#santinosgallo

[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

[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.”

[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.”

[diveronarpg]

Veronesi, we present to you our form of appreciation! You have taken the stage, conquered it and made it your own – and for that, we thank you. Each week we will try to show our adoration for you all.

If we could, we would put every single player’s threads in a graphic. But, we had to practice temperance in this case. Every player will be highlighted alternating week-to-week. Every player will stand in the spotlight because every one of you deserves to!

Thank you all for your amazing plotting and activity at DV! ♡

@theodoramoreaus & @santinosgallo & @lnvitto

[czarnichego]

november 30th faron’s funeral  afternoon | closed to @santinosgallo​

Calina spoke beautifully. Brielle didn’t hear it, couldn’t process words given in Italian for a man so decidedly not. Faron was a wolf, and the soft syllables did not do him justice. It filled her with rage, for a moment, that he must be eulogized so far from home. 

You do not have to go home, he’d told her, when she’d woken for the first time outside her father’s house, terrified the nightmare would be an excuse to send her home, because you are there already. Now we are home together. 

She hadn’t felt it in her bones yet, hadn’t trusted him that much, but it was true. She had made a home out of where he was, where Lineshka was, which was why it had hurt so much to be adrift and alone in Italy. He had been here so little time, and she still didn’t really understand why he was gone.

He was unstoppable. Had he not told her that? Nothing could hurt her because he was there, and nothing could hurt him because he would put a stop to it. Yet she had hurt, over and over again, and he had not been there.

He would never be there again.

The grass stained her clothes even though they were black, seeping through her pants to brush her knees with green. She’d ignored the others leaving, pushed away the warm touch of Calina’s fingertips, and at last they’d left her alone. The gravesite felt huge, yet tiny and inconsequential. How do you capture such a man? How do you bury someone who blots out the sun just by standing in your view? 

You couldn’t. You didn’t. She held twelve chrysanthemums in hand, a combination of Italian and Russian tradition: chrysanthemums, the mourning flower of the Italians, and an even number, for odd numbers of flowers should only be brought to a celebration. The other hand held a rather large flask, which she’d tucked into her coat earlier and now held tightly as she stood and walked, stiff and sore, to the gravestone itself.

Brielle curled up her long limbs to one side, pressing her cheek to the cold, hard stone, flowers in her lap. She curled shaking fingers around the flask and took a long swig before emptying half the contents left onto the newly-packed dirt. She’d thrown her coins earlier, pressed a kiss to Faron’s cheek, done everything as was custom. It was funny in an awful sort of way; her parents would have done anything to have her be so properly behaved at the funerals of her youth. She drank the vodka again, eyes sliding shut against tears they couldn’t hold. She cast one flower out of her arms, scattering somewhere across the plot, then another. 

By the time she heard footsteps, she was slamming flowers into the earth, grinding them into the dirty brown until they lost their beauty. ❝ ты сильнее этого, ❞ she hopelessly told the grave. ❝ где мой волк? Вы обещали мне! ❞ There was no one there to answer, but she had known that. It didn’t mean she didn’t want to pull the words from his soul itself. Was it not as attached to hers as hers was to his? Calling desperately into the abyss between them, lost and anchorless without someone so necessary? Come back, she thought, then cried harder. Don’t get lost. 

[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.” 

[eastoncraven-blog]

date: december 22nd, 2018 time: intermission place: teatro nuovo @santinosgallo

The world seemingly explodes in front of Easton. In one moment he breezed through boredom and straight into action. As soon as the screaming began, he scanned the room, searching for the exits. Not only for his own wellbeing, but for the pure knowledge that if anyone was going to leave, he was going to make sure that they left through him. Luckily enough, he was already seated close to where the exit was, which meant he sprang into action, leaving his seat and anything else he had been holding behind. Although he was slightly sore from his experience at the Church a few days prior, he snapped into his action, his body taking over.

Before anyone else could make it to the first exit he spotted, Easton was there, blocking it with his body. He had seen Damiano himself trying to sneak out, with Santino and Matthias by his side. Santino. The name rang out in his mind, and as calculated as he had been before, something fell perfectly into place. Santino. The man who had taken Theo’s hands away from them. Who tortured his friend. Santino. The man who was about to pay tenfold for his crimes. Rarely were things in the mob so personal for Easton, but suddenly, he didn’t care that Santino was a Montague. He simply cared that he was someone who hurt one of the few people Easton bothered worrying about.

Before Santino can make a move to get away from him, Easton grabs him harshly. “You’re not going anywhere, I’m afraid.” 

He doesn’t let the man get a word in before he clocks him in the head, a vision of Orion doing the same to him popping up. They would have to discuss how punchable of a face Santino had. How enjoyable it was to feel the crunch of bone underneath his knuckle. How little Easton cared that he would feel the effects of his rage as he would drive off to sleep.

Licking wounds would come later, exacting revenge? That came now.

[deadagainmaevepetre]

how do you feel about catherine now that you know she’s the one who hurt santino?

“They all did what they thought was necessary, so I don’t blame either of them for it. Santino tortured someone, Catherine tortured him for it. I just… I don’t know, torture is just. It’s different from just hurting someone or even killing them. And I know people do it, I know it happens all the time in Verona. I just… it’s hard. I can’t stop picturing Catherine or Santino just… choosing to torture someone. I’m trying to love them despite it, I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t matter because it’s not even for me to forgive.”

mentioned: @santinosgallo @catherinedaly

[catherinedaly]

Does your brand still hurt?

“Not at all. I’m sure Santino Gallo’s… tattoo repair hurt him more. Maybe you should check on him, instead.”

[ @santinosgallo ]

[ofcastora]

date: february 4 time: late evening location: alley, neutral territory, whatever that means these days status: closed for @santinosgallo

She leans against the brick wall, absentmindedly flicking her cigarette lighter on and off. Flame, no flame. Flame, no flame. A vicious, but ultimately meaningless cycle of boredom. Castora had flipped through the pages of the dossier she had compiled on Senior Inspector Alessio Vallone – he was not a mediocre man, although he certainly presented an unremarkable exterior. It is the placid men with easy, unguarded smiles that can use their wits, if they choose to possess them, to climb through the ranks. Castora suspected Vallone was one of those men. 

Unlike some of his peers, Vallone as well-liked in the workplace. You get him, you get the security you need. Easy. She could only hope that Vallone was not one of those corrupt men who pretended to be incorruptible – it wore on the blonde’s already thin patience. 

Flame, no flame. “Do you want a light?” Castora looks at tonight’s partner in crime: Santino Gallo, aka Sebastian. As one of her best friend’s brothers, she felt duty-bound to like him. In many ways, she did. It was working with him that worried her, but given that Damiano entrusted them with security and that if something were to go wrong on that front, they would be flayed, Castora thinks they will end up managing just fine. 

“He better show,” she says, low and menacing.

[deadagainmaevepetre]

february 3 at noon, santino’s place. closed for @santinosgallo​

For the first time since she joined the ranks, Maeve understands what it means to be a Capulet. The same pride that the other soldiers speak of that turns their blood into something electric and terrifying — she feels it. She feels the bond that runs deeper than family when she holds Juliana’s hand or see Orion’s eyes flash with pride when she finally lands a punch. Slowly, she is easing herself into the Capulets’ grip and letting herself stretch comfortably in its embrace.

That still doesn’t mean she can refuse the way her heart whines at the thought of staying away from Santino; she knows far too much to do that now.

She sends him a quick text: Please come to the door, mia cara.

She sends a quick prayer to the heavens, to whatever cruel god exists, for redemption; she’s not sure who she’s praying for, herself or Santino.

When he opens the door, it’s all she can do to offer a pained smile. “Ciao.”