Chapter 45
Stefano squinted his eyes shut against the glare of the rising sun, its harsh rays slanting in on him from the windows along the far wall of the office. Swinging his legs over the side of the sofa, he lurched into a sitting position and realized that he was drunk. His head buzzed and he felt the beginnings of a throbbing headache pounding away in back of his tired eyes. Stifling a groan, he looked down at the mounds of pictures scattered haphazardly over the coffee table. Moving hesitantly, he reached down and carefully picked up the top picture.
An unconscious smile lit his face as he studied her form. One of many pilfered snapshots, it was perhaps his favorite. She was wearing a simple white dress that flowed softly over her slim form. The gauzy material was whipped about her by a light breeze and her skin shone smooth and tan in golden contrast to the white of her dress. He trailed his finger over the graceful silhouette and studied her eyes. It was the look in their hazel depths that made his heart ache. Caught by surprise, she looked up with sparkling eyes, a faint smile gracing her lips. There was a promise in those eyes. A promise of nights of passion and days of laughter. Irritably he admitted to himself that it was a promise made to another man, a man who had taken the one thing he had desired and never managed to own. The black anger stirring in his befuddled mind, he crumpled the picture between his blunt fingers and threw it down to join the growing pile at his feet.
For a fleeting moment, he wished that he had sent John to punish her. After the shooting, he had considered it. The whitehot pain that had twisted his guts in the aftermath of the many surgeries had almost pushed him to it. Even now, he found it impossible to believe that she would actually shoot him. That she would dare to pull the trigger and try to wipe him from the face of the earth. The gall of it had enraged him. Had intrigued him. And so he had sent the man who was like a son to watch over her, and when the time was right, to bring her home. Home to sit at his side, the only woman he had ever found worthy. Instead of gaining the woman, he had lost the son.
The drink made him morose, and he pulled out yet another fat cigar. He fondled it almost lovingly as he cut the end. Gently twirling the cylinder of tobacco above the flame of his lighter, he tried to pretend that he wasn’t still listening for the sound of her footsteps. Tried to ignore the knowledge that she had stayed the night. But in his heart, he had no doubts. He had spent the long hours waiting for her to leave, yet each time he had thought he heard her light tread it had been nothing but his mind playing cruel tricks.
Groaning audibly, he stumbled to his feet and moved again to the bar. Deciding against drinking himself into unconsciousness, he reached for the seltzer and let the cool liquid ease away the dryness in his mouth. Blearily, he attempted to collect his thoughts, debating whether his men would obey if he ordered John’s death whether they would be successful if they tried. He had never seen another man who could take punishment the way John Black could. The man would not be stopped by anything short of death, and the man died hard.
His thoughts traveled back, and he remembered the boy who had burst so violently into his life. Remembered the feel of the cold steel of the knife as it pressed against the thin skin of his neck. In that instance, he had known what death looked like. He had seen it in the eyes of the boy, had recognized it as the look that stared back at him from the mirror. Those blueblack eyes with nothing behind them. No empathy. No remorse. No soul. A kindred spirit, Stefano had been unwilling to watch him bleeding his life out into some gutter on a nameless street. He had taken him home and given him a purpose…
Dimera watches with pride as the young man slams a fist into the face of his sparring partner. Even with the protection of the pads, the instructor’s head snaps back and he staggers. Taking advantage of his opponent’s weakness, John jams a knee into the man’s groin and delivers a twofisted blow to the face that swings obligingly forward. Groaning, the instructor drops to the ground.
Chuckling, Stefano walks from the observation window to stand in the doorway of the gymnasium, debating the merits of trying to find another trainer. At only 17, the boy is already a match for all of the martial arts instructors Dimera normally uses. His skills needed honing, but they have hit the point of diminishing returns in his training. Dimera had considered sending John into the military Navy SEAL training would be extremely useful to a man of John’s character but the training would interfere with college and Stefano is adamant concerning the importance of that. He will not have some uncouth barbarian acting as his second in command. No John will start his studies at Oxford in the fall, whether he wants to or not.
Walking into the large training room, Stefano finds John circling his downed opponent. The man struggles to rise and John lashes out, sweeping his legs from under him. The thud of the body against the mat brings Stefano’s focus back to the lithe figure who dominates the center of the room. Sweat trickles down his bare back as the young man dances lightly on his feet. Dimera can’t help a grimace of distaste at the long ponytail that falls between his shoulder blades that hair was coming off before John went to Oxford if Stefano had to have a dozen men hold him down while the barber cut it. His attention on the irritatingly long hair, he almost fails to note the dark scaring that mars the shoulder blade itself. As the image catches his eye, he feels the blood rush to his face.
“What the hell is that?”
Startled, John whirls on the balls of his feet, his body prepared for combat. Seeing only Stefano, glaring at him from the side of the room, he drops his hands and gives an innocent shrug. “What’s what?”
With three long strides, Stefano closes the gap between them. Grabbing the startled teen by his arm, he wrenches him half around and stabs a thick finger against the scabbing surface of the mark. “That’s what, you young idiot!”
John jerks his arm from Stefano’s grasp and backs away. “Jeesh! Lighten up. It’s just a tattoo! I was going to show you once it healed! Christ! What’s your problem, Stefano?”
Sulkily, the boy looks at him, rubbing the still tender flesh of his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, Stefano tries to calm down. Knowing it would be futile to start a fight, he still has the urge to slap some sense into the youngster before him. “I want you to clean yourself up and then meet me in my office. Fifteen minutes, John. Do you understand me?”
For a moment, John merely stares defiantly back, and Stefano considers what he will do if the boy refuses. Finally, the young man gives a grudging nod. “Fifteen minutes,” he replies, turning to head to the locker room.
The knock on the door is hesitant and Stefano takes it as a good sign. For added measure, he lets the young man wait outside the door for a minute before calling, “Come in.”
Leaning back behind the big desk, Dimera watches the young man open the door, only to stand fidgeting at the far side of the room. The silence lingers until John can stand it no more. “It’s just a tattoo,” he says, avoiding looking directly at the older man. “It’s a phoenix,” he adds hopefully.
With a sigh, Stefano looks down into the polished mahogany beneath his fingers. Keeping his voice even, he replies, “It comes off. Tomorrow you go to the doctor and the tattoo comes off.”
“No way! I earned this!” John exclaims, his head shooting up. “I got it after I killed Reilley. I made my bones, Stefano. I earned the right to wear this mark!”
Stefano rolls his eyes in disgust. “Who have you been talking to? You ‘made your bones’? I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to take the Reilley assignment. You are not some street thug, John! You are going to Oxford next year. You will play tennis with the sons of some of the most powerful men in the world. You will be gracious and intelligent and well mannered. You will be groomed to take your place in the circles of the elite. You do not do that with the symbol of a criminal empire branded into your flesh!”
“I am not going to Oxford, Stefano! You aren’t going to stick me in some damn school in England and forget about me. You need me here! What the hell was the point of all of this training if you’re just going to send me away?” John spits back, his anger growing to match Stefano’s own.
“I do not ‘need’ you here, John. If you hadn’t noticed, I managed to build an empire all by myself. That empire will not crumble in your absence. You will go to Oxford and we will not discuss this matter further!” Turning his attention to the paperwork before him in a gesture of dismissal, Stefano ignores the young man’s angry glare.
“Fuck you.” The words come out flat and hard and Stefano’s head jerks up at the sound of the hurt behind them.
“Fuck you!” John repeats, his voice rising. “You think I need you? You think I need your bullshit?! You aren’t my father Stefano! You can’t make me go! You want to throw me away? I got a dozen other guys who will hire me tomorrow. You want me out of here? Fine! I am gone!”
Stunned, Stefano lurches from behind his desk, his protest lost beneath the sound of the slamming of the door.
“Where did you find him?” Stefano asks, pulling his dressing gown more tightly around his large frame.
“He tripped the alarms climbing over the front gate, sir. We found him passed out on the lawn,” the senior of the two guards replies.
Looking at the young man who sways beneath the support of the guards, Stefano reaches out to grasp the lolling head under the chin. Bringing John’s face up to meet his own, he asks with deceptive calm, “What did you take, John?”
His eyes blearily straining to focus, John mutters, “Didn’t take anything. Damn, know you hate that stuff. Just drunk.”
“I am not overly fond of seventeenyearold drunks, either, John,” Stefano replies. With a curt gesture to the guards, he motions to the living room couch. “Put him down in there, gentlemen.”
As the guards leave the room, Dimera pulls a chair up directly across from John’s slouched form. Rubbing a hand across his gritty eyes, he glances at the clock and debates the wisdom of coffee at three a.m.
“Don’t look so pissed. I just came back to get my stuff. I’m out of your hair in the morning,” John slurs, raising his head to meet Dimera’s gaze.
“John, you are going nowhere. Now, would you care to explain your behavior tonight?” Stefano asks quietly, determined not to get into another shouting match with the angry young man before him.
“Fuck off,” is the less than eloquent response.
The dark head lolls forward, the long hair swinging across John’s face like a shroud. With a weary sigh, Stefano reaches to push the dark locks back from his face. “Well at least you get points for consistency,” he mutters. Deciding discussion will have to wait for the morning, he bends down and loops one of John’s long arms across his shoulders. Levering the young man to his feet, Stefano awkwardly guides him to the stairs.
“Don’t want to leave. I’m sorry… don’t want to leave. John mumbles the words out, jarred into semiconsciousness by the effort of climbing the staircase.
“You don’t have to leave, John. Right now, you just have to get some sleep. We will talk about it tomorrow,” Stefano placates.
As they turn the corner and halt at the door to the bedroom, John jerks away. Slamming against the wall, he leans against it for support and stares at Dimera with accusing eyes. “Thought you’d be proud! I killed Reilley. Killed him clean. Now you want to send me off somewhere… What the hell did I do wrong, Stefano? Tell me and I’ll fix it… swear, I’ll fix it...” Closing his eyes, he sinks against the wall and struggles to keep his feet.
“You did not do anything wrong, John. It was a good job. I told you that. But John, you are too young. You have been completely out of control for the past two days. You know you are going away to school, yet you argue with me at every turn. You reject my authority… you are not ready to handle the baggage that comes with killing. I should have known that. I should never have allowed you to be in that position, no matter how skilled you are. You weren’t ready, and your behavior is the best indicator I could have of that fact.” Stefano watches John’s face, looking for some sign that his words have penetrated the haze of the alcohol. To his surprise, John’s eyes open to fasten on his with a clarity that belies the booze.
Smiling a cold smile, John hisses, “I’ve been ready my entire life, Stefano. Killing Reilley didn’t bother me. He was a threat to you. I enjoyed sticking a knife in his guts. I enjoyed watching his eyes when I told him why he was dying. I wanted to pay you back. For everything you have done for me. I can kill, Stefano. It’s the only thing I’m good at and I know it’s why you brought me here. You saw it in me. You knew I was a killer. It’s the only reason you keep me.”
With a snort, Stefano shakes his head. “I want you to be more than some hired killer. I want you to be a force in this business, John. This stupidity with the tatoo… you know better than that. You do not advertise the fact that you are a part of a criminal cartel. What exactly were you thinking?!”
“I wanted everyone to know where I belonged. I’m not your blood. I’m not anybody’s...” he mutters, his words barely coherently. Slowly, his eyes cracked open and he continues with certainty, “I would kill for you. I proved that with Reilley. I guess I thought it would make me good enough...” His laughter is bitter as he slides down the wall to crouch on his heels.
Looking down on the desolate form at his feet, Stefano finally recognizes his mistake. Since the day he had brought the boy home, Stefano had treated him as an equal or, as near an equal as he had any man. He had chosen to give the boy his independence rather than risk breaking his spirit. He had thought it a gift, a gift of freedom to one who would accept no less. Yet now he recognized that to the boy, it had been a threat. A sign that he was expendable, replaceable, accepted only for his worth as a weapon. It was why the boy had trained so hard, pushed himself beyond reason, beyond pain. He would prove himself worthy to stay, or he would die in the attempt.
Slowly, Dimera crouches down. “John, you have nothing to prove. I have always known you were good enough. I have never doubted it. I have never doubted you. Do you understand me?”.
“Tony wasn’t your blood. You still made him your son.”
Startled by the comment, Stefano hesitates a moment. It had simply never occurred to him that John would compare himself to Anthony. Finally, he nods in agreement. “No. No, Anthony is not my son by birth. I adopted him when he was young. He needed the tie. Needed the connection. It is what binds us together. Makes us family.”
A grimace twists the younger man’s features. Almost gently, Stefano continues, “John, where is Tony now? Where has he always lived, John?”
“Jeesh, Stefano. Forget I brought it up,” John replies, struggling now to rise. Clearly uncomfortable with the discussion, he appears to be sobering rapidly.
Firmly, Dimera reaches out and shoves the teen back against the wall. More forcefully, he repeats, “Where has Tony always lived?”
“Europe,” John answers sullenly, meeting Stefano’s stare with a hard look of his own.
“And who has always been the one to stand at my side?” When the boy refuses to respond, Stefano reaches out and grabs him roughly by the back of his neck. “Who did I choose to stand with me, John? I chose you! I did not think you needed it formalized with some trick of a lawyer’s pen. I did not think you were that weak. Was I wrong?”
John drops his eyes, numbly shaking his head. “No,” he whispers.
A second longer, Dimera holds firmly to the dark head. Finally, he ruffles the thick mane of hair in a familiar gesture of affection. Rising, he tugs at John’s arm. “Come. Let’s get you into bed. You are a morose drunk and I believe it is time you slept it off. We will discuss your excesses in the morning.”
“I’m keeping the tattoo,” John mutters, stumbling along in Dimera’s grasp.
“Fine. You can keep the bloody tattoo if you like.”
“And I’m still not going to Oxford.”
With a groan of pure frustration, Stefano lets the heavy body flop onto the bed. “I need you to do this. I have more than enough hired muscle at my disposal. You will wield more power than a king, John. I need you to learn how to use it.”
“Don’t want to go...” John grunts, struggling not to fall asleep.
“I did not ask what you wanted, John. I told you what I needed from you. Now… will you go?”
Giving a sigh of irritation, John allows his tired eyes to close and gives in to the inevitable. “Yea… I’ll go,” he says grudgingly. “You knew I would,” he mumbles to himself as he succumbs to the darkness.
For a long moment, Stefano simply stands, watching the sleeping boy. Reaching down, he pulls a thick blanket over the slumbering form. “Of course I did,” he replies.
The memories fueled the headache that was now threatening to split his skull in two. Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Stefano reached into a drawer of the big desk and pulled out the bottle of aspirin. Washing down a handful of pills, he let his tired body collapse into the padded chair. Without considering his actions, he leaned over to open the bottom drawer. Hesitantly, he pulled out a thick file and sat it on the desk. His fingers brushed over the thick lettering that identified the file’s contents: JOHN BLACK.
Almost unwillingly, he flipped open the file. A picture stared up at him a family, lounging happily on a checkered blanket, the remains of a picnic scattered around them. John lay laughing, his head in Marlena’s lap. The twins, barely more than babies, were cradled against his chest while Carrie posed with her head resting against his stomach.
Years ago, this picture had confirmed that something in his plan to take Marlena had gone terribly wrong. Eight months had passed with no contact from John and all attempts to reach him through regular channels had been ignored. Known operatives had been passedby unacknowledged and reports had indicated that John had assumed the identity of Roman Brady, a role he had never been instructed to take. Though the man had broken away from his handlers, his mind befuddled by the hypnosis sessions designed to provide him with a basic knowledge of the players in the Salem operation, he should never have departed so drastically from his assignment.
It had been the drugs. Well, it had probably been the drugs. Stefano had known the drugs were a bad idea, even as he had ordered them administered. The drugs had been a very bad idea. Perhaps they had interacted with the hypnosis, perhaps with the painkillers and perhaps it had had nothing to do with the drugs at all. Regardless of the cause, the results had been disastrous and the results had been easy to see. This picture had been all the of the explanation Dimera had needed.
There was a look of peace and contentment on the man’s face that Stefano had never seen. Surrounded by a family, ‘his’ children in his arms, the man in the picture was nothing like the boy Dimera had raised. The haunted look, the tense watchfulness, was gone. In the instance he saw the picture, Stefano had recognized the truth of the matter. The man had no memory of his life beyond that of Roman Brady. The confused mind had found the sanctuary it had always sought, and the blood and pain of the young man’s past had been buried deep inside. In time, Stefano had come to accept the loss. The risk of challenging the man who was now Roman Brady had been too great. On his home ground, Brady himself had been a dangerous foe and the man who had usurped his place was capable of so much more. Rather than risk his empire, Dimera had let John play out the fantasy. He had even found solace in the fact that the boy had finally gained some peace. Dimera had been willing to let it go but the Fate had not been as forgiving.
The first time, it had been a former associate an independent operative with a property he was certain Dimera would be interested in. Orpheus’ prize, the fair Marlena plucked from the sea, had been handed over to him on a silver platter. Stefano had had her cared for in the hopes that one day she would awaken. Awaken, she had only to slip once again from his grasp. And once again, he had reconciled himself to the loss and watched as she led a pedestrian existence as another man’s wife.
At times, Stefano had wondered whether the passage of time had softened John, if his life as Roman had made him weak. But in his heart, Dimera knew that if he could not give up Marlena after all of the many years, then neither could John. If he took Marlena, John would come. It was a holocaust he had been unwilling to initiate. Yet the fates had woven their lives together once again, destiny intent on seeing this battle played out to the bloody end.
Dimera sighed and closed the file. Leaning back, he stretched his arms out above his head and wondered just how many times he could be expected to allow Marlena to elude him. His options were clear f he wanted to posses her, he would have to kill John. Marlena’s price would be payed in blood, it was the one sure thing in the equation.
He should have known that bringing John back his memories would not erase the man’s feelings for Marlena. The woman was the antithesis of all that John was. All that he lacked, she could give him. It was the same quality that drew Stefano to her. A man could find peace inside her, but it would take a death to achieve that peace.
Dimera hated indecision, despised it as a weakness. For him, a bad decision was still better than no decision at all. He would allow this battle with John to go on no longer. It was time to decide was Marlena’s body was worth more to him than John’s life?
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