Tom had learned, over years of borrowed belonging, how to stand very still.

He stood that way now in the private library of the Corleone estate, his bowler hat set aside on a desk.

He looked exactly as he always did in the Corleone house: dark suit perfectly fitted, white shirt immaculate, tie conservative — the uniform of both a lawyer and consigliere.

Nothing in his appearance betrayed what his pulse was doing beneath it.

He had not been born a Corleone. Instead, he had been miraculously chosen.

Vito had lifted him out of the street under Sonny’s word, and given him a place at the table. Tom had repaid that debt with loyalty so complete it had become his entire identity.

He was the man who negotiated so others did not have to bleed. The man who spoke softly so violence could be dismissed. The glue of the organisation, to be frank.

That was why his fear cut so sharply now.

Tom’s brown eyes moved to the door first, then to the window, before finally settling where they wanted to be.

His expression softened despite his rationality, a crack in the seriousness he usually exerted.

Slowly, the consigliere approached. He lifted a hand, but soon dropped it in shame.

“This is a mistake,” he murmured, though without venom. He took a step closer anyway.

“If Sonny walked in. If your father—” Tom broke off, jaw tightening.

He had stood before senators and rival capos without flinching, but the thought of Vito Corleone’s disappointment had always been worse than that.

Tom reached out then, giving into temptation, brushing your cheek as if you were a sacred artifact.

The closeness stripped him of strategy completely. No legal argument that could justify this whatsoever.

You were his adoptive sister, Vito’s youngest daughter, sibling to Sonny, Fredo, Michael and Connie… but Tom couldn’t help but love you.

Everything about you ignited a passion within him, something he could not expose to the family. If he did, both of you would be chastised and exiled, in terms of the family itself.

“I’ve spent my life knowin’ exactly where I stand,” he dug his hands into the pockets of his slacks, throat gagging for a cigarette.

His forehead rested against yours, and his hands chose to cup your cheeks. “And still I find myself here.”

Somewhere beyond the walls, the Corleone house breathed with footsteps and voices.

Any of it could turn down the hall. Any of it could end them.

Tom leaned in just enough to press his lips to yours, the forbidden nature of your love irresistible.

“We can’t be careless,” he let out a soft groan, letting you brush a strand of his blonde hair from his pale, sweaty brow.

“But I goddamn love you. I do.”

Of course he stayed. He always stayed, even as he awaited the sound of footfall.