Participants:
| Scene Title | Gilded Cage |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sonny returns home. The first one. |
| Date | June 26, 2009 |
Solstice Condominiums - Sonny's Suite
The apartment is large, sprawling and appointed in a cooly masculine, modern style. The entire far wall is made up of windows that mute the mid-afternoon light and cast the whole apartment in a warm glow. The floors are a deep hardwood, the furniture leather. The modern, shining kitchen is open concept. There's a winding staircase to the left that leads to a small hallway, with two bedrooms. The space is open and roomy - perfect for entertaining high profile guests.
No matter how many ways he tried to work it, there was no way that Sonny Bianco could slip in for the speech, then slip back into the identity of Sal Silvatti. Taking on his old life means a commitment of at least a week - longer, if his father has his way.
The doorman at Solstice Condos greets him like an old friend - as he's paid to do. Then he rides the secure elevator up to some double digit floor. After living on Staten Island, in safehouses, he sees the overdone luxury of his real life for what it truly is. For the first time, he sees it as Teo likely did, the first time he entered this home.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
He enters and drops his keys on the counter, loosens his tie and shrugs out of his Armani suit jacket. The fridge is empty and spotless, the cleaning service having scrubbed it to a shine when he told them that he would be gone for some time.
This barely feels like his life. But as Sonny scans the room, he sees shadows and wisps of memories. He can smell takeout pasta, see Teo's shape on the uncomfortable leather sofa. No, not on the sofa, on the floor, or perched atop the arm. He never sat like a normal person. Then again, Teodoro didn't do many things that Sonny would consider normal and proper. That was part of the appeal.
I'm going to put my face right here, and the rest is up to you.
He stands in front of the couch, hands in his pockets, head tilted, lips pursed into a frown. He can only look so long before he turns to look out at the glowing cityscape and the expansive balcony. Here, perched on top of Manhattan, with the ruins of Midtown rising like a scar.
Stay here with me
He looks towards the winding staircase that leads up to the paired bedrooms. A staircase that he was once bodily carried up after too much to drink.
Sweeping me off my feet? Chivalrous.
He pauses to tug off his socks. For a moment, he considers putting them in their proper place. Instead, he simply drops them and climbs the stairs, hand sliding up the polished railing. He looks once into the spare room, into a bed that was only occupied a few times before they began to share one.
Sonny enters the washroom and turns the tap on. He lets it run cold, undoes the buttons of his shirt, then splashes water over his face. He examines his real reflection. Is Sonny Bianco the illusion, or is it Sal Silvatti? Connor Kinney? He doesn't know anymore.
For a moment, he imagines he sees poetry, sprawled in sharpie, words too deep and poetic for his scientific mind to fully grasp. He slides his hand across the counter that once held a perched Italian.
For you.
His hand folds into a fist. Pressure wells up behind his eyes and he's forced to stop staring into his own face. He steps out of the bathroom, hesitates, then moves forward. He stands in the threshold of his bedroom, fingers tracing the smooth wooden doorframe. Sonny can't bring himself to step inwards. He turns and presses his back against the wall and buries his face into his hands. He slides down the wall to sit in the hallway, just a few inches from the threshold. Slow rivers start to snake down his face, salty droplets darkening a pristine white shirt.
I miss you, Tay.