#santino gallo

[bewareofitalics]

A lovely solo version of "They Were You" from the original revival Matt!

[bu1410]

Good afternoon TUMBLR - April 23th - 2024

''Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971."

Atyrau Kazakhstan – Dec 2004 – Oct 2010 - Kashagan Development Project

Part 2

RESIDENT PERMIT Two months had passed since my first entry into the country, and the day came for me and other Italian colleagues to undergo the procedures for obtaining residency and work permit in Kazakhstan. In this regard, we were summoned to a local analysis laboratory for blood sampling - a necessary condition to ascertain our health and therefore eligibility for the residence permit.

The place had the typical Soviet appearance: two-storey building, large windows, gardens of poor dying plants, peeling walls and the inevitable Eternit roof. So I, Franco Pennacchia, Carmelo Longo, Salvatore Sampirisi, Gallo Santino were present and it was Talgat who led us to the place. NUrse began to call and Franco was the first to go - than myself, Longo, then the nurse pronounced out loud:  GIORGIO BORCHIA! ………and to our utmost disbelief we saw Talgat - the driver! - go into the room to get blood sampled!! We looked at each other in amazement and after 3 seconds we all burst out laughing, giving each other a high five, while Talgat returned to sit next to us, with the sleeve of his shirt rolled up, and his hand pressing the cotton on his arm at the sampling point. I hate to think what would have happened if the result of Talgat's blood test had tested positive for some serious disease…….

VENEZIA HOTEL & RESTAURANT

Time passes, we work hard at the site, we have to watch out for the AGIP Client, the PETROFAC Supervision and the ruthless competition from the local Contractors (politically supported more than us) and from foreign ones like our competitor Bonatti. Every Saturday evening, with our colleagues, we used to have dinner at Venezia Hotel & Restaurant. The owner - Mr. Franco Mancinelli - is was the prototype of the Italian pictured in many Italian movies - a guy who had arrived in Atyrau years earlier as a air conditioning technician and then, having met a local woman, married her and settled in Atyrau (which for the record, until 1991 was known as Guriev, a name treacherously given to the city by the Russians). Mancinelli's wife, like many other Kazakh women had great initiative, invents a small bed and breakfast with an adjoining restaurant, and obviously they call it Marco Polo, given that the Atyrau was one of the city on the routes between China and Italy traveled by the great Venetian. It must be said that Kazakhstan, still a macho nation today, would fail in a short time if there weren't so many activities carried out by women. Who, until a few years ago, were employed in jobs that Western women would not even think to undertake. Such as industrial painter/industrial insulatior - or heavy duty equipment operator. In 2005, sensing the business wind brought by the numerous foreigners arriving in Atyrau, Mancinelli built a new hotel-restaurant near the Ural River. And it is there, in an Italian atmosphere and with that touch of ''Neapolitanism'' that never hurts (the pizza oven was hand decorated by a Russian artist could have been missing with the traditional view of the Gulf of Naples) that we used to spend Saturday evenings: ''acceptable'' Italian cuisine, Caspian sturgeons, occasionally excellent caviar. And then, once some bottles of wine been emptied, life anecdotes, choruses and songs from the most reviled repertoire of Italian restaurant music (with obvious excursions into the military-partisan past) Mancinelli used always to joins us, because in this way he easily manages to circumvent the control over his ''alcoholic'' side exercised by his wife.

NEW BRIDGE Atyrau is a city cut in two by the Ural River, which rises 2,000 km further North, in Russian territory, and then flows into the Caspian Sea, about 40 kilometers from the city. The Ural River also marks the ideal border between Europe and Asia. When we arrived in 2004, only two bridges connected the European and Asian sides of the city. With the progressive increase of city traffic, due to the increase in population following the start of the Kashagan project, the need arose to build a new bridge. It was decided to built it further North than the existing one, in order to reduce chaotic traffic in the city center. During a visit by representatives of the Kazakh central government, the allocation of a significant sum for the construction of the new bridge was established. Months passed, but there was no trace of the new bridge (or at least of the site for its construction). Then one day the news that the local government would never have expected: the President himself, in 4 months, would visit Atyrau, and on that occasion, among other things, he expected to inaugurate the new bridge !!! General panic among local administrators! A few days after the ''feral news'', preparations for the construction of the new bridge began on the two banks of the river - which in the point chosen for the new bridge measured approximately 60 meters wide. At the same time as the construction activities of the bridge began (which were naturally scheduled 24/7) the rumors of a mission to seek funds from the companies present in the municipal territory of Atirau became increasingly insistent. The day came when a delegation from the local administration visited our offices. Four individuals were part of it. The conversation started very distantly - people were trying to get the interlocutor out of tiredness, talking for hours about everything except the crux of the matter. Generally they start by asking about the family, how's Italy, so beautiful and so good at football. (Btw: Italy will win the 2006 World Cup). Then they inevitably move on to the Italian music and singers who are most loved in the former Soviet territories (and who we Italians hate most or who have almost all forgotten in Italy) such as Ricchi e Poveri, Pupo, Cristina D'Avena, Toto Cotugno. And then to give a sign of modernity, the brightest star: Eros Ramazzotti. In the end, when the topics are running out, and the eyelids become heavy (because naturally during the visit numbers of vodka glasses are to be drunk), the real topic of the visit is finally addressed:

The ''spontaneous financing of the construction of the bridge by your company! And here the scene becomes epic and comical at the same time: fearful of any hidden microphones that could record their voices (years of Russian domination do not pass in vain…) the negotiation is done in silence, with the help of a calculator . The other party writes the requested amount on the calculator and throws it across the table to the Director - who must appear shocked by the amount he reads, shake his head noticeably and then write on the calculator a figure at least 1/3 of the one requested. And then of course throw the calculator back across the table, so that the officials can horrify, smile, fill the room with NIET NIET NIEEEEEET…. - The pantomime continues for a quite a lot of time, with throws and relaunches of the calculator then at a certain point, when the parties find a meeting point, everyone gets up, takes glasses, a last round of vodka and big pats on the back sanction the agreement. The bridge was built in record time, and for the (tragic) record it cost the lives of 12 workers engaged in the work: the haste and the lack of safety measures led to the collapse of a span under construction, during a night shift. The rhetoric inherited from the Soviet Union did the rest, with the re-enactment of the day of the inauguration ''of our heroes who lost their lives to give the city its new bridge''.

PRESIDENT'S SITE VISIT

Two years after the start of work on the Kashagan project, the first visit of the President of Kazahstan, Nursultan Nazarbayev to the site was announced. At the time of the Soviet Union, Nazarbayev was considered Gorbachev's ''dolphin''. The one who, in the absence of the famous events of 25 December 1991 when Gorbachev resigned as president of the Soviet Union and declared the office abolished, and conferred all powers and the Soviet presidential archive to the President of Russia Boris Yeltsin. Finally, on December 26, 1991, the Supreme Soviet of the USSR formally dissolved the USSR. Well without these events Nazarbayev would have succeeded Gorbachev. On 16 December 1991, Kazakhstan unilaterally declare independence from the Soviet Union. We, as a mixed Kazakh-Italian JV, were tasked with preparing in a dignified manner to welcome of the Father of Kazahstan on the Karabotan construction site. After repeated meetings, it was decided to set up an area at the entrance to the plant under construction. This area will contain a Presidential stage, one for the VIPs admitted to the President's speech, a stage for the orchestra (which will perform the National anthem) a Yurt, the traditional tent of the Kazakh nomads, where the President he will sit and have a chai surrounded by a few close friends. In addition to all this, we also propose a specially created banner at the entrance to the square, with the words ''Welcome President Nazarbayev''. AGIP provides us with a local architect/artist, who will prepare the drawings of the stages and decorate them with the colors of Kazakhstan, the sky blue, the yellow of the rising sun. We got to work, and I must say that the result was beyond all expectations: the stages were beautiful, the yurt sumptuous, and then the day before the visit the banner also arrived, which we mounted on poles just before the esplanade where President Nazarbayev would arrive. On the morning of the visit we were ordered to be at the site by 6.00 am - after which, for security reasons, all the roads would be blocked by the army and police.

Only two of us were admitted to the ceremony, and therefore fully dressed (and with the new white helmet on our heads…) I and the Vice-President of the Kazakh Joint Venture Mr. Bolat headed towards the square. Unfortunately the weather was inclement, threatening rain, and a notable wind had picked up. We arrived at 9.00 and the security guard placed us in a group like soldiers, in 10 rows of 20 people each. And the long wait began….....which lasted until 11.45, when the procession of cars finally arrived. And where did the President's armored Mercedes stop? Right under the banner we had installed, which at that moment, pushed by the wind, was bobbing and flapping dangerously………. My thought at the moment: ''If the banner will detach from the poles and fall on Nazarbayev's Mercedes, I would be a dead man….'' Or at least I would disappear for a few years in one of the prisons in the Kazakh steppe. ……. Instead it held. Nonetheless, it started to rain, an insistent drizzle, and if on the one hand it got us wet, on the other it probably served to shorten the President's speech, known for being a talkative old man like almost all ex-Soviet hierarchs. After the National Anthem and speech, Nazarbayev went under the yurt, and then we ''mortal '' were given the opportunity to break ranks.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with SANTINO GALLO, who is TWENTY-SEVEN years old. He is often called SEBASTIAN by the MONTAGUES and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW: murder, death & grieving

One moment his parents were there and the next, they disappeared — as INTANGIBLE as the ghosts that he had conjured up in their absence. It was as quick and as bright as a shooting star, the one moment where his family was truly together. One would think that waking up the next morning would dash any prospect of waking up with hope for the new day – for one Gallo it did, and for the other the mere thought was impossible. Santino held onto the belief that they must have known that their children were SURVIVORS, that they would come out unscathed from the trials that was bound to fall upon two orphaned twins. No matter the misfortune that befell them, Santino still held onto hope until it almost burned him with his desperation. His hope began to sour, but still, he clung to it with FEROCITY as the lessons Verona’s streets taught him were much more unforgiving than any damage neglectful parenting could have wrought. Ever the good brother, he hid the truth from Valentina for as long as he could, kept her in the dark as to the lengths that he would go to protect her as well as himself. In his eyes, Valentina afforded the world no mercy and so he wished to have mercy upon it for both their sakes; a fool’s gambit if ever there was one.

To show KINDNESS to a man condemned is to condemn yourself in the fair city of Verona. Santino, ever the tender soul, simply wanted to offer the man shelter and reassurance — unsuspecting of the fact that the man had just narrowly escaped the wrath of the Montagues. How was he supposed to know that the man had been skimming off of the Montague’s profits and pocketing a couple of grams too? However, when administering justice, the Montague gang does not take into account innocent bystanders, because in their eyes, there is no such thing as innocent. Valentina had entered into the room just as Santino had made his peace with God while a gun was cocked to his temple, the side of his face covered in the blood of the man who he had been stupid enough to take mercy upon while the body lay prostrate at his feet. It was her clever thinking that saved them both, and when he emerged hours later, both were in the employment of the Montagues, with Santino’s SOUL thrown into the bargain. They did not care whether or not he belonged, for his sister did, a bright and shining jewel they wanted to keep for themselves, and they could not have her without her twin.

The violence changed him; how could it not? To have the blood of others cover his hands often sent him into throes of despair and yet time after time he made peace with it — because he had to. For his sake. For his sister’s sake. He made it into a MANTRA that he hoped would sustain him, and he locked that ruined part away from her as best he could, for it was neither her fault nor her cross to bear. Yet she, too, locked things away, and before he knew it they were more distant than they ever had been. She, with all her secrets, and he, with all his half-hidden misery. The day he got the call from Roman Montague that something was happening in the Cathedral, he searched for her, called her a dozen times before deciding he had to leave without her, try to offset the wrath the Montagues would have at her lack of response. He could not have known the HORROR that awaited him, for none of them could, in the end. When her body was unveiled, when her blood pooled beneath her feet, that was when the world and life itself shattered one last time.

His memories after that moment are FRAGMENTED. Somehow, they kept him from moving toward her, from helping, and instead Santino was forced to watch as everyone else stood by as well. As one by one, the Capulets proved their loyalty by dipping their hands into Valentina’s blood. He noted each of their faces and forced himself not to forget, and then, as the last of her life left her body, he was at last allowed to hold her. To watch as the vibrancy that had held him together leaked from her face, as her eyes went glassy and dull. He held her for hours after, until they had to pull her from his arms by force, until he was SCREAMING, clawing, biting at anyone who tried to pry her away. His life still feels fragmented, somehow, like everything hinged on that exact moment. He was not supposed to outlive Valentina. It was he who always walked around half-dead, and she who had always been filled with light and laughter, even in her darkness. Now he wonders at the world as it keeps spinning, at the Montagues as they pick up their pieces and move on, at the city who damned her as surely as his own actions had. Who will suffer for his RETRIBUTION? The list is long, with himself at the very top, and the few who are free of his blame would do well to stay out of his way.

VALENTINA GALLO: Twin sister. It had been the two of them against the word for as long as he can remember — and his memory is long and often drifting. Think of anything that needs two parts to work, that cannot function when absent something vital: that is the analogy for him and Valentina. She burned so brightly against his shadow, and now the warmth has gone, the light fading, turning his eyes blind and his hands freezing. The loss of her hollows him out, a shell of a man with nothing to show for it. They have not merely killed Valentina Gallo. They’ve killed Santino in the process. His horror and rage at what has been done is matched only by the anger he feels toward her, for never telling him the truth about who she was, for lying until the day she died to keep a secret he never would’ve told anyone. Was it to protect him? Or was it merely to show off? He can never ask, and she can never answer, but he can find out who assigned her to do it. Whoever gave the order is as guilty as she, and when he finds them, he doesn’t know if he’ll kill them or collapse at their feet and beg them to end him the same way.

MARCELO ROSSO & BRIELLE KING: Antagonist & Safe Haven. Heaven and hell on his shoulders, in the same office as him, breathing the same air. Marcelo was close with Valentina, and it’s given them a weird sense of cease-fire, but he knows it won’t last. It’s only a matter of time before he misses some imaginary goal post, before he gives Marcelo an excuse to turn on him, teeth sinking right back into the scars they’ve already left. It’s only Brielle that keeps them from snarling at each other now, Brielle who comes every day to see if he’s eating, who stands in front of Santino and begs for more time, he’s still healing. He can’t hide behind her forever, but it feels nice to try, and so far, Marcelo has allowed it. Their tentative silence is precarious, and one thing could send it over the edge somehow, but for now, they remain... stable. That’s the best that anyone can hope for. Still, it’s not hard to look at them and be reminded of what he should be. To think that perhaps if he were as violent, if he embraced his darkness as they do, then he would not have lost so heavily. Yet Santino also looks at Brielle, with her grace and her softness, and wonders if it’s those things that make her able to bear such unending tragedy. Who is he following, really? Who holds his leash? For he can feel the collar ‘round his neck as a brand, and it is beginning to suffocate him.

MAEVE PETRE: Traitor. There were so many times when he thought Maeve was the exception to the rule. The person who could shrug off what Verona had become and make something better from it, for she had reached across the Adige so many times, had she not? Yet doubt curdled in him from the moment he could think again, after Valentina’s death — from the moment he could wonder who started the Capulets watching her. Who, after all, was a Capulet welcome in his home? Who did he talk of his sister to (never by name, always by sorella, but it wouldn’t be hard to see her picture on the mantle, would it?) with such love and affection? And who, in the end, could have been the one to turn that around and use it against him? He has no proof, of course, not even a whisper of it, but if Valentina was an obvious spy than Maeve, to him, is an obvious traitor, too. Not to her people, but to him, to the fragile peace they passed back and forth between them. He doesn’t need proof, not with his hands shaking and rage climbing through his veins. No, if he finds Maeve, he will hurt her anyway, just because she can, and tell her that she’s made him this way. That those people she loves, her beloved Papa and whoever else, have curdled anything bright and hopeful in his chest. He will crush her if he can, and he will no longer regret it.

TOMAS SABELLO: Disappointment. He doesn’t know how this came to be, these clandestine meetings at the Castelvecchio bridge – his companion’s features soft and free beneath the stars, free of their usual facade that he seems to always wear. It happened one drunken night where stranger talked to stranger and the sun rose, but their hands didn’t part. He remembers that feeling, the way he could look at Tomas and see a thousand things under the surface of him, but now, having watched him turn away from Valentina and toward Celeste when his soul was begging for someone to help, he can’t quite get that image out of his mind. He is still that something dark that Santino wished to sink into, still that something light that was once so beloved, but he smells like smoke and tastes like poison, too. Sometimes your relationship to others is defined by what they did when you needed them, and when he needed Tomas, he chose someone else. Whether that was the right choice doesn’t really matter. They are both monsters now, both sullied by this and a thousand other things, and when Tomas finds his eyes in a crowd, Santino is the one who turns away.

Santino is portrayed by STEPHEN JAMES and was written by ROSEY & ROGUE. He is currently TAKEN by ALYX.

[dalygrace]

DIVERONA + @shittyhoroscopeszine (2/?)

TWELFTH NIGHT featuring @ovomi @dukemassetti @deadvalentinagallo @santisgallo

[ofcastora]

date: april 13th time: evening location: santino and valentina gallo’s residence  status: closed for @santino-gallo​

She doesn’t remember what her voice sounded like, and she’s not going to become of those fools that calls a dead person’s number until it gets disconnected just to hear someone’s voice like that. Castora doesn’t like feeling grief, but she likes desperation even less. Her pride would not tolerate such brash sentimentality.

Or the plates she ordered for Valentina – good quality porcelain – staying inside her apartment a moment longer. Or any of the mementos she had left behind on one of her many visits. Castora hadn’t realized how many corners of her apartment Valentina haunted, and she wants – she needs – her presence exorcised. 

It’s cruel of her to prefer drinking from the River Lethe than drowning in the loss, but it’s easier. She would raze cities, memorialize her friend over Capulet ashes, anything, anything for revenge. She would do everything but grieve and remember. 

Castora knocks on Santino’s door, struggling under the weight of her unwanted keepsakes, but can’t quite meet his eyes. It’s not because he has Valentina’s eyes. It’s probably because they’re bound to fight over something today, and Castora can’t ask Ramona to do this for her. 

“I know, I’m late. Deposition ran long. You gonna let me in or what?”  

[ronanivarsson]

SANTI N RONAN

001. .   .   .   kills the spider | definitely santi, because ronan is a born and bred rich bitch and would be like...how am i even supposed to go about doing that. 

002. .   .   .   proposed | ronan, and you bet your ASS it was extravagant and elaborate, and an attempt to make up for everything santino has never had or has lost to verona’s cruelty-- but in a way that santi would appreciate. he probably surprised him with a week in paris, or his own art studio space...also you better believe that ring is amazing and custom made. 

003.  .   .   .   kissed the other first | santi kissed ronan out of the blue, after he got tired of ronan’s longing stares. ronan would have been content to go the rest of his life just...looking, trying to figure out his own feelings and if love is really something that he can keep alive, that he can nurture within himself, or if he’ll just be repeating the same mistakes. santi tells him to stop thinking so much. 

004.  .   .   .   initiates things | ronan--once he knows that its something santi wants, he’s ready to go!! santino is beautiful and wants to be with him, and ronan is nothing if not a glutton on a fundamental level. 

005.  .   .   .   would leave the other | ronan...you_know_im_no_good.mp3 seriously though, ronan will always believe in some level that santino deserves better than him, even though he does his best to be someone that santi would actually like / want to keep around. 

006.  .   .   .   is more jealous | ronan ronan ronan !!!! ronan who’s always gotten what he wanted, would not be able to cope if santi were somehow taken away. 

007.  .   .   .   is lazier | ronan, in an odd twist of fate. if he could spend the rest of his life doing absolutely nothing with santino, he would be content. 

008.  .   .   .   sends weird texts at 3 AM | santino probably? because ronan doesn’t text unless he has to? and ronan just parrots his words back to him, tells him that he’s loved and he doesn’t need to think so much. 

009.   .   .   .  is more experienced | ronan probably, just by virtue of age? but he has very little...practical experience, because he spent a lot of years being really insecure and blustering by people. i imagine it would be a lot of them figuring things out together. 

010.   .   .   .  said i love you first | santi. every time ronan has said it to someone, he’s ended up alone, so he doesn’t really believe that its something you have to say, or something you even should say. but when santi says it...there’s something that makes him believe that this time it might be different, as cliche as that is to think. 

[deadvalentinagallo]

date: december 31st location: gallo residence availability: closed @santinosgallo

Normally, Valentina would spend her New Years Eve at Lamberti Tower. She’d get there before the crowds started forming because she knew that was the best time to get tipsy. She’d mingle with strangers that caught her interest and float around the club until the countdown began. At that point, whoever was her favorite of the night would be her kiss at midnight. She’d wander home soon after the new year began, and she’d fall asleep like it wasn’t the beginning of a new era. 

This year, however, she found herself staying at home. She had received the invitation to the Dark Lady just like everyone else had, but she denied the chance to drink and mingle in favor of staying home. The denial was strange coming from someone who often sought out ways to satisfied her vices, but Santino had held her back. Not directly, for he would never deny her the fun she often craved, but indirectly. The bruises that littered his body. The distance that had been growing between the two of them. The secrets had she held back from even her closest companion. That was why she stayed. Not because of him, but for him.

Her hand wrapped around the bottle of champagne she had bought a few days ago. Her eyes trailed her around the room before settling on her brother. Their apartment was a wreck, but she liked it that way. It made it feel more like home. They finally had a place that they could call their own, and that meant being able to leave their stuff wherever they wanted. She knew it would drive some people insane, but the Gallo twins had never been too concerned with being neat and tidy.

“I bought this so we’ll have something to drink at midnight.” She motioned towards the bottle as she stepped into her brother’s line of sight. “Had to fight some old lady for it, but I figured it’ll be worth it.”

[sonoilbastardo]

                                               saints and sinners

                      setting: the 24th of june, at the museo di castelvecchio, late afternoon.                                                         — with @saintgallows​ —

        Late Sunday afternoon rays of sunlight, weak and slanting, found their way into the solemn white-walled halls of the Museo di Castelvecchio. This is one of the rare days when neither his father’s businesses, nor Tybalt were asking anything of him -- when there’s not a single urgent task he must attend to. It felt liberating, to not have to worry about anything at least for a couple of hours. He could be lounging around at his home, and getting some rest on a day when he’s not supposed to do any work. But Easton is, and always will be, restless. It’s certainly strange for him not being somewhere, doing something (or someone?), and he has this uncontrollable need to go out.        There are two reasons why he chose Castelvecchio, of all places. One: it was the in the boundary, the middle, but the museum is also a little nearer to the Montague side of the city, as he’s aware. That fact only served to make it all the more thrilling for him to be there. He isn’t too foolish as to venture too far into the belly of the beast, but the thought of being somewhere near its menacing teeth filled his heart with glee. And two: he had half a mind to meet with Valentina here, and though these past few months he’s been spending quite some time with her and they’ve gotten closer -- he’s still wary of her, and he’s unwilling to bring her into his side of the city.        He had pulled out his phone to send her a text, when he noticed, for what felt like the hundredth time, a dark-haired, blue-eyed man throwing glances his way. Easton took note of his presence ten minutes into his leisurely stroll along the museum, when he suspected the man of following him. Now, he’s certain of it.         Gritting his teeth, he put his phone away before finishing his message. He turned sharply in the man’s direction and faced him, hands inside his pockets. “Ciao, straniero,��� he began, eyes narrowing slightly, studying him. Is he a Montague? Easton has no clue who this guy is, what he wants. For all he knows, this could be anyone. A new Montague soldier? Someone tasked to follow him around? These seem like the most logical guesses. And then there are the other ones: Someone he slept with before that he could not remember? That doesn’t sound right, though. Easton decided he’d just ask. “You’ve been following me. What do you want?” 

[mentioned: @violentgallows]

[buscandoelparaiso]

Sera della finale. Inizio a vedere il primo tempo sul divano. Al gol dell'Inghilterra la Madonna è stata chiamata in causa da me e mio padre era scandalizzato, perché di solito non lo faccio mai in pubblico. Il secondo tempo,i supplementari e i rigori non li ho visti. Vagavo con le cuffie per il piano di sopra,camminavo da una stanza all'altra, tachicardia e sudore. Ad un certo punto presa dalla disperazione mi sono messa a studiare 😳. Con le urla dei vicini capivo a che punto stavamo.

Almeno tu eri a casa tua sul divano, anon, e potevi fare e dire quello che volevi senza rischiare la pelle.......io (con le stesse madonne che hai tirato giu' tu, ma in pubblico) a Londra, ero in un pub in cui eravamo 3 italiani (non sto scherzando, eravamo 3 precisi) e 400 inglesi assatanati (e ubriachi) che urlavano le peggio cose per 120 minuti di partita. Quando hanno segnato loro al secondo minuto, pensavo ci tirassero dietro qualche vaso da quanto erano gasati. Quando il Bonnie ha fatto gol @galloberardi era in BAGNO!!!!!!!!! appena ho realizzato cos'era successo (perche' io sinceramente non avevo manco visto l'azione da quanta ansia avevo ed ero tipo al mio 56esimo bicchiere di alcol per tenermi su visto che eravamo in svantaggio fino a quel momento) ho SCAVALCATO il divanetto su cui ero seduta, un salto all'Olio Cuore che non so nemmeno io come ho fatto a fare senza rompermi 2 crociati, ho aperto la porta del bagno del pub urlando BONUCCI HA SEGNATOOOOOOOOOOOO cosi' forte che penso mi abbiano sentito fino a Wembley. @galloberardi intanto, dentro al cubicolo del bagno, per esultare si e' quasi rotta un polso, e' uscita di corsa, abbiamo fatto i restanti minuti bevendo solo alcol e guardando il megaschermo con un'ansia che non posso nemmeno descrivere. Quando siamo arrivati ai rigori, abbiamo messo il santino con la foto di Chiesa sul tavolo vicino ad una candela che era li originariamente per decorazione ma che noi - da Italiani - abbiamo usato come cero alla Madonna e tutti i Santi. Abbiamo PREGATO in cerchio guardando e non guardando ogni rigore che tiravano, mentre tutti gli inglesi intorno a noi continuavano a gufarcela ridendo e urlando 'IT'S COMING HOME' ogni volta che ne facevano uno giusto. Noi intanto in silenzio, avvolte dalle bandiere tricolori, io seduta sul bracciolo del divano tipo un gufo, ad ogni rigore buttavo giu un bicchiere di pimms (che per chi non la conoscesse e' una bevanda alcolica che alle 19esima come ero io quella sera, diventa tipo uranio impoverito puro) D'UN FIATO. Quando Saka ha sbagliato e Gigio l'ha parata, nessuno tranne @galloberardi aveva capito che avevamo vinto, io me ne sono resa conto quando ho visto il Gallo saltare addosso a Gigione e ho visto gli inglesi del tavolo vicino al nostro distendersi per terra a piangere. Non penso di essere mai morta dentro come in quei 10 minuti di rigori, e' stato un incubo ma con il miglior finale. Non so come faro' ai pl[scoppio] ma speriamo di avere la stessa fortuna.

[paoladamasco]

JUNE 11, AT THE LIBRARY OF VERONA / MONTAGUE HEADQUARTERS — closed to @santinosgallo​

Should she feel guilty? The file hidden away in her bag screams more reasons than just one as she waits. Montague soldiers and captains alike pass her as they leave the library, and Paola studies their reactions to the sight of her rather than dwell on the blame she shoulders. Some look her up and down quizzically, others with blatant curiosity; and then there are the ones bold enough to approach her and ask what she is doing here when i meititori have their own space in the cathedral. What I would give, they salivate into her lap, to rub it in the Capulets’ faces at their old headquarters.

With a polite smile, Paola waves them off. She misses the library, actually. The smell of old books and ancient texts ground her, remind her of why she joined the Montagues at all. Not for power, but for the knowledge and information that only power opens doors to. Being in the cathedral reminds Paola of her childhood. Of the nuns who raised her, of the priests who preached at her even as they slipped their fingers into the funds for Rome’s starving children.

She never asked for this: the hypocrisy, the chains that force Paola to answer for the actions of another. Still, she is here; still, she chooses to stay. The file she swiped tells a story of another way — one that smells like the sweet open air and tastes like freedom on her tongue… A tale of loss, too, and the wreckage that is always left behind when you run away.

When her target at last appears, Paola stands and makes her way over to him in quick, purposeful strides. “Santino,” she calls out, “if you have a minute to spare, I’d like to talk to you privately.”

She opens the mouth of her shoulder bag to reveal a glimpse of a single folder, with one word written in neat capital letters: GALLO. “It’s about your parents.”

[tomassabello]

🎬Troilus & Sebastian, Scene II

Date: April 10th Time: Early Evening. Place: Outside the Gallo Apartment Availability: Closed to @santino-gallo

March had been a month from Hell.

From Mona Chen’s Gala and the outrage leveled against him for jumping into the fray in order to rescue the Capulet Heiress — to the breakdown of his friendship with Juliana and the strain it’d put on his marriage as a result. From the Montague brutality he’d suffered at Pandora’s hands — to the horrific execution of one Valentina Gallo; the twin sister of a man he’d considered to be a friend... 

And worst of all, the nightmare isn’t showing any signs of stopping.

Montague terror-tactics have sufficiently cowed the actor into avoiding any of his Capulet friends across the Adige. Now, most days he spends at home, resentment building by the week. It’s an unfamiliar and ill-fitting sensation for the normally cheerfully buoyant and optimistic man. Some days, he wonders how much longer he’ll be able to take it before he snaps. 

But then he’ll think of Santino’s unimaginable loss, of the numerous people who’d died over the last month where he and his precious wife, at least, were still alive. If nothing else, that’s something to be grateful for. And he tries to remind himself of it as he stands outside the Gallo Apartment for the fourth time, or the fifth, or the sixth — in the span of about thirteen days. Santino hasn’t let him in yet, but he’s desperate to see the man; if for no other reason, than to make sure he’s surviving too.

“Santi... It’s me.” He calls out again, after two persistent raps at the door. “If you think I’ll take the hint, I hate to break it to you but actors are pretty used to rejection. You’ll have to spell it out for me.” It’s a more light-hearted introduction than he’d tried the last few times he’d knocked, but as Tomas shifts his weight to lean his spine against the door, he’s afraid it won’t make the slightest bit of difference. 

“Please let me in... I promise I’m alone. No papps, no nothing. And I brought your favourite snacks too.” He looks down at the plastic bag swinging from his arm. Wonders if he’ll end up leaving it at the foot of the door like last time. “I can’t imagine you have much of an appetite right now, but well... If you have to eat, it might as well be something you like, right?”

[valentina-rising]

date: 26 march 2017 time: 10:20 location: cirque arcana status: closed to @santinosebastian

It wasn’t hard to come upon him in the madness that was the Cirque, the woman certain she would always be able to find him no matter the size of the crowds. As easy as breathing. A task that the brace of bandages along her ribs was not quite so easy in the moment. But she persisted, the call of the evening and it’s intricacies too much for anyone in Verona to ignore, it would seem. As she let her eyes wander the crowds, a part of her wondered if she’d been better off in the sterile white rooms of Verona Hospital. Too much too soon leaves far too much room for error. But the night was upon them all and she wished to be lost in it’s masses for once. Another player in an evening of games she knew no rules for.

Tapping the skin of his hand softly, she waited until his gaze found her. “I see they got you too, hmm?” Jesters danced in and out and around, a matching mark now glittering against the juncture of her throat and shoulder. A moment of weakness, be it may. “Maybe we should have run off and joined the circus years ago. I hear it’s the orphan thing to do, and we could have been stars.” the tease is faint, voice pushing through the dull haze that the pain pills tucked away have brought. Tomorrow she would embrace the pain of her wounds, a punishment for failing again and again and again. But for a few hours, the haze would be her comfort, a small reprieve. “You’d make a wonderful siren.”

[heloisem]

date: may 19th, 2019 time: late evening location: brielle’s apartment status: closed to @santino-gallo

Sleep evades her.

She blinks continuously, a weak attempt to rid herself of the heaviness that lingers behind her lids. Cherry blossoms collect in heaps outside Heloise’s window, snow-white and blush pink, and she sways on her feet as the wind begins to whistle. The night terrors can’t seize her here, the rippling of the waves can’t surge over the surface and swallow her whole. Not if she refuses to submit to a loss of consciousness, and refuse she does, though the medication she’s been prescribed has yet to relinquish. It’s a silent battle and she wonders who will prevail.

Every time Heloise closes her eyes, she sees a vicious crimson sea, a fathomless river of warmth, and it clings to her body like second skin. She wishes to scrub herself clean, to douse herself in an endless amount of bleach, but she’s uncertain if the imprint that holds her mind captive will cease.

The ache in her heart matches the one in her shoulder.

If Brielle were here, Heloise could busy herself with mindless chatter, she could discover secrets that her sister preferred to keep tucked away, but she hasn’t seen her in days, and she feels like she’s standing alone on the shore as the ocean begins to swell. She feels like no one can hear the sound of her voice over the crashing of the waves. If I weren’t alone, Heloise thinks, perhaps the agony would lessen. But all is quiet, except the pulsing of her heart and the soft whispering of the wind.

Until—

A gentle knock on the door sends a chill down her spine. Heloise’s muscles tense, and she winces as her breath catches in her throat. Lucien’s words rewind in her head: It pays to have sharp eyes here. She takes a single step forward, soft and slow, and thinks her heart might jump from its chest as it thunders a vicious beat against her ribs. The knocking continues, so she presses one eye against the peephole, and breathes a sigh of relief.

The door opens then, and Santino gifts himself to her, wrapped in a bundle of uncertainty and topped off with the loveliest of bows. It appears as if Christmas Day has come early. “Santino?” Heloise questions, though a smile begins to blossom on the curve of her lips. “I’m sorry. I wish I could offer you something to eat, but I doubt I’d be able to make it more than five minutes without burning the kitchen down.” Heloise motions towards her sling with a frown, and wonders if he thinks her to be an awful host. “Are you well?”

mentioned: @lamprius

[matthiaswarren]

WHEN: May 6th WHERE: A gym in Montague territory WHO: @santino-gallo

Pressure builds, and Verona sometimes feel like a homemade bomb. As the pressure rises, so does the temperature, and certainly the days getting warmer and warmer in their lovely little city does not help the pressure in all aspects. This war builds pressure in its tensions, rising and rising until someone finally decides to release some of what’s built up. Pressure builds in each of them, expectation being the driving force. Damiano expects success. Clients expect good deals. They expect so much of themselves. Matthias is no exception. He expects power in his strength. He sees the ghost of his father expecting vengeance. His other boss expects grades due at midnight and students expect the next lecture to be transcribed online as soon as possible. While he’s sure he’s not the man with the most weight to carry upon his shoulders, the force it puts upon him is still felt constantly, and for that, he must release some of the steam.

It’s what brings him to the gym so often. Strength is his weapon, his thing to wield against the world. It’s what he’s been honing for longer than he could remember, and it’s what he uses to release that pressure, even when it is related to the expectations he puts upon himself. Matthias doesn’t think about that as hands grip the metal bar before him, as arm muscles flex and leg muscles drive his body to lift the heavy weight from the ground. He exhales deeply after a few seconds of holding his breath as he releases the weight, it coming to the ground with a satisfying thud of weight against mat and clang of weight against metal. A wrapped hand comes to wipe the sweat from his brow before he replaces the bar. Matthias makes his way to the row of sandbags across the room, deciding steam is best released when you can imagine your enemy’s face on the receiving end of it.

He was not alone, he noted, as he saw someone standing near the bags. That someone was unmistakable, Santino Gallo never the most subtle man in the room with tattoos like that. Though, Matthias was often so used to seeing him that Santino’s presence could have gone unnoticed if it weren’t the first time he was seeing the man since the funeral. Matthias had kept his distance, then, knowing the toll mourning takes, knowing how he had wanted it during his father’s funeral, and never being able to understand how it must feel to lose a twin. He’s not sure what prompted Santino here today, but he can imagine the greater pressure within him, and the amount of steam that must be begging to be released. “Good to see you,” Matthias greeted, his voice quiet. “I’d imagine you’ve got a lot of things to drive you today.”

[ofcastora]

ONCE UPON A DIVERONA… (21/∞)

introducing santino and valentina gallo as hansel and gretel from the eponymous tale of the brothers grimm

@santinosgallo & @valentinasgallo

[ronanivarsson]

when: february 22, 2019

where: the apartment shared by the gallo twins

with: @santinosgallo

Ronan knows he should turn his attention back to the images flashing across the screen--but at this point the amount of time he’s spent focused on trying to make sense of a plot is equal to the amount of time he’s spent tracing the familiar terrain of the hand that’s currently hanging off of the couch he’s leaning against with his eyes, (the inked paths that curl around small pools of pale skin like a sudden burst of moonlight against the dark storm of Ronan’s sea) that the effort seems futile now. How can he possibly be expected to care about a collection of people enacting emotion when he can feel his heart hammering against his ribs wildly, with the kind of spite that seems to say clearly I am still here despite your best efforts? 

A man on screen garbles a line of dialogue about family and how many miles per hour he lives his life by, and Ronan can’t help but laugh, at the absurdity that such a thing got made, at the absurdity of his own inability to tear his attention away from something as simple as a hand, at the way his mind has been tearing itself to pieces trying to calculate the distance he would have to move his shoulder in order for that hand to be touching it. With all of the attention of a devoted cartographer Ronan moves his eyes up Santino’s wrist, to his shoulder, and finally to the other man’s eyes--which seem as unfocused as his own, though presumably for different reasons. 

“Something on your mind?” He says with a too soft around the edges smile, a weak thing he had been so certain he had trained out of his mouth after Mikael had left. “I can’t imagine why cinema of this quality isn't holding your rapt attention.”