efforts of Bianchi and B.J. that allowed the business to make the transition without issue. And while B.J. was promoted to Tom's old position as Micheal's personal attorney, Bianchi could always be found working with the man into the late hours of the night over some financial issue.
"Michael, it's good to see you. It's okay, kid. He's welcome here." Bianchi sent a look at the young receptionist, moving Michael away from the table and into the party hall.
"I know that look. Please don't give the kid trouble." Michael insisted, keeping his eyes on the man.
"I won't, just a little fun is all," Bianchi said with a sense of finality in his voice, his eyes glowing in mischief as he looked over his shoulder. "He'll be scared shitless, thinking he'll get demoted to unclogging the hotel's toilets. It'll be fun!"
"Peter…"
"Hold on, I want you to meet my son! Enzo! Enzo, get over here!" Michael sighed as Bianchi's excitement made him run his mouth and not pay attention, squaring himself as he watched a young man in his mid-teens walking toward them. The boy was handsome, with soft, round features and a heart-shaped face that would make the girls his age swoon at the sight of his blonde windswept hair.
"Enzo, this is my old boss, Michael Corleone."
The boy's crystal blue eyes widened in awe as he reached out his hand to shake, smiling as the man who his father had spoken of often since he was a toddler took his hand. "Oh! It's nice to meet you, Mr. Corleone!"
"Nice to meet such a polite young man. This is little Lorenzo? My God, the last time I saw you, you were this..." Using his hand to measure approximately three feet from the floor, earning an embarrassed smile from the boy. Michael looked Enzo over, pleased by his strong build and eyes that shone with intelligence.
"He's grown into a strong young man under my hand. Smart, too. I'll have him ready when he goes to work for the family." Bianchi smiled with pride, clasping his arm around the boy's shoulder.
Michael considered Enzo, knowing that his father had desired the role of Consigliere in the business after Tom Hagan's death, but was looked over as the family went legitimate and his talents were deemed to be needed elsewhere. With Vincent now the head of the family, Bianchi's ambitions for his son pointed to wanting him to rise as the man who would one day replace Harrison in Vincent's new empire.
"Doing well in school?" Michael asked.
"Yes sir! I'm hoping to become a leader in the academic law club at Regis. My grades are good, but I don't know if I'll be as good as the other students." Enzo added with reluctance, eyeing his father as he laughed at his son.
"Modest, isn't he? Has a straight-A average along with extracurricular credits, and he plays it off as if he won't get the lead role in the club in a few years." Peter exclaimed, boasting about the accomplishments of his son.
"I'm sure he will, and that ambition will do him well into adulthood. He'll make a fine member of the business."
"Thank you, Mr. Corleone." Enzo smiled as he shook his hand again, then looked to his father, "Dad, Abbandando's looking for you."
"Tell him I'll be there in a moment. Tell him I've got Michael with me. Go on." Peter waved Enzo away, watching his son disappear into the crowd of party-goers.
"Speaking of the business, how is Vincent?" Michael asked, noting how Bianchi seemed to display a level of guilt in his eyes.
"He… ah." Bianchi felt uncomfortable as he shifted on his feet, refusing to meet the former Don's eye, "Michael, I'm not the one to…"
"What? You can't tell me how my own nephew is doing? You're still working on legal matters, right?" Michael questioned, wondering why Peter seemed nervous to answer him.
"Nothing in regard to the business, I'm not exactly 'in' anymore, Mike," Bianchi admitted, sounding apologetic, and a tad bit resentful. "Nothing but small-time accounting now."
"He shelved you? Why? You were one of my best lawyers, you should be working out deals with shareholders for the company. Hell, investment management at the least!" Michael exclaimed, shocked that Vincent would discard someone with Bianchi's talents.
"I guess I just didn't fit in with his ideas for the business. He's been working hard, you know? Dominic can't get in to see him for weeks at a time, no one's seen Ricky in a month. Vincent only ever talks to Pennino and B.J., and someone named Rosario."
"Rosario, eh?" Michael echoed, a frown creasing his face.
Lou Pennino was a man Michael could understand, being close to Vincent. Pennino and his nephew had been friends since high school when he was still living in Newark. When Vincent had moved back to New York with his mother, the two young men worked together as part of a crew operating a nightclub in Little Italy. He had been operating as nothing more than muscle for years, but it was apparent that he was smarter than what first glance suggested. Even all the way in Sicily Michael had heard of his promotion to Underboss. To hold such power second only to the Don himself, spoke of his nephew's confidence in Pennino's ability. Michael, however, was not so sure, knowing the man was prone to vices.
Promoting B.J. to consigliere made far more sense to Michael. While the forty-five-year-old was qualified, in his bid to raise the family to a clean business Michael did not promote B.J. to the position as he determined that upsetting the traditions of the old families unnecessary. Hagen had been transgression enough. Vincent, however, had the privilege of going ahead with appointing Harrison now that the family was outside that world's sphere of influence. So while Harrison did not have a Sicilian background that would have made him agreeable to the old families, the position the family had obtained made their opinion irrelevant.
Rosario, however, Michael knew little about, but what little he had heard did not set his mind at ease. To the outside world, Carlos Rosario was a top-dollar art tradesman and jeweler who dealt with clients interested in the rarest pieces on the market. The man had made a fortune selling quality rocks and paintings, but rumors spoke that the man had a taste for more dangerous operations, most notable being the Columbian and Venezuelan Cartel. But, how to prove it?
"I'd like to talk to Vincent. Do you think I could get in to see him?" Michael asked, giving a sideways glance after surveying the room.
"I think he's in a meeting. The Governor, I think." Bianchi guessed.
"Ah, busy. I get that." Michael nodded his head, giving Peter a faint smile, "Dominic's waiting for us, yes? We shouldn't keep him waiting, then."
Bianchi smiled and inclined his head, gesturing forward as he led his old boss through the party. Had they stayed for a few moments longer, Michael would have noticed two people on opposite ends of the room watching him. One was near the entrance to the ballroom, their eyes watching with cold calculation as Michael moved through the crowd, the other anxiously clutching a yellow envelope in her hands. But Michael was a focused individual, and it was time to speak with old friends.
-/ↀ\-
Thirty-one floors above where Michael was being escorted by Bianchi, another meeting was taking place in the privacy of the hotel's Presidential Suite. Cold darkness hung in the room, held at bay by the dim yellow light of corner lamps. In that light, three figures sat, the parts of their faces not covered in the long shadows of the room illuminated by the embers of their cigarettes. Vincent had rented out the suite months in advance for the sum of ten thousand dollars for this very meeting, and his investment had not failed to impress.
Vincent sat behind the mahogany desk in his office, waiting patiently as New York Governor John Andrews lit another cigarette, casting his features in its ember glow. He dressed in a tailor-made grey business suit and brown dress shirt, his hair slicked back to highlight his rich olive skin and handsome Sicilian features. To his right, B.J. Harison jotted down notes in his journal in silence, keeping to himself as the bigger men in the room did their business.
An Arkansas man whose parents relocated to New Jersey during the early '60s, Andrews had chosen to install himself and his wife in New York City after years of studying law and politics at Georgetown and University College in Oxford. During that time, he had remained distant from the life of the criminal underworld until the late '70s, becoming a backer of Michael's push to go legitimate as the venture would make him wealthy.
Now that Vincent had taken control of the business, the two men had grown close; with Andrews having a better relationship with him than Michael due to being similar in age, as well as Vincent's willingness to do more unscrupulous deals to advance Andrew's political machine. That allowed him to win his seat in 1982. With Vincent's plans promising to make both men incredibly rich, the two were joined at the metaphorical hip in the political spectrum, even if Andrews did not make their relationship known to the public beyond their charity work.
The subject of their meeting already concluded, Vincent now spent time reading over the speech the governor and his staff had written up to present tonight to a room full of bankers, lawyers, and politicians. Many of the guests tonight had either been backers of Governor Andrews' campaign or affiliated with International Immobiliere, both as clients and investors.
"This is an impressive presentation. I'm flattered." Vincent complimented, looking up from the documents as he handed them over to his consigliere to look over.
"Think nothing of it. Nothing gets the donations running like a good story, and I've always been good at telling them." Andrews smiled through polished white teeth that made him popular with the female voters, "I'm sure it'll benefit you, and it'll definitely benefit me."
"A joint benefit between us that I hope to build upon in the years to come." Vincent couldn't help the smile that appeared on his face as he looked over at B.J. The lawyer shuffled the papers into a neat, organized folder and passed them back to Andrews, while Vincent leaned back in his seat with his legs crossed, "So is there anything more I do for our esteemed Governor?"
"I wouldn't want to trouble you with trivial things, Vince. Making sure my 'investments' are in order is more than satisfactory. You are sure this thing you're hoping to work out in Puerto Rico is going okay?"
"Everything is moving on schedule, I predict I'll be able to move forward with full operations by the end of the decade," Vincent informed, watching the governor with interest. Despite his earlier dismissal, Vincent knew there was something on Andrews' mind, certain he would cut to the chase soon.
"Good, good." The governor stirred the drink in his hand, awkwardly segueing into what he wanted to talk about. "Vincent, I don't want to overstep, but, ah..."
"Is there something bothering you, governor?"
Andrews paused, then smiled impishly. "The senate runnings are coming up, I'm sure you know, and my wife Heleen has ambitions to be the democratic representative of our illustrious state, ambitions I wholeheartedly support."
Andrews took a sip of his cognac, rolling the amber liquid on his tongue. "She's got a good shot at it, too, that's what the polls say. But they say that her opponent, this Shea guy, is more popular with the voters."
"I've met the man, even had dinner with him while he was working as the city's district attorney. Nice man." Vincent mussed, flicking his cigarette into an ashtray.
James Shea Jr. was a young, ambitious district attorney whose first notoriety derived from his father's legacy. The late James Kavanaugh Shea had held the office of the President of the United States in the early 1960s until his untimely death at the hands of Cuban immigrant Juan Carlos Santiago. Despite his short tenure as the Commander and Chief, James Senior had risen to national popularity, due in large part to both his youthful charisma and his position as the leader during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1963.
In recent years, Shea, Jr. proved to be just as charismatic and popular as his father was, gaining state-wide notoriety as a strict but fair attorney for the New York district. It was in fact during one of Shea's campaign balls that he crossed paths with Vincent, and the two men had shared several drinks over discussions of politics and the private sector.
To say that Vincent was impressed with the young man would be an understatement. Shea had an amazing ability to spin it to his advantage, coming off as a man unafraid to admit his own little quirks and faults. And despite the few controversies in his private life involving affairs with an array of young starlets, Shea was always able to spin the situation to his advantage and pass himself off as the 'young and hip' candidate.
"I can arrange a meeting with him, I'm sure I can persuade him to back out of the race. If you can-"
"Hey," Andrews interrupted as he sat his glass onto the coffee table, leveling a hard star at Vincent, "This Shea fella. He's a fucking prick and bad business for both of us. Get rid of him."
Vincent looked at Andrews without saying a word, reading him with eyes devoid of light or humor. The silence hung in the air like a veil at a funeral, which began to unnerve Andrews as the Sicilian man's eyes burrowed into his own. Even B.J. sat in stunned silence, pondering whether the governor had gone mad to present the request as if it were a demand. Vincent stood up from his chair without saying a word, keeping the governor in the corner of his vision as he moved behind the chair he had been sitting in, making a deliberate and obvious motion to put a distance between himself and the now nervous Andrews.
"John," Vincent said, his tone devoid of affection, his eyes cold and unfriendly; moving around his seat with the grace of a viper poised to strike, "We've known each other for five years now, and in that time I have never for a moment told you how to run your campaigns, which promises to keep and which ones to discard. I've given suggestions, asked you to pull strings in the FBI to look the other way at times I've needed them to, and in exchange, I've given you my council, my influence, my financial support. But I never tell you how to do your business, because it is no business of mine."
"Now you come to me on a night of celebration for not only the benefit of the press, but my birthday celebration as well, and presume to give me orders?" Vincent said, his voice cold and mocking with a hint of disappointment on the edge of his words, as if he were a father scolding a child and daring Andrews to challenge his rebuke.
Andrews looked at Vincent, and for a moment, fear flickered in his eyes before he settled back into a relaxed state, sighing as he took a drink. Vincent smiled in his mind for catching the governor's slip, pleased by his effect on the man despite his attempt to hide behind a strong exterior. B.J. on the other hand could not hold back his amusement, hiding the smile that blossomed on his face behind his hand.
"Vincent, I don't want you to think that I'm ordering you. Maybe I need to spend more time around people on equal footing rather than my secretary." Andrews chuckled, licking his lips in nostalgia, "But I have to emphasize how much trouble this little punk will be if he reaches the senate."
Vincent nodded his head in acknowledgment of the governor's words, gesturing for him to continue.
"Don't get me wrong, I have nothing personal against Shea. In fact, if I could have it any other way, I'd suggest bringing him into the fold, but, ah…" Andrews brushed his fingers through his hair, a gesture Vincent noted he would do when he was struggling for words, "His record as the DA tells me he'll be trouble, and the few words I've spoken with the man tell me in my gut that he'd come after you hard for your business with Rosario."
"You think he might hinder our plans?"
"I'm damn sure," Andrews said with a finality that spoke of his assurance on the matter. "Shea may be young, but he's smart and ambitious as hell. Mark my words, he has his eyes on the Presidency. And as a legacy candidate to his old man and the charisma that he holds naturally? He could win it, and he won't play ball like I would."
Silence again descended between the two men, except this time Vincent reflected upon what Andrews had told him as he tapped his armrest. After thinking the matter over, he looked into the governor's eyes, wanting to know if the man understood what he was asking of him.
"You sure?" Vincent asked.
"Do what you gotta do," Andrews said, and the matter was closed.
Just then there was a knock on the door of the suite, before Vincent's second in command, Lou Pennino stepped in. Not taking a moment to address either of them, Pennino made his way around the desk and leaned into Vincent's ear, whispering a few words before stepping back. Vincent blinked as the message Pennino gave registered in his mind, looking at his underboss with incredulous attention.
"You're sure he's here?"
Pennino nodded his head, eyeing the governor with an assessing glare, not wanting to speak about a personal matter with someone on the outside listening in. Vincent took a drag from his cigarette while deep in thought, his eyes flicking in the dim light of the room as he decided on what to do. Putting the cigarette out into the ashtray, Vincent stood up, signaling the Governor to do the same.
"I'm sorry to have to cut our meeting short, but a personal matter just came up that I need to lend my attention to." Vincent apologized, stepping forward while offering his hand before he continued, "Let's make our presentation to our guests in, say, half an hour?"
"Sure, Vince. I understand completely." Andrews smiled as he took his offered hand and shook, pleased with what he had been able to accomplish tonight. Letting go, Vincent showed Governor Andrews to the door and opened it for him, saying a final farewell before closing it with a frown the governor didn't see. Vincent took a moment to breathe, then turned to Pennino.
"I want you to make the governor's problem our top priority. Give this to someone who's professional, someone who knows how to deal with someone like Shea without it coming back to bite us in the ass. Make it look like an accident."
"I'll see to it."
"Good." Vincent heaved and sighed, then in a lighter tone spoke again, "Also, I want you to bring up Uncle Mike."
"You think that's a good idea?" Pennino questioned, knowing the signs that his Don was worried.
"Let me worry about that. Go." Vincent waved Pennino away, processing his thoughts as the underboss hurried out of the room. Vincent paid a moment's glance to watch him go before he moved back to his desk and poured a glass of scotch, laying back in his chair in silence.
-/ↀ\-
Bianchi led Michael through the crowd to a table with a bowl of mixed fruit set up in the far corner of the ballroom, where they found Enzo sitting next to a dark-haired man in his mid-forties telling some crude joke. When he saw them approach, the man stood up and rushed over to Michael, taking his hand to kiss it.
Dominic Abbandando was a fourth-generation Sicilian-American who had earned his place in the Corleone Family through his grandfather's legacy and kept it through his talents. The Corleone Family had always held a particular warmth toward the Abbandandos in honor of Dominic's great-grandfather's kindness and charity when Michael's father Vito immigrated to the United States in the early part of the century.
Signor Abbandando had taken Vito in when no one else would and treated him as a second son to his own boy Genco, who became like a brother to the young boy. For that kindness, Vito had worked in the man's shop in Hell's Kitchen in gratitude, earning his keep with a smile on his face well into his twenties. The only time the man had ever done him any wrong was when he was forced by that padrone swine Fanucci to give Vito's job to his nephew Sandiago. But Vito knew that the man who he looked up to as a father had taken his job from him with a broken heart and did his best to try to lighten the blow, going as far as to try to gift Vito a large box of groceries out of his own stock. Though he refused to put the man out by accepting his gift, Vito never forgot his kindness and would repay the man in the years to come.
That repayment came when Vito rose as a 'Man of Respect' in the neighborhood after ridding Little Italy of that fiend Fanucci, becoming an interceder in local disputes and a protector of the Italian community that Fanucci never was. Remembering Signor, and trusting in his brother in all but blood's judgment in difficult matters, Vito appointed Genco as his Consigliere, becoming the first advisor to the Corleone Family's dynasty, a position of honor and respect. But this was still not enough in Vito's eye, and so he named the family's front business 'Genco Pura' after his friend, selling and distributing imported olive oil from the temperate groves of Sicily.
Michael would continue to honor the Corleone Family's obligations to the Abbandandos for years to come, making it his personal mission to train Dominic in the ways of the family while pulling strings to get him into Boston University. This investment would take years to cultivate, but in the late sixties bore fruit when Dominic was finally ready to take his position as Michael's press secretary when Michael made the Corleone Family legitimate.
Dominic had served Michael faithfully, facing question after question from the press about the Corleone family's less scrupulous past dealings with elegance and presision. This loyalty had awarded the man and allowed him to indulge in a lavish lifestyle, a wealth that remained even as the family changed heads.
"Michael! This is a surprise! Five years since I last saw you, and from out of nowhere you pop out from the woodwork? What has brought our Godfather here tonight?"
"I am no longer Godfather, Dominic." Michael tried to dissuade the man from referring to him in such a manner while in the company of so many of the new Don's friends, but the jovial man proved stubborn.
"You are no longer our Don, but you will always be our Godfather!" Abbandando declared with affection as he turned to Peter with a mischievous glare, "Peter! Is this where you ran off to do? Pulling Michael out of a hat to give me a heart attack?"
"I was just as surprised as you, Dominic, I swear!" Bianchi raised his hand in surrender, though his smile told he thought the whole thing amusing.
"Bah! What does it matter? You are here, and if you are here then things are looking up, eh? Sit, sit!" Abbandando gestured to the chair next to his own with excitement, smiling as Michael accepted his invitation before sitting down himself once the man he once worked for had made himself comfortable. Bianchi watched in amusement as he sat across from Michael to the left of his son.
Abbandando reached for a ripe orange and plucked it from the bowl, lazily peeling the rine from its flesh between his fingers. "So Micheal why are you here? Come to stiff out trouble?"
Michael shook his head, wearing an expression that gave the impression that he was amused, "Five years is a long time to be away, even in retirement. I thought it was past due for me to pay a family visit."
Abbandando was not convinced, smirking as though Michael had told some funny joke that only the two men could understand. "Ha! Bullshit. New York is a long way from Sicily for you to come simply for a 'family visit'." He said, popping a slice of the citric fruit onto his tongue.
Bianchi decided then to interject his own thoughts on Michael's long absence, "You shouldn't be living on your own, Michael, not so far away from your family. While the Sicilian sun might be good for your health, the isolation is not."
"I've needed the time to myself, Peter, I can't advise in my state. After Mary…" Michael trailed off with an air of melancholy.
"Mary was a good girl, rest in peace." Abbandando said solemnly, gesturing the sign of the cross against his breast before he continued, "But Vincent could use your guidance. God knows he won't take ours."
"Peter was telling me a little of the troubles you have been having with your Godfather. You know that your concerns are my concerns, so I want you to tell me why you feel that he does not hold your trust. Why is he not speaking to you?" Michael asked, placing his hand on Abbandando's shoulder to calm his grumbling at Michael's use of the moniker 'Godfather' to refer to Vincent.
"Ah, Michael. You are right that he does not trust us, you have guessed this correctly. He's replaced the old guard in the time you've been gone." Abbandando paused for a moment, eyeing a guest who walked close by to their table as though suspicious of being overheard.
The moment passed, and Abbandando leaned in close to Michael, "Flying out of the country on month-long business trips, promoting that capo Pennino as Underboss while moving the old guard out of their positions. I suspect that he is doing these things because he plans on making a deal he knows you would not approve of. B.J. could tell you more if he wasn't held up with Vincent at the moment."
"What about Ricky?" Michael asked, remembering that Bianchi had mentioned the man.
Ricky Marlo was a member of Joey Zasa's regime in the Corleone's branch in New York during the 1960s and '70s. A carryover from Peter Clamenza's old crew, Ricky served Zasa faithfully for years, but Ricky's loyalty to the Corleones came first, and he knew that Michael disapproved of Zasa's flamboyance and lust for publicity. Matters were made more complicated because of Zasa's bitter feud with Vincent. However, things grew sour once Vincent accused Joey, during the period when Michael was making the final steps to take the Corleone Family into the legitimate world, of selling drugs behind Michael's back, and to school children no less.
Michael had not been overall convinced of this accusation at the time. After all, Zasa had served Michael for years while Vincent was an illegitimate nephew, a bastard. However, this proved ultimately immaterial when Joey, driven by his lust for power, conspired with Michael's enemies to have him assassinated with the other members of the Commission, the ruling body of the Mafia.
In the end, Vincent got his revenge, gunning Zasa down in the street of Little Italy during the Feast of San Gennaro, plugging three bullets into his body while in the guise of a policeman on horseback. But it was Ricky who had told Vincent where he would be, and it was Ricky who told him how to set him up. Vincent had not forgotten that, and he remembered to tell Michael of his loyalty when it came time to clean up what was left of Joey Zasa's mess.
"He was supposed to be here tonight, I don't know what has become of him. I wish he was the only one." Abbandando grumbled.
"What do you mean?"
"It's Neri, no one's seen him in a month! I know he's retired, but he'd never pass off a call from old friends, for God's sake. Michael, Al was close to you. Surely you know what has become of him?"
"No, I've heard nothing." That of course was a lie, Michael knew exactly what had become of Al Neri. However, Michael chose to keep this to himself, as that was business between himself and Vincent. Michael felt as though there was something missing from the puzzle that was his nephew's behavior, and until he knew more, he did not want the information to be known before he deemed it so.
Abbandando fell silent again, and Michael assumed that he would mope for a bit before moving on to another topic. However something had caught Abbandando's eye, and now his face held a contemptuous scowl as three men of Latin descent walked into the banquet hall. Michael's observation of Dominic directed his eyes to observe the men, who were led by a hotel staff member toward a table near the center of the ballroom, one that was larger than the rest.
"Rosario? What's he doing here?" Abbandando's question came out as a sneer, seeming to have taken offense to the men's presence. Michael understood immediately Abbandando's contempt, knowing the man held Latin American people with disdain. Abbandando had never liked anyone south of the border, feeling that they were a dishonorable bunch who could never understand the refined etiquette of an Italian.
Michael himself never shared that view toward them, let alone anyone, such thoughts were obstructive to business. However, he did find it profitable to keep the attitudes of his subordinates close in mind. All the better to choose whom and whom not to send to represent the Corleone Family's interest when dealing with non-Sicilians. Besides, Michael understood that Dominic's personal grievances were unfounded, and in fact dangerous to entertain. Michael knew all too well not to underestimate someone based on an unfounded, preconceived notion. That was a surefire way to end up with a bullet in the back of the end.
With that in mind, Michael took the time to assess the man named Rosario. Well-groomed and handsome despite appearing to be in his mid-forties, it didn't take long for Michael to conclude that Rosario was not only a wealthy man but also someone who wielded a considerable level of influence and prestige. As Rosario walked through, many in the crowd took notice and made it a point to greet him as though he were a king, shaking hands while others went so far as to lean down to kiss the ring on his finger. When he had greeted everyone in kind, Rosario sat down at the table reserved with the men that Michael now perceived to be his guards.
"Michael?"
The retired Don was pulled from his thoughts by the soft feminine voice that permeated his ear, looking up to the woman who had addressed him.
Michael's eyes softened, smiling as his gaze came upon his sister whom he had not seen for so long. Constanzia Corleone, who everyone called Connie, was a silver-haired Sicilian woman of sixty-three. The youngest of the Corleone children, Connie was no less showing her age. The smiling lines of her mouth well defined, the wrinkles that kissed at the corners of her eyes, all told of a woman who had long past her youth. But though she was rather plain, Michael could never see her any less than beautiful in his love for the sibling that had stuck by his side for so long.
Michael, without hesitation, got up from his seat and stepped toward his sister, embarrassing her and delivering a kiss on both of her cheeks. Holding her at arm's length, he smiled at her with warmth, "Connie, it is good to see you."
"You too, Michael," Connie replied simply, holding her purse close to her chest. Michael sensed something was on her mind.
"Hey, is everything alright?" He asked, tilting her chin to look up at him.
"I-" But before Connie could give him an answer, the reunion of the siblings was disrupted by a new voice that come from behind them.
"Mister Corleone?" The address came from the lips of Pennino, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Michael nodded his head, and Pennino smiled in kind.
"Vincent has sent me to escort you to where he is holding meetings for the night. If you would please follow me?" Pennino said, his words formal but the look in his eyes spoke that he had no patience to wait.
Michael sighed as he looked at Connie and winced, recognizing the vexed look his sister was giving him and the tongue-lashing that usually entailed. He held no fear of his young sibling, but he did find her outbursts tiresome.
"We'll talk when I get back, I promise," Michael assured her as he patted her hand before turning to Pennino and gesturing for him to lead the way.
"Don't feel bad, Connie. Michael hasn't seen Vincent in a long time. Longer than you even. He doesn't mean to set you aside." Abbandando offered the old woman the chair by his side, handing her an orange from the basket which she took without thought, pawing at the fruit as her eyes lingered on Michael and Pennino's backs as they faded into the crowd.
-/ↀ\-
The two men stepped out of the elevator onto the thirty-fifth floor in silence as Pennino led the way toward the correct suite where Vincent was holding meetings for the night. Despite the high-class traffic within the Waldorf Astoria at any given time, the vast halls of glass mirrors and golden chandeliers were currently empty. Michael speculated that Vincent had rented out the whole floor to ensure any business conducted here tonight was kept private.
Pennino continued straight forward toward the end of the hall where a pair of double doors led to the Presidential Suite. He motioned for Michael to wait as he knocked on the door to the Suite, then opened the door to allow him inside.
The moment he stepped foot into the suite, Michael began to assess his surroundings. The low light gave a warm yet somber atmosphere that permeated the room and, oddly enough, made him feel settled in his preferred element. The quiet that held due to the business nature of the occupants was broken by the ticking of an antique grandfather clock in the corner and the sound of pages being flipped. B.J. sat on the couch, his neck crouching over important legal papers and notes, an ashtray filled with used cigarette butts set aside as he scribbled out margins and points of interest throughout the documents under his review.
Michael could smell the familiar hanging fragrance of cigarette smoke in the air, something that called back on a certain nostalgia he couldn't afford to fall back on. Being a type-two diabetic, Michael was forced to give up on smoking years ago, and though he personally missed the old habit, it was one that he acknowledged was better left in the past. In the fr corner of the room, hunkered over his own paperwork, Michael's nephew Vincent cradled a glass with a healthy portion of malt scotch to his lips.
Vincent looked up from his own papers and smiled upon seeing Michael, getting up from his chair to meet him from around the desk to give him a familial hug.
"I'm glad you came, Uncle Mike. It's been too long." Vincent said cordially, patting Michael gently on the back.
"I'm glad you're pleased to see me, despite showing up unannounced," Michael spoke evenly, looking into Vincent's eyes before turning to the other man in the room.
"B.J." Michael inclined his head in greeting.
"Good to see you, Michael." B.J. greeted Michael with warmth, taking a moment from his notes to reach over to shake his hand.
"I admit that none of us were expecting you, but you're family. What good is our business if we can't make an exception for that?" Vincent asked with a shrug, knowing the answer to such a question was obvious to men like the Corleones.
Michael smiled, "Your grandfather would have said a man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man. It does my heart good knowing you understand that sentiment."
Vincent smiled, dipping his head as he poured Michael a glass of scotch. Michael accepted the glass with grace, and with a hearty 'Te salute!' he knocked it back, savoring the burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat.
"Another?" Vincent asked, to which Michael inclined his head in approval. As Vincent poured his uncle another glass, he began to speak, "Uncle Mike, you know I'm happy to see you any time. But I think we both know you didn't come here tonight because you wanted to catch up with the family."
"You're right. Observant and astute, I'm pleased these qualities I impressed upon you have stuck despite my absence." Michael complimented.
"I admit things were hard with you gone, but I made them work."
"I'm glad to hear that. My father certainly never could have foreseen the extent of what we've accomplished. If he could see our family now…" Michael trailed off, feeling a mild sense of nostalgia.
"I'm sure he'd be proud, but you've avoided the question, Uncle Mike." Vincent pointed out as though he were amused, though there was a hint of a more serious note in his words that told that he wanted to move on from the familiarities, "I can only assume it's because you know it's going to be something I don't want to hear. But let's be frank, a major part of the business is having to deal with unpleasant news. So how about we cut the crap and discuss business like I know you want to. What's bothering you?"
Michael sat silently as he thought about everything that Vincent had said. In truth, though he was pleased by Vincent's ability to read the situation, it also irked him to no end. Michael was used to being the most cunning man in the room, able to read and discern the motivations of men and women who held ambitions that both coincided with his own or did not. He didn't feel he needed to be this way out of some petty need to feel superior, but in the world of a Mafioso, knowing your opponent could mean life or death. And to someone like Michael, everyone in the world of the Mafioso was an opponent.
Vincent was no different in that regard, but it was the way he spoke that gave Michael pause. Though Vincent seemed cordial, there was an undertone of impatience with his uncle's presence that made it known to Michael that he didn't want him to be here. However, he couldn't discern what motivated such a response. Vincent admitted to suspecting that he had come to deliver bad news, but was that really what justified the accusing words and hidden words? Michael could not interpret what lay beyond Vincent's cold hazel eyes, a trait Michael was reluctant to admit was inherited from his grandfather Vito rather than his father Sonny.
Finally, Michael spoke again, his tone serious as he looked at his nephew without blinking an eye.
"Al Neri is dead."
Of all things, it seemed that Vincent wasn't expecting that. Leaning forward slightly, his nephew spoke in a whispered breath that sounded more like a hiss, "What?"
"He was found a week ago about forty miles from his home, floating in the Hudson," Michael answered in a calm manner, watching his nephew as he thought about his former enforcer. Al Neri was the hammer that Michael had used to bring down on violent enemies and any wiseass who thought to challenge the family's interest when negotiations went nowhere. Having started out as a tough-as-nails police officer, Neri was known for cracking down on street punks and diplomats who thought themselves above observing traffic laws.
This crackdown sometimes translated to literally cracking offenders who crossed his violent temper over the head with the heavy flashlight he carried. This however would eventually ruin his police career when he killed a local pimp by the name of Wax Baines when he caught the bastard carving up the face of a young girl and shattered his skull. He was convicted of voluntary manslaughter, but Peter Clemenza, one of Vito Corleone's caporegimes, had seen a useful potential in the man and had worked with Tom Hagen to arrange for his release before he ever saw a jail cell.
This turned out to be a profitable investment as Neri proved his worth as a ruthless and efficient assassin. After Vito's death in the period when Michael moved the family from New York to Nevada, Neri served the new Don by helping to 'clean house'. He was sent in to kill Vegas developer Moe Greene and put a bullet in his eye, then a month later had stuck two slugs into the fleeing back of Emilio Barzini, donning his old N.Y.P.D. uniform to take out the conniving snake who had made it his ambition to try and wipe the Corleone Family off the map.
From then on, Al Neri had loyally served Michael for over twenty years and had earned his retirement when he was called upon one final time during the family's move into the legitimate business world. Hiding a gun in a box of chocolates, Neri walked right into the Vatican and killed the head of the Vatican Bank, Archbishop Gilday, in revenge for his part in a plot to scam the Corleones out of six hundred million dollars. Michael had been more than pleased with the man and held his loyalty in high regard. It was then that knowing now that the man was dead, Michael had left his own retirement in Sicily to discover why this had happened.
"Shit, I'm sorry to hear that. I know he was one of your guys, Uncle Mike." Vincent gave his condolences, slumping into his chair as he poured them both a taller glass.
Michael accepted the drink soberly, "I was hoping that perhaps his nephew might know anything about what might have happened. He's still working for the family, right?"
"Yeah, he's still working and no, Thomas hasn't said anything. I don't think he knows, he would have told me otherwise." Vincent paused to take a drink, grimacing as he spoke his thoughts out loud. "Al was retired, supposed to be off the books. I know he must have made a lot of enemies in his time, though. you have a thought on who might have wanted to take him out?"
"I never said it was a hit." Michael pointed out.
"Oh, come on. Someone like Al Neri ends up as a stiff in the river? I'd bet on my mother it was a hit." Vincent paused from taking another drink as he looked over at his uncle wearily, "Anything else?"
"Ricky Marlo's missing, too," Michael added after a moment, remembering what Abbandando had said.
"Shit, then it might not be isolated." Michael could tell that Vincent's display upset with the news, which set his mind at ease to a certain extent. Still, that left him to wonder if the family was dealing with a new threat from the outside.
"Do you have anyone who would wish to make a move on the family? Someone who you'd suspect of wanting to sabotage the company or holding a grudge against you personally?" Michael asked.
"No one that I haven't already dealt with years ago," Vincent was blunt while studying how the cubes of ice rolled around in the liquor in his glass.
"What about Rosario?"
Vincent paused, lowering his glass to look at Michael, "I'm sorry?"
"Abbandando mentioned him to me. Told me you've been spending an exorbitant amount of time with the man."
"And he probably doesn't approve because of the man's heritage. Racist old bastard." Vincent grumbled, though his tone hinted at an underlying amusement at the notion.
"And yet, it doesn't explain your interest in the man. So could you perhaps enlighten me to set my mind at ease?" Michael asked, leaning back in his chair with his leg crossed over the other, taking a sip and enjoying the burn of the scotch.
Vincent stared at Michael, unblinking and searching. Michael met his gaze with his own, and after a moment Vincent nodded his head as if coming to a conclusion in his head. Leaning back, he began to explain the man named Carlos Rosario.
"I met him about three years back down in Newark through Don Gualtieri during a business trip for the unions. Rosario is a proprietor of classical art pieces as a personal passion and helped Gualtieri get his hands on a few pieces from the Old Country. We hit it off over a few drinks and cigars, so he invited me to his villa in Puerto Rico to discuss a business proposal."
"And what is his business? Gun-running, perhaps?" Michael insinuated, all the while taking careful notice of how everyone in the room would react.
"Diamond mining, actually." Vincent explained as he swirled the glass in his hand, "While his headquarters are located in Puerto Rico, his digging operation is based out of Venezuela where the diamonds are flowing. Unfortunately, he's been having setbacks expanding his operation due to union directors being pressed by interest groups through the lobbyists, Greenpeace pain in the asses that make it their life's mission to take a shit in everyone's business."
"So I've helped him out for a percentage of profits made in the mining operation. Took a bit of maneuvering with competing firms, but in the end, Immobiliare was able to secure the land needed and convince the interest groups to be a bit more liberal in dealing with Rosario's company. Everything should be back on schedule by this time next year." Vincent finished his explanation, taking a sip from his drink to wet his lips.
"Nothing illegal, I hope?" Michael inquired, keeping Pennino under his scrutiny. While B.J. had remained impassive during Vincent's explanation, Pennino had stopped to eavesdrop on the conversation the moment Michael had alluded to the possibility of foul play being involved. If he thought he was being inconspicuous as he listened in, Michael made no indication to make him think otherwise.
"Everything was squared away in the courts, Michael. You don't need to worry about that." B.J. interjected, having spent months down in Venezuela with Vincent to oversee the whole affair. Michael shared a look with the lawyer and nodded, letting out a sigh that made it sound as though his worries had been set at ease by what he had.
"I suppose I'm concerned as I've heard rumors that your friend has ties with the Cartel in Venezuela." Michael mused.
Vincent shook his head, waving away his uncle's concern, "I doubt that to be true but if he does, that's on him. My only interest is to supply a client with the land needed to get his operation underway. Who he associates with is his own business, I'm not liable for what he chooses to do with his own assets, but I have a written guarantee that everything has been made square with the local government."
"As for why he's here tonight, he has the right as any other contributor or private investor. And as far as I know, he came tonight to contribute his support to the charity work that Immobiliare International is sponsoring. I'll be meeting him later tonight to discuss a Fine Arts charity auction he wants to put on with my support."
"Just keep your eyes open, Vincent. When you deal in politics things can get nasty, especially on international matters. I don't want to sound conspiratorial, but Al and Ricky might be the start of a new problem for the family."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." Vincent saluted him. At that moment Pennino chose to lean into Vincent's ear, whispering something to the man as he gestured to his watch. Vincent gave a nod of understanding a finished his drink, standing up which signaled to Michael to follow his example.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut our meeting short, Uncle Mike. The governor has prepared a speech for the night and wants me to give a few words of thanks to our contributors. As much as I've enjoyed catching up, I can't keep him waiting."
"You don't need to explain yourself to me, Vincent, I understand how these things work. It is what it is." Michael waved at him in dismissal.
Vincent smiled, walking Michael to the door so that they could leave for the party together, "I'm lucky you're still around to look over my shoulder, Mike, even if you're doing it all the way from Sicily. I hope I can continue what you and the Old Man started. Us Corleones, we're on top of the world."
"And let's hope we always will be." Michael smiled in return as Pennino opened the door for them, following them out with B.J. in tow. The group of men walked silently toward the elevators, each content to be left alone with their personal thoughts.
And on the way down, Michael never took his eyes off of Vincent's back.
-/ↀ\-
The four men stepped off the elevator to the sound of dinner being served to the party guests. As they looked around at everyone being served by the Hotel staff, Andrews turned and saw them entering the Hall from over near the stage and waved Vincent over, signaling with his watch that it was almost time.
Vincent waved back and signaled that he would be with the governor in a minute before he turned and spoke, "I'll have to leave you here, Mike. Andrews will be making his speech any moment now and I'll have to be on stage to give a few words of my own."
Michael shrugged his shoulders, "Go right ahead. It was good catching up."
"It was. You take care of yourself, Uncle Mike." Vincent clapped him on the shoulder, turning to make his way over to where Governor Andrews' party was enjoying their dinner."
Michael nodded to Pennino and B.J. before turning to rejoin Abbandando and the others at their table. As he moved closer, he spotted his sister leaning over the table as though she might fall asleep at any moment. From what he could observe Connie looked unusually pale, but at the same time put-out and morose, Michael thought as he sat down. The moment he had gotten himself comfortable in his seat, Bianchi leaned in to start prodding Michael for details on his meeting with Vincent. Before Bianchi could speak, however, Michael raised his hand to stop him.
"We'll talk in a moment, Governor Andrews is about to give his speech. It'd be rude not to listen to what he has to say."
Bianchi grimaced and looked at Abbandando, who nodded his head in understanding. Sighing, Bianchi inclined his head as well before leaning back and folding his arms against his chest to wait for the speech to start.
He would not have to wait long as Governor Andrews walked up to the stage with a glass of champagne and spoke to the band leader, sharing a few whispered words before the man handed him the microphone. Offering the band leader his thanks, Andrews turned around and tapped the glass with a spoon to gather everyone's attention.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, if I could have a moment of your time?" Andrews asked as he waited for everyone to finish their conversations and look up to him. Smiling, Andrews brought the microphone to his lips, "I know everyone here has been having a good time, hopefully not embarrassing yourselves too much over one too many glasses of champagne?"
The audience gave a good-natured laugh in response, and Andrews laughed as well, "I know many of you are personal friends of mine. Some of you even found it worth your time to bother to help vote me into office." Again, the audience laughed before he continued, "But tonight, what we are gathered together for tonight is not about myself or a campaign or otherwise, but rather an idea, one I think resonates with all of us in one form or another. That idea, my friends, is the legacy of family."
"The Family Corleone." Andrews began, his words theatrical and fluid as he captured the attention of the crowd, "A pillar of the New York Community for fifty years, they rode the tide of an era plagued by politics and greed, founded by a man's fortitude and virtue. Vito Corleone, a man of integrity, vision, and honesty, paved the way that freed Little Italy of the nineteen-twenties and thirties from thugs and robbers and lifted his community to new levels of respect and wealth with honest business ventures. By the nineteen-forties and the end of the Second World War, the Corleones had amassed a nationwide venture at the time, worth over a billion dollars."
"When Vito's son Michael became the head of the family, he expanded the business to new horizons. Selling off his father's olive oil import business and their shares in Las Vegas hotels, Michael directed the family's interests in finance and charity. With the creation of the Vito Corleone Foundation, the Corleones uplifted many members of the poor community and funded the research of many medical studies. At the turn of the decade, Michael Corleone went into his greatest and most profitable venture yet; the acquisition of the global real estate conglomerate, International Immobiliere."
"Now, the third generation of the Corleone Family has been spearheaded by a man with great interest in our nation's democracy. A man who has witnessed this city's greatest heights and lowest underbelly. A man who, on this night of October thirty-first, nineteen eighty-five; the very night of his thirty-seventh birthday, had decided to gift a generous donation to both the Foundation of Affordable Intercity Infrastructure and the St. Emiliani's Orphanage, for a safe and prosperous New York, for the total sum of five million dollars each."
"...and now may I present to you, the man of the hour, Vincent Corleone."
The audience applauded as Vincent walked out onto the stage of the Waldorf Astoria ballroom. Vincent shook hands with Governor Andrews, showing off a good-natured smile as the cameras flashed in his eyes. As the applause died down, Vincent walked to the microphone, looking out at the spectators.
As Vincent began to speak, Abbandando and Bianchi leaned into Michael to speak in hushed whispers, "So, what did Vincent say?"
Michael spoke casually, keeping his eyes on the stage as he answered, "Five minutes of truth, fifteen of bullshit." He growled in annoyance, begrudgingly acknowledging to himself that Vincent had a damn good poker face, "His explanation for Rosario was good, couldn't find a flaw with it. But he's not telling me everything."
Abbandando hissed in anger, "And he dares to lie to you? The little prick." he spat the words as though to curse the young man, "Do you think it's something big?"
Michael nodded slowly, applauding with the rest of the crowd as Vincent gave a friendly compliment to the governor, "He's hiding something. What it is, I don't know. That worries me."
"What do you want me to do?" Abbandando asked, eager to serve his former Don.
Michael thought for a moment, then replied, "Vincent mentioned that Rosario is the owner of a mining operation down in Venezuela. I want you to look into it, see what you can find out."
"Anything, Michael. Anything." Abbandando nodded his head in approval to the sound of resounding applause as Vincent finished his speech, which Michael encouraged the two men to join to show solidarity with the family. As the clapping crowd died down to continue their dinners while others got up to shake hands with Vincent, Michael took that moment to acknowledge his sister whom he had neglected so far this night.
"Now Connie, I know you've been waiting long enough, so what was it you want to-?" Michael began to speak as he turned around to face his sister, only to be startled when the women thrust a yellow envelope into his hands without saying a word.
"What's this?" Michael asked, taking the folder with a bemused expression before flipping it open to look at its contents, the smirk on his fading as he read over what he came to realize was a Biopsy report.
"Connie?" Michael spoke softly, looking up from the papers into his sister's eyes. Eyes that, has he studied them as intently as he would an enemy of the business, saw that they held a frail weakness he had never seen in them before.
-/ↀ\-
After the party had ended, Michael had left with his sister to be with her to handle their bad news in privacy, leaving Bianchi and Abbandando behind to tend to the rest of their evenings. Abbandando shook his head as he made his way down to his car in the hotel's parking garage. Cancer, what a tough fucking break. Abbandando suspected that Vincent hadn't been informed yet, but he knew that the news would hit his true Don the hardest, as Connie was all that Michael had left of his birth family. As well to consider that Kay and Anthony would have nothing to do with him, Michael would soon be alone in this world. The thought of that made Abbandando mourn for him, and appreciate all the more the things that he had himself.
Though he had started a family with his wife later in life, he had no less made the time for his children without sacrificing the efficiency of his work, an accommodation that made him grateful to Michael for all that he had done for him. Now with the kids now in their late teens, Dominic and his wife would have the house all to themselves to enjoy their retirement.
As he got into the driver's seat of his 1983 Lincoln Mark VII, Abbandando became incensed as he thought of what he viewed as an act of disrespect against Michael on the part of Vincent. Michael had taken Vincent under his wing when he was nothing more than a street punk nickel and diming his way in Joey Zaza's operation. It was Michael who mentored him into the business-savvy tycoon that he was now. It was Michael who named him a Corleone when he was nothing more than an illegitimate bastard born out of Sonny's unfaithfulness to his wife for his side squeeze, Dominic thought with bile as he started up the motor and drove off to get to his home in Brooklyn.
On the drive over, Abbandando thought over every contact he would need to get a hold of to find out the nit and gritty on this Rosario punk. The idea of the man boiled his blood, cozying up to Vincent when he should be begging to come to them, hat in hand. He couldn't stand those guys coming up from south of the border, holding no sense for the honorable ways of an Italian. He saw them through the lens of the Cartels, detesting how they would sell smack to their own people and pull civilians into their feuds. It was sloppy business, dirty as far as he was concerned, and he didn't want any of that anywhere near the business of the family. Though he couldn't prove it yet, this Rosario character screamed dirty business.
As the car pulled onto the street he lived on, he had to slow as young children frolicked in the street going door to door for trick or treating. Abbandando sighed, silently cursing the ratty kids who didn't hold any respect for their elders by hogging up the street. Growling in irritation, he slammed his palm into the car horn as he pushed his head out the side door window.
"Hey, you kids! Get the hell out of the road, what's the matter with you? Go home before I call your mothers!" The kids laughed and ran away, forcing a grumble from the Sicilian as he pulled in to park in front of his house. Damn kids. Abandando thought tiredly as he began to crave a stiff drink. Tomorrow would be a long day of work away from his wife, but it was work he was proud to do and he reached down to turn off the motor.
The moment Abbandando turned off the ignition, the sound of the city night was drowned in the roar of a violent explosion that engulfed the car in flames. The front door to his house was blown off its hinges and the windows to the lower floor shattered inward. Abbandando never knew what hit him as the canopy was blasted outward. Lights turned on in apartments stories above, residents coming to their windows to investigate what remained of the Lincoln Mark VII, the charred steel undercarriage and wheels crackling in the bellowing fire below.
-/ↀ\-
Shoutout to my friend AlexWoundedSide, who I helped post his reviews. I'm happy that you enjoyed listening to my story so far!