#The Godfather Part III | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

a-boca-do-inferno · 10 months ago

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don’t think (vincent mancini x reader)

summary: (y/n) is determined to expose the truth behind the Corleone family and Vincent... well, he’s Vincent.

warnings: angst, swearing, alcohol, blood, violence, verbal abuse (sorta), crime (duh), fluff-ish

words: 5.3k

notes: it took me a ridiculous amount of time to finish this, but at last, here i am. also this is nothing but me fulfilling my own needs for him in this robe. i regret nothing

When his eyes dart over to hers, (y/n) stares right back at him, with the glimpse of a curious gleam in her own. She knew who he was, obviously; it was impossible not to these days. Standing before her, talking to three men in black suits, was the most feared man in New York, maybe even America. His family and alleged crimes weren’t exactly secrets anymore, if they ever were. However, with the FBI constantly getting more and more informants, their reign was soon to be extinguished and, consequently, completely exposed to the public once and for all.

There is a time and a place for everything. And no matter just how unpredictable you claim or even want your life to be, every now and then, the stars align to grant us what is rightfully ours. But sometimes, what is ours isn’t necessarily something we wanted in the first place. That is Vincent’s role in (y/n)’s dull excuse of a life. And that’s why, despite being actively involved in the confabulations to his demise, the girl couldn’t help but wonder what he would do then, as it seemed his sole purpose was living like a hustler, similar to every man in his family before him. Could he do anything else with himself, she wondered.

What more could become of Vincent Corleone?

Her thoughts are interrupted by his gaze shifting to hers once again. He nodded in acknowledgement and his mouth curled up slightly at the corner, causing (y/n) to hold back an amused expression. He tilted his head and his brows furrowed in interest at the broad, causing her to chuckle under her breath. (y/n) reckoned the ladies probably weren’t so keen on flirting with a mafia boss nowadays, and with that in mind, she raised her glass in a silent invitation. Because sure, he might be dangerous; but he is still pretty interesting. It would be a good story to share in the office tomorrow, if anything.

Vincent lifts his own drink in response, his stare lingering on her whiskey-wet lips, and (y/n) snorts softly. He approaches her table, and she points with her chin, her demeanour screaming of amusement—and perhaps some entitlement—, “don Corleone, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He flashes a charming smile and hums, with a sultry tone, “I have heard a lot about you, (y/n).”

“Let’s keep it professional for now”, the girl keeps grinning, motioning for him to take a seat. She watches as he moves to the chair, holding eye contact all the time. His suit is perfectly ironed, his dark hair is neatly brushed back, and there is that damn sparkle in his chestnut orbs. It feels as if he could devour her whole by that look alone, and a faint shiver goes up her spine at the thought. “It’s miss (y/n) for you.”

Vincent clears his throat, still sustaining a smirk. “I see. Miss (y/n), it’s a pleasure. Now, what would a fine woman like yourself be doing alone at this bar? Surely you have scores of men ready to buy you drinks and offer their jackets?”

“Is this an offer?”, she glances at him playfully, sipping her whiskey. “Because while I surely love to hold men hostage over my looks to get a few drinks for free, I’m afraid it’s my night off.” (y/n)’s unblinking look remains on his figure, albeit her face stays friendly.

“And I’m usually not one to buy women drinks. Makes me look needy, you know? But I just had to ask.” Corleone offers her a genuine smile, the hint of a blush running across his cheeks. “You really are incredibly beautiful.”

“Don’t worry about looking needy, anything you do won’t change that.” She laughs quietly, leaning back in her chair. “And I’ll gladly take you on that offer, my friend. Whiskey. Dirty.”

He laughs and snaps his fingers at the bartender. “You got it, miss.” The waiter pours her drink and slides it over to her. Vincent orders himself a whiskey as well, peering into the brownish liquid as he motions for a toast. “To meeting you.”

“Salute.” She smiles cheekily, gulping her shot at one go. “So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Corleone. How’s the FBI treating ya? I heard you’re having some occasional encounters with them”, she says, perhaps encouraged by the alcohol, but she’s not really concerned he’d do anything to her for asking a few questions, let alone at a public space. Vincent looked like a gentleman first, ruthless criminal second. At least that was her impression at first glance.

“Things with the feds are... interesting”, he beams, taking another sip and then leaning on his hand, looking into her eyes as he speaks; his voice smooth, low, and warm. He’s playing his game, she is very aware, and (y/n) can admit to herself it’s working a little. Only a little. “You know, miss (y/n), when I ask myself what makes the FBI tick, the only thing I can figure out is money”, he wiggles his brows, as if to reaffirm his point. “Money buys loyalty, money buys power. And that’s why the feds are so powerful. It’s not the guns, it’s not the suits; it’s the money.”

“That’s a unique way of looking at it.” She rounds her glass with her index slowly, studying its emptiness. “I guess you could say the same thing about the mafia or are you not self-aware enough for that?”, she waits for his reaction. The broad can’t help but want to push his buttons, see how far she can go with him, no matter how unwise that might be. Powerful men just make her giddy and curious, like a child with a cat.

Corleone chuckles softly, not minding her provocativeness. “Maybe I’m not. I’m a man of many faults, my hypocrisy is one of them.” When he speaks again, his voice is huskier. “You’re perceptive. I can tell you’re smart.”

“Too smart for my own good.” (y/n) snorts, trying to hide her shudder. She then waves a dismissive hand, gesturing around the tables, “these people here, they’re living better than me. Ignorance is bliss in this world.”

Vincent laughs heartily and makes another toast. “It’s the biggest flaw of humanity, in my opinion. No one wants to think about how the world works, because thinking is hard. It’s easier to just go through life without asking questions”, he pauses, scanning her discreetly with his strong eyes. “Unfortunately, it’s the people who question things that make change in this world. People like you, princess.”

“So I assume you make a lot of effort not to stay ignorant?”, she raises her brows, crossing her arms slowly, and her cleavage flashes out to him unconsciously. “Because you don’t look like it. How could the worst man in this town be so clueless? I don’t see it.” (y/n) shakes her head a bit, letting a faint smile appear on her cherry lips.

“Now, why would I wanna be clueless, miss (y/n)?”, his eyes flicker towards her breasts for a moment before returning to her face, with a puzzled look.

“Why wouldn’t you?”, her gaze becomes more intense, and her smile fades gradually, making way for an inquiring expression. “Is there anything better than simply not worrying?”

He scowls, meeting her stare just as intently. “Ignorance is a disease, sweet cheeks. And I’m not a diseased man. I prefer to see things as they are rather than how I wish they were. If I see a problem, I fix it. That’s how I live my life and I’m not gonna change anytime soon.”

“That’s funny.” (y/n) stays where she is, unaffected by his closeness. Her eyes fall on his mouth for a second, then go back up. “You’re not a diseased man, but where you go, death follows”, she’s quiet, but the edge is there; unrelenting, waiting for him to crack. “Why’s that?”

Vincent, on the other hand, doesn’t appear at all fazed. Rather, he seems to be enjoying their banter as he takes another sip from his drink. “My family came to this country with nothing, we built our empire from scratch. People respect the power that my family now commands. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve killed people to maintain that power. Death is just a by-product of doing what’s necessary to keep the family safe”, he considers smoothly, casually, as if speaking of a banal transaction. This realisation makes her uneasy.

“You are crazy”, (y/n) says half-heartedly, reclining in her seat and tapping her fingers on the wooden table lightly to hide her edginess.

“Maybe”, he snickers, his frown slowly dropping. “Like I said, I’m a man of faults. My biggest one is my loyalty to my family sometimes, as that doesn’t always make me do what you might deem as the ‘right thing’. Sometimes, I gotta do the necessary thing.”

She smirks and nods. “Be that as it may, I hope the FBI does their job. People keep dying because of you, good people. And you don’t get to decide if they should live or not”, her voice is still gentle, albeit her words are piercing now.

Despite looking somewhat offended, Vincent maintains his cool, finishing up his whiskey. “Death is a part of life, sweetheart, we can’t all live happy and free. Sometimes the world needs men to do dark things, to keep their families safe. That’s just the way it works.” He leans back and glances into his half filled glass.

“You sound like Michael Corleone.” (y/n) muses, studying his demeanour with a close eye. She thinks back to the days she had to interview his uncle. Back then, he came across as a broken man and she almost felt sorry for him, were it not for her knowledge of all his crimes, including his own brother’s murder. It appeared as though the Corleones were destined to go down that route and deep inside of her, she caught herself wishing for Vincent to somehow find a way out. God only knows why. “And that’s a shame. You could’ve been your own person.”

If Vincent is bothered by her subtle jabs at this point, he doesn’t let it show. “We think alike on a few things because we’re family, I suppose.”

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, beautiful”, she cackles, gazing around the bar. It was empty except for the two of them, and she sighed. Time went by pretty quickly.

“And what makes you sleep at night, miss (y/n)?”, he opens a sour, nearly venomous beam, in spite of the unchanging silkiness in his tone. “You keep throwing polite insults at me, so surely it’s no surprise that I’m curious about the state of your holy conscience.”

“I apologise if I was too honest, it’s the whiskey.” She shrugs, looking a bit tipsy indeed. “But I don’t take back what I said, not one goddamn word. I hope they catch you. You’re a bad, bad man.”

The girl rests her chin on her hand to watch him smugly, also taking the moment to admire his features. He is quite handsome, undeniably, notwithstanding all the atrocious things he’s rumoured to be doing, and the damn drinks don’t help her think rationally either. While her words say one thing, her body tells him another.

And Vincent, to his own credit, catches her flirty body language, raising his now empty glass again with a sly grin. “To bad men then, my dear.”

(y/n) can’t help but blush, rolling her eyes and getting up from her chair. “It was... partially a pleasure, Mr. Corleone.” She bows jocosely, stumbling as she takes a step backwards.

That was an exchange that should’ve never happened, and (y/n) wishes she knew that sooner. Going back home that night, she reckoned her boss would probably have her head on a plate if he caught wind of her little interaction with Vincent Corleone, since she didn’t actually get any juicy information about the Bronx killings. But, in her humble defence, he wouldn’t have given her anything anyway. Doesn’t matter how into her he looked, Vincent wasn’t one to be easily fooled by curves to the point of revealing his connections in the underworld, apart from being a very responsible drinker; at least in her company.

With a sigh, she threw herself on the bed and turned off the lights, letting sleep take over. The next day, of course she woke up with a headache. Sometimes she regretted not actually enjoying her college days, as it would probably have helped build some alcohol resistance today. The broad whined quietly before getting up and shuffling her kitchen cabinets for some aspirins. As she searched for the pills, her telephone started ringing. She winced at the loud noise, picking up.

“Hello?”, she mutters sleepily, and her boss speaks rushed in the line. “Mick, I have a headache.” She sighs and he slows down, but still sounds very anxious, and (y/n) widens her eyes when he’s finished. “I’m going right now!”

(y/n) changes in the blink of an eye and storms out of her apartment, leaving the door open. There had just been a killing at the exact same sight as the last one, but this time, they found prints. Corleone associates’ prints. Arriving at the scene, she pulled out her notepad and her pen, walking to the few officers without hesitance. They tried to tell her off until she convinced them to give her but a small clue. It appeared to be a reckoning of some kind, and they were getting sloppy, as the prints were found and catalogued only a few hours after the crime.

Now, who in their right mind would’ve been so stupid as to make a mistake like this, when the FBI was already so far up their ass? It almost felt icky to her, and it stunk of snitching into the mafia, not just arrested associates trying to reduce their sentence. The thought bothered her for some reason, because weren’t these people all about loyalty? (y/n) took a few more notes before turning around and walking to the street to get a cab. Her eyes were still on the notepad when a strong, tall body bumped into hers.

She gulps, in a mix of surprise and fear. “Mr. Corleone.”

Vincent’s eyes are sharp and intense as ever, and he examines over the area until his gaze goes back to her, with a menacingly intrigued look. He puts his hands in his pockets, sounding polite, yet not as much as the last time. “Seems you and I had the same destination today, miss (y/n). I trust this wasn’t a coincidence?”

“Surely.” She smiles, trying to walk past him, but he doesn’t let her, hardening his jaw. The girl glares at the man, despite shaking like a leaf. “Excuse me?”

Vincent scoffs, clearly impatient. “You followed me here, didn’t you?”, he doesn’t move, but his look is as serious as hers. “Spit it out now and maybe I’ll have mercy.”

(y/n) lets out a fake laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got a call from my boss”, she grits her teeth, still forcing a grin. “And you people are getting sloppy, you know? Not even a day until they found prints?” She chuckles, raising a brow, “Michael would never make a mistake like that in his day.”

Vincent stares at her, his mouth going from a thin line to an upside-down smile. His voice has lost its earlier friendliness, and he takes a step towards the woman, a look of anger on his face, “why are you following me?”

“I follow the story, not the characters.” She pats his chest, nodding once. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”

(y/n) tries to leave again, and he grabs her arm firmly. “You don’t think you’re part of this story, (y/n)?”, his tone is low and almost threatening now. “Last chance. Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. Who sent you?”

The girl tries to shrug him off, but it’s to no use. “Let go or I’ll have you arrested right here.” She glances over at the cops standing at a distance from them.

“Those coppers would get down on their knees if I told them to, so cut the bullshit”, Vincent pulls (y/n) closer to him, his dark orbs burning. “You wanna try me, baby? I’ll make you scream”, he beams cheekily, yet it’s empty. He lets go harshly and steps back, putting his hands back in his pockets as if nothing happened. “We’re just talking here, right?”

“You don’t scare me”, she speaks with conviction, adjusting her coat, even though her voice trembles ever so slightly. “And your threats better stop right here. You might be a powerful man, but you’re not invincible. Everyone’s got a weakness.”

“You know what, (y/n)? I have a lot of respect for your courage as a female reporter, trying to cover this story”, Vincent grins and takes a step back. “It’s a shame I can’t trust you.”

“I’m flattered that a despicable criminal like you doesn’t trust me, as it speaks volumes about my character”, she fakes another smile, taking a step to leave. “Have a good day, Mr. Corleone.”

“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve heard this week!”, Vincent laughs out loud, not stopping her this time. He stays where he is, raising his voice so she can hear him from a distance. “You have a great day, sweet cheeks!”

A week later, (y/n)’s working late hours every day on her investigation into the Corleone shenanigans. Her eyes are red and tired, but she perseveres. This story could make her entire career and clean New York’s streets from the biggest mafia family in town. Nothing sounded better. She had begun taking precautions, obviously, like changing her locks and exclusively moving around in cabs. She did her best not to be alone at any given time, which sucked for her. Alone had always been her only moment of something resembling peace.

Her last encounter with Vincent left (y/n) feeling anxious, unsurprisingly, yet it fuelled her to find out more about the killing sprees inside the mafia. Her intuition rarely failed her and something in her gut said someone was trying to take out his own boss and perhaps covering his tracks. The dates were too close, and the second time was sloppier than before. Whoever he was, the guy was getting desperate. And with no proof, no sources and unsurprisingly no acquaintance with the Corleones, it was like walking into a dark room with a blindfold.

A sigh escaped her lips as she stared at the newspaper from last month, where the Bronx victims made it to the front page. Her chest tightened as her mind turned one of their faces into Vincent’s, his skull completely destroyed by a bullet. For some reason, the thought of his death bothered her to no end. Yes, he was a criminal, but he should pay for his crimes as the law states: in federal confinement. She was extremely against the death penalty, after all. But not only that, the girl still saw something in him she shouldn’t: a man. Not a monster, not the face of a bloody organisation, not his family’s last name. Just a man.

As she’s gathering her things to leave, her boss calls her. (y/n) picks up while walking towards the elevator, pressing the first floor. “What’s up?”

“You’re gonna interview Vincent Corleone in a few days”, Mick’s voice is calm and casual, as if he just told her news about a football game.

(y/n) stops in her tracks, standing motionless before the elevator doors. “I’m gonna what?!”, she exclaims, not really knowing what else to say. She couldn’t talk much about that subject, not to her boss. If he found out she’d been conducting an investigation on a mafia family by herself, and that the Don himself knew about it already, she would be out of a job in no time.

“Look, my dear, Leslie’s in Paris right now, she’s not gonna make it in time and you’re the only one who’s not gonna throw up in front of the guy”, he keeps talking like it’s the normalest thing in the world, to do a piece on a known and widely feared mafia boss like Vincent, and she has to scoff quietly. This has to be a joke. “This is big, we’re gonna get you the cover.”

“Mick, you have got to have lost your mind”, her voice sounds a little shaky as she walks into the elevator, finally getting to the ground floor. She holds the phone tightly against her ear as she strolls towards the street and calls for a taxi.

“Don’t you know him already, anyways?”, Mick asks, and a keyboard being pressed can be heard in the background of his speech. “It’s even better, he’ll open up to you.”

The girl wants to roll her eyes, but keeps listening. Suddenly she stops for a moment, getting an insight. Conceding an interview to a newspaper right after yet another public scandal? This doesn’t sound smart. Vincent’s either too desperate to think straight or he has an angle. She just can’t see it right now, but maybe asking him a few questions might help her with finding the traitor... The only problem was facing him after the polite offences—as he had called it—she offered him, intoxicated and now sober.

(y/n) gets into the cab and whispers her address to the driver, turning to look at the window as she sighs. “If you count me insulting him for two hours straight while shamelessly flirting with too much alcohol in my system as ‘knowing’, then yes.”

“You left that part out, huh?”, he says sarcastically, but appearing a little worried now.

“Look, you gotta find someone else”, the car stops in front of her building and she pays the nice man, giving him a wave as he drives off. (y/n) walks up to her apartment as she searches for her keys. “I really can’t do it. This guy… he’s a creep. I would feel uncomfortable”, she lies mercilessly, not caring that the statement sounds contradictory to her earlier confession of their encounter in the bar.

“The interview will be in his house next week.”

Mick hangs up and (y/n) looks at her phone with a stunned expression. She takes a deep breath, entering her home and slamming the door. Great. Now she just has to figure out a way of getting out of the Corleone mansion alive.

♡♡♡

“How’s the weather up there from that high horse of yours, doll?”, Vincent’s familiar tone comes from behind her and (y/n) turns to face him with a plastic smile, her legs trembly like two sticks in the wind. His smirk is almost disgusting, as he walks to her side and leans on the balcony slightly, giving her a look over his shoulder. “Sunny like you, I’d wager.”

Somehow, the girl managed not to go crazy throughout that stressful week. After a few more arguments with her boss, she gave into doing the damn interview—or rather, her need to have a job surpassed her fear of ever coming close to Vincent Corleone again. Sure, she did her part of exposing some of his dirty deeds to the public, but from behind a computer screen, everything is much easier and safer. Although, safety in that case would always be but a false reading of the cruel reality. Many of her colleagues had paid the price before her for wanting to tell on the mafia’s crimes, and that’s mainly why she persisted. At the end of the day, her life was a small sacrifice for the ultimate goal. Sooner or later, a journalist has to come to terms with that.

The car ride to the Corleone mansion was surprisingly calm, yet inevitably tense. She was taken there by their own private chauffeur. He wasn’t very talkative, but she figured he wasn’t paid to chitty chat with some terrified journalist in his backseat. Going through her notepad, she reviewed all her questions for the billionth time. Not that she had any hopes of getting any answered by Vincent, as she knew too well he had a mesmerising ability to make the conversation flow in the direction he wanted it to—by force or otherwise.

When (y/n) arrived in his house, some twenty minutes ago, she was readily greeted by Vincent himself wearing nothing but a silky red robe, which barely covered his slim yet athletic body, dark hair dishevelled like he had just woken up. A striking difference from the neat smokings he bore in public, and one that made her cheeks blush ghostly. Oh, it wasn’t that early, by the way. It was past noon and her stomach turned at that image of him even though she made a point of not eating anything before; that way, it would be harder for her to throw up eventually.

Here’s the funny thing about gangsters: they’re not usually the most well-mannered chaps and Vincent, of all people, wasn’t gonna be the exception. His charm was only extended to his good looks and often annoying boldness, which was duly noted again by his complete disregard to present proper in her presence while in his own home. From that very moment she knew that afternoon was going to be a complete disaster, starting with the raunchy outfit and the way her eyes couldn’t help but wander to his chest hair—and in her defence, his in specific would certainly be a sight to behold on anyone. Or perhaps that’s what she kept telling herself as he babbled about the architecture of the mansion, even though she had asked a question about his childhood before all of…

This.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Vincent”, (y/n) blurts out, cutting him off when he was in the middle of describing the texture of the walls surrounding the garden. His brows lift in amusement at her words, and he holds his chin up, daring her to keep defying him. To hell with this. She could be trembling like a chicken, but that man was really getting on her nerves. “Just answer the question, or you can say no and I’ll move on to the next.” Her tone is firm, and she sustains his gaze, unblinking. “How did you start in this life?”

And like that night in the bar, Vincent’s demeanour goes from playful to mildly annoyed. He stands up straight, towering over her. “Look, sweetheart, your little investigation ain’t gonna get you far in life”, his voice is deep and nothing like the sensual one he usually uses with her. Stepping even closer, he adds, “word of advice? Just go home. This ain’t your problem, so don’t try to make it your problem.”

(y/n) scowls. “If I wanted a safe job, I wouldn’t have become a journalist.”

“I don’t fucking care”, he takes her arm, looking down at her enraged. She flinches at the pain, trying to shrug him off unsuccessfully. “You’re gonna get yourself killed and I don’t have time to babysit you, so get the hell out now while you can.” So they are trying to kill him. Point to her gut.

His hot breath hits her face like knives cutting through her skin, yet she doesn’t back down. With watery eyes, she keeps her head held high to challenge him, her ragged breathing touching his chin in the same burning heat. For a split second, she can swear he’ll grab her by the hair and take all his anger out once and for all, God knows how, but a loud noise comes from the living room and they both turn to find two masked figures pointing guns at them. Before she can even process what’s going on, Vincent drags her to the side and shots are fired in their direction, breaking the glass of the door to the balcony. She screams in horror and covers her ears.

“Fuck”, Vincent grunts as he keeps her body shielded with his, trying to peek inside the house to see if they went out of bullets. It appears so.

He swiftly stands back up and takes out a pistol out of nowhere, shooting the men in the head. They fall dead on the ground and (y/n) is in shock, but somehow grateful he did that. Blood splattered on the stupidly fancy walls and wooden floor, running toward the balcony where she was sitting in a foetal position in the corner. Watching the thick redness touch her feet, a jarring realisation came to her mind: Vincent Corleone just saved her life. Him, the very man she feared would truly hurt her only seconds ago. The man she saw behind the monster.

He crouches down again, pulling her into his arms, and her entire body is boiling hot. His hand strokes her hair delicately and the sensation soothes her nerves, causing her to cling to him pathetically. (y/n) grips his robe tightly, taking deep breaths to calm herself and maybe try and get back to her senses. But it’s useless when their eyes meet and he grabs her by the back of her neck, savouring her mouth without so much as asking for permission. Typical Vincent.

A soft, humble whimper leaves her lips, and it’s still not enough for her to try and pull away. The kiss is messy and sloppy and her legs begin to shake again. Her fingers reach his hair and pull his strands a bit, causing him to moan against her mouth. She feels a wetness brushing against her abdomen and when she opens her eyes again, they widen in worry. He’s bleeding.

“It’s just a graze, sweetheart”, he chuckles under his breath, smirking while she still looks concerned, sliding down his robe slowly to take a look at his wound. “Don’t hold your panties in a bunch.” (y/n) wants to roll her eyes, but she’s more focused on studying the bruise on his tanned skin. Vincent holds her chin between his fingertips and pecks her lips gently, nothing like the urgent kiss from before. She sighs and tilts her head a bit, unable to formulate any words yet. This was a turn of events she wasn’t expecting. He senses her hesitancy and glances at her, his eyes gleaming with such intensity that she was left breathless again. “Don’t think.”

(y/n)’s lips curl up in the corner of her mouth, and he helps her up and away from the bodies in silence. Her hand holds his involuntarily, maybe in a childish attempt at finding comfort in this new situation in which she knows, deep inside, she’s not alone. Not after today. When their gaze meets one more time, all she sees is the chestnut irises that made her stomach stir with butterflies that night in the bar with too much alcohol in her veins, except she’s never been more sober in her life. And it’s clear as day. There’s nothing but him and his annoyingly handsome crooked smile. She gives his palm a faint, yet so telling squeeze. This is what Vincent Corleone could become.

Hers.

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