Per Fare Una Pace Fragile (To Make a Fragile Peace

Disclaimer applies to all chapters

Title Per Fare Una Pace Fragile (To Make a Fragile Peace)
Author: Scribe
Fandom: The Godfather Trilogy/Tinneann's Maltese Falcon Slash
Summary: When the Don is shot, Wilmer comes back to help--and to deal with Sonny for what he did to Michael.
Rating: Fan rated adults only
Pairings: Sonny/Michael
Characters: Sonny, Michael, Wilmer, Sam, and other minor characters from the Godfather series
Betas: None
Notes: This story takes place about twenty years after the incidents in What Dreams Are Made Of, about nine years after the events of Segretti Della Famiglia, and not quite a year after Anzechi Voi. Sangue Proteggi Sangue took place between Anzechi Voi and this one. Reading the others is not strictly necessary to understand this story, but it will add to it.
Credits: With her gracious permission, I have borrowed Sam and Wilmer from Tinneantoo's excellect Maltese Falcon slash, What Dreams Are Made Of, to mingle in my Sicilian Slash universe. I hightly recommend reading it at the WWOMB, or in the allslash, makebelieve, or rareslash yahoogroup list archives. She's an unbelievably talented writer.
Notes
Disclaimer: I did not create, and do not own the rights to, the recognizable media characters that appear in this story.
I have no legal or bindingagreement with the creators, or owners.
I do not seek, and would not accept,profit from this fiction.
I have nothing but affection and respect for the creators, and the actors and actresses who portrayed these characters.
This story is in no way meant to reflect on the actual lives or life styles of the actors and actresses who portrayed the characters
All original characters are copyrighted by the author. Do NOT use without specific permission
Warnings: Includes an exploitative fraternal incest relationship.
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Per Fare Una Pace Fragile
(To Make a Fragile Peace)

Don Vito Corleone sighed as he pushed himself away from his desk. His eyes fell on the picture taped to his office door. It was in garish crayon, crudely but enthusiastically drawn, and it showed a lopsided Christmas tree, surrounded by brightly wrapped packages. There was also a meticulously drawn bicycle that was pictured almost as large as the tree. Vito shook his head fondly.

Little Rose Mary, his grand-daughter was not very subtle in her hints. She was ready to ride like a 'big girl', and Sonny's offer to just take the training wheels off her old bicycle had been met with scorn. She'd have her new bike, of course she would. Of course, that meant that they'd have to get one for her twin sister, too...

Dano, the office manager entered, saw him pushed back from his desk, and said, "Eh, leaving early, Don Corleone? Christmas shopping?"

Vito hadn't really been considering leaving, but now that it had been suggested, it sounded good. "Yeah, Dano. No Christmas shopping. My wife would make my life miserable if I picked out things for the grandkids without her, but an early day sounds good."

He got up and went toward the door. Through it he could see Fredo sitting at his desk. He was leaning back in his seat, feet up on the blotter, head tipped back, staring up at the cieling. Don Vito frowned. While it was true that no piece of paper more important than the lunch order for the corner deli ever crossed Fredo's desk, he should TRY to look responsible. After all, he had the official position of vice president of Genco Olive Oil and Imports. How could the men who worked under him respect him if he didn't at least PRETEND to work?

He called, "Fredo." Fredo continued staring at the ceiling. Vito sighed, and raised his voice, "Fredo!" Fredo jerked and sat up abruptly, looking at his father questioningly. "Andiamo, Fredo. Tell Paulie to get the car. We're going." He took down his coat, and Dano took it from him, holding it open.

Fredo shuffled to his feet, getting his own coat. "I'll have to get it myself. Paulie called in sick."

The Don frowned. "Sick, huh?"

Fredo shrugged, smiling. "I don't mind. Paulie's a good kid."

Don Vito shook his head as Fredo went to wait by the outside door, but his expression softened with fondness. Fredo wasn't very bright, must have been that pneumonia when he was little, but he was a good boy. He meant well, he was just weak. Luckily he had two strong sons to look after the family if anything happened to him. Sonny was a hot head, but Micheal had brains, and he could use them to cool his brother down.
*If
*If he will. Those two were so close when Micheal was little. What ever happened? They won't talk about it, both of 'em jclaiclaim there's nothing wrong. Could it have been a girl? It happened right about the time Micheal was getting to be a man. I wouldn't put it past Sonny to have tried to get a girl away from Micheal. He'd have thought it was a joke.*

He buttoned his coat as Dano finished adjusting the shoulders. "Grazie, Dano. Buon nateli."

They walked down the steps to the sidewalk together. Just outside the door, Vito glanced over at the grocery next door. It was mid-December, but there was a beautiful display of fruits and vegetables out in front. The propriator had connections with a good greenhouse, and he could charge premium prices for goods that were rare at this time of year. Vito said, "Aspetta, Fredo. I'm gonna get some fruit."

Fredo said, "Sure, Pop. I'll go warm up the car." As his father went to greet the bowing grocer, Fredo walked a few yards down the street and got into the driver's seat.

Don Vito began to examine the goods on display. "Hi, merry Christmas. Those are some nice peppers. I'll have some of those. Mama can roast them. Those oranges or tangerines? Good, I'll have three." He held the brown paperbag open sniffing the tart-sweet citrus scent that rosem itm it's depths, as the little grocer busily polished red and green peppers before putting them in a sack.

Vito smiled to himself, thinking of a trick he could play with the orange rinds, something to tease the grandchildren. You sliced the peel into jagged points, then held it under your upper lip, and you looked like you had hidious orange fangs. As he was thinking this, he heard footsteps coming around the corner. They sped up into a run.

Vito Corleone had survived a long, long time in his chosen profession, and he was no fool. The bag hit the concrete and split as hened ned to run for the car, calling, "Fredo! Fredo, the car!"

The two men who burst around the corner had hats pulled low, and guns in their hands. Fredo watched in frozen horror as they shot at his running father. Vito staggered, his hands thrown up in the air, his body jerking repeatedly, then fell. The moment that he struck the pavement, the men whirled and ran back toward the corner.

Fredo managed to move. He struggled out of the car, trying to draw his gun. It tangled in the fabric of his coat, and he dropped it. When he tried to pick it up, he kicked it under the car. He stood up just in time to see the gunmen pile into a dark sedan, which sped away, disappearing down a sidestreet.

Stunned, Fredo staggered around the car. His father wasy lying facedown on the sidewalk. The back of his fine camelshair coat was punctured by at least three dark holes. A red pool was oozing out from underneath the Don. The street was slightly slanted. One of the oranges, from the ripped sack, rolled slowly downhill, passing through the expanding puddle of blood. It drew a wavering trail till it dropped off into the gutter, and stopped.

Fredo crept toward the still figure as the near hysterical grocer dashed into his store to call the police--anonymously. Fredo crouched beside Don Vito. "Papa?" He reached out, gingerly, touching the bigger man's shoulder. "Pape?"

The shoulder moved, and there was a weak groan. Fredo flopped down into the blood and dirt, and pulled his father over onto his lap, cradling him. He started crying. "I'm sorry, Papa. I can't, I can't..." He threw his head back and cried like a little boy. "PAPA!"

*****

Micheal and Kay came out of Radio City Music Hall. They'd just been to see The Bells of St. Mary's, and Kay was teasing him. It half amused, half exasperated Micheal. She was the only woman he saw these days, so why did she have to be so insecure? He even told her that he loved her--sometimes.

He wasn't really sure about that. He was FOND of Kay. He thought that maybe that was the most he was capable of. He was messed up, he knew that. He had been, ever since...

Micheal sighed. He'd promised himself that he wasn't going to think about that again. The only way he'd ever have any peace was to let it go. The problem was, IT didn't want to let go of HIM. They said that you never forgot your first time. *Just my luck that my first time has to be when I got drunk and got fucked by my older brother, and it's my SHITTY luck that it had to be the most intense sexual experience I've ever had.*

Kay was asking him if he'd like her better if she were a nun? "No."

They were strolling along the street, window shopping. "Well, how about if I was Ingrid Bergman?"

There was an opportunity too good to pass up. "Now there's a thought!"

"Micheal!"

"Aw,'t 't get so upset, Kay. You know I..." She was staring phim,him, face white. "What is it?" He turned and followed her gaze.

She was looking at a newstand. The vendor was just stacking the latest edition of the paper, and there was a huge headline. Feeling surreal, Micheal went over and picked one up.

VITO CORLEONE FEARED MURDERED. His guts twisted as he opened the paper to the story. Another, smaller headline read 'Assasins Gun Down Underworld Chief'. He read frantically. When Kay put her hand on his shoulder, he mumbled, "They don't say if he's dead or alive."

Together they ran to a phonebooth. Micheal plugged a nickel into the slot, then dialed a number--one that he realized with a sinking heart that he hadn't used much lately. After a few rings it was picked up, and he heard a familiar voice say, "Yeah?"

Micheal's throat felt tight, but he managed to say, "Sonny, it's..."

"Micheal! Where you been?"

"Is he all right?"

"We don't know yet. There's all kinds of stories." He sighed. "He was hit bad." There was silence. "You there, Mikey?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Where you been?" A pause, then he said, his voice low, "I was worried."

"I called. Didn't Tom tell you?"

"It ain't the same, Mikey. You know that. Look, you come home, kid. Mama needs you. We ALL need you."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, Sonny." He hung up, and looked at Kay. "I'm going home, Kay. But first I have to call someone else. It's long distance. How much change do you have?"

"Oh, honey, are you lucky you're with me!" She emptied her change purse on the little shelf. Micheal dialed the long distance operator. "Yeah, I need the west coast operator. No, I have the number." He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card. He ignored the printing on the front, turned it over, and read the number that was pencilled there.

*****

Sam's POV

"The phone's ringing."

"I noticed."

"So let go of my dick so I can answer it."

"Aw, Cookie..."

"Sam, let go. You know damn good and well that it must be important. There aren't that many people who have this number, and they all know not to bother us unless it's life or death."

I sighed, and flopped back on the bed as my lover reached for the bedside phone. "Yeah?" I looked up as Wilmer's voice brightened. "Hey, Mikey! Ah, gee, kid, it's good to hear from you!"

I scowled, but turned over on my stomach so that Wilmer wouldn't notice it. Wilmer hated it when I acted jealous, and I TRIED not to, but... Well, dammit, I was getting older, and Wilmer was a good dozen years younger than me. In a soft light he looked just like the kid that had come out to San Francisco over twenty years ago. And me...

There was no doubt about it, I looked DAMN good for a man my age, but that age was still past fifty. Gravity was starting to take over. I could feel my muscles beginning that gradual sag toward earth. My hair was still thick, but there was a good bit of grey in the brunette, and, as I lay there, I could feel just the tiniest bit of a paunch pushing down into the mattress, and my beloved Cookie was still as whipcord slender as he ever was, still quick. His ass was still just as smooth and tempting, and he could still either fuck me into the middle of next week, or take me into his body and squeeze me till I thought I was going to die, and I was happy about it.

Still, when Wilmer spoke to a young man in that bright, fond tone, it just made me feel old, sour, and grumpy. *Stop it, Sam. You know how he feels about Micheal Corleone. That kid is the closest thing Wilmer's ever had to a child of his own, and he's had so little chance to be around him.*

Micheal had still been tiny when Wilmer crossed the country to do a little job for the boy's father--Don Vito Corleone. That was when Wilmer and I had met, and sparks had flown. The incident of the Black Bird ended with Wilmer being 'given' to me, the mafia Don formally turning over the young gunsel's services in gratitude for what he saw as my involvement in doing away with an enemy who had killed a dear friend of the his.

Wilmer had told me of how he had often been given charge of the Don's youngest son, as a combination babysitter/bodyguard, and how much he had enjoyed the job. Micheal was smart, funny, ballsy, loving... That was most of it--loving. He accepted and loved Wilmer with no reservations, and there had been very little of that in Wilmer's short life.

A few years after the move, Wilmer had been overjoyed to receive a crudely printed letter in the mail. "Hi Wilmur. This is Mikey. Do you rmembre me? I mis you. I love you. Rite meve Mve Mike." A second sheet was from Don Corleone, telling Wilmer that the first thing Micheal had wanted to do after he started learning his letters was to write Wilmer, even before Santa Claus. Would Wilmer mind writing back to the boy? It would make him very happy.

So, off and on, Wilmer had kept up a correspondence with Micheal Corleone. It had tapered off as the boy got older. Wilmer never said anything, but I knew that he missed it.

I had only met Micheal once. About seven years ago the boy had come out to the coast to visit on his first spring break from college. Wilmer had been so happy, almost like a boy himself. I had studied him closely when we were introduced. Michael Corleone was a handsome young man--almost beautiful with his smooth, pale olive skin, thick black hair, and dark, liquid eyes. But I could tell that, though something very like love shone in Wilmer's eyes when he looked a the boy, it wasn't the same kind that he felt for me, and I was content.

And there had been something wrong with the boy. He'd been so quiet, when a young buck, out from under his family's eye for the first time should have been bursting with energy and the hunger to get out and experience life. Wilmer had sensed it, too, and asked Micheal quietly what had happened--what he needed? Micheal's eyes had been like wounds, and he had said, just to talk.

I had not protested when they had gone into the bedroom. I waited patiently in the front room, drinking and smoking one hand rolled cigarette after another. After a while, I'd heard the boy crying. Wilmer had come out, grim faced, and taken the bottle, then returned to the room without a word.

I had slept on the couch. When I'd awakened, Wilmer was at the ken ten table with the empty bottle in front of him, and Micheal, his face damp and flushed, was sleeping heavily in our bed. Wilmer had looked up at me bleakly, fist clenched around an empty glass, and answered the question in my eyes. "I can't tell you exactly what it was, Dream, but someone hurt him. Someone hurt him BAD. The physical part was over a long time ago, but the rest of it..."

There was a crack, and Wilmer had opened his hand to stare in dull surprise at the cut in his palm. I took away the broken glass and quietly got the iodine and guaze. As I bandaged my lover's hand, I asked quietly, "Cookie, am I gonna have to worry about you running off and doing something that might get you in trouble?"

Wilmer's eyes had remained cold, but his lips had twisted in annoyance. "He asked me not to, so no, you don't have to worry about that." His eyes had turned toward the room where the boy had started to make tiny snuffling sounds. His look had softened, then hardened again. "Not now, anyway."

Now I lifted my head when I heard Wilmer say, "No, I hadn't heard that. We're ahead of you here, kid, so the news may not reach us till tomorrow morning. How is he?" His tone was no longer cheerful--it was hard and businesslike. "Right, they won't want to let too much information out. I'll catch the first flight out. I should be there by tomorrow evening. Look, Mike, listen to me... No, LISTEN to me. You don't do anything till I get there, right? I know, I know, and I know you have balls, but this is different from anything you've been up against. This is what I do. Leave it to me, okay? I'll be there soon. Yeah." His voice softened. "Take care of yourself."

He hung up, then dialed. I heard him speaking to someone at the airport, finding out departure times for flights to New York, then he dropped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly. I waited. Finally Wilmer said, "They shot Don Corleone."

I sat up quickly. "Shit!" I knew what this could mean--mob war. Nasty, nasty business, and it looked like Wilmer was preparing to fly right into the middle of it.

"You said it."

"And you're going." He looked at me. "I know, I know. I'd have to tie you to the bed to keep you here..." I ran a hand over his lean belly. "and I like to save that for special occasions." I knew what he was going to say before I spoke, but I said it anyway. "I'll go, too."

"No, you won't." His tone was flat, but he softened the statement by rolling over and nuzzling my neck. "You need to stay here and pull in some dough for your retirement, old man."

It was a running joke with us. Thanks to somvestvestments, and this, and that (mostly that), I had a nice nest egg. Retirement... wasn't likely. I'd give up more and more of the vigorous parts of our work to Wilmer, and he might eventually hire on a younger helper, but I was never going to retirel. I was going to drop in the traces.

"But..." He was tracing patterns on my chest. Wilmer never seemed to notice the few gray hairs that had crept into the thatch. He moved down and started licking my nipples, one after the other. I sighed. "No fair trying to distract me, Cookie."

He nipped one of the now firm nubs. "What do you mean 'TRYING'?" His hand slid down my belly and fastened around my quickly stiffening cock. "I'd say I'd already managed it." I growled and rolled over on top of him.

He immediately wrapped his lean legs around my waist, and threw his arms around my neck. "I don't know how long I'm gonna be gone, Dream, and there won't be a flight for another couple of hours. One for the road?"

"I'd like to see you make it out that door WITHOUT it." He laughed softly as I stretched over to the nightstand for the little pot of cold cream. Wilmer squirmed and hummedI prI prepared him, gently working one, two, then three fingers into his back passage.

By the time I was done we were both hard as stone. I took a moment to lovingly stroke Wilmer's beautiful cock, moving the velvety skin over the firm core, and smearing pre-come over the satin of his glans. He reached down and wrapped a hand around my shaft, tugging till my cockhead reasted against the slick, slightly spread ring of his anus. "Impatient brat!" I scolded softly as I entered him, listening with pleasure to his long, low whimper of lust.

We moved together in a slow, easy rhythm. We knew each other so well, knew exactly the motion, the look, the noise, that would bring our partner the greatest pleasure. I held Wilmer's head between my palms and kissed him, softly and deeply, while I moved inside him. I thought of all the years of just sex, often with people I'd barely liked, let alone loved. *So much time wasted. God, Cookie, you have to be careful. I need you around a long, long time.*

It lasted a long time. Oh, we still got 'frisky' on occasion. There were knee tremblers in odd places, quick humps on the desk with the office door locked, lest some client wander in (Effie had more sense), blowjobs exchanged at some 'lookout point' (which occasionally ended in laughter when one or the other of us bumped his head on the dash)... But in the last few years I had really, REALLY come to appreciate my own bed, and the time to do it right.

I didn't get much faster, but at the end my strokes became more forceful, till I was scooting him up against the headboard with each lunge into his body. He was bucking and arching and making those little noises that drive me crazy. I wrapped a hand around his erection and stroked him in counterpoint to my strokes, and he banged his head back, wailing, as his seed spilled oo puo puddle on his own belly. Then he reached between us and stroked the narrow spot where we were joined, and I came. My toes curled. *Dear God, Cookie.*

When we were done he got the damp cloth we'd placed on the nightstand long before the phone rang. It wasn't all that warm, but it did the job. After we were clean, he moved into my arms and laid his head on my chest. "I have to go to the airport in three hours. Let me sleep for two, huh, Dream?"

"Sure, Cookie." I stroked his hair. After a moment I said, "Cookie?"

"Yeah, Dream?"

"This trip to New York--it's to see if you can help Don Don, keep him safe, maybe look into who did this, right?"

"Sure."

"Is that all it is?" He was silent. "Cookie, is that the only reason you're going back?"

He lifted his head and looked at me. His blue eyes were calm, but cool. I knew that was the only answer I was going to get. I tucked his head back down under my chin and said, "Go to sleep. You need to be fresh when you get there."

And that was the closest I was going to come to telling him to be careful.