Chapter Eight
"I have some good news for you, Sly," said Luke, glancing at his nephew from the sides of his eyes while he drove toward the hotel.
Sly smiled broadly. "What’s that, Uncle Luke?"
"Alexis invited us to go on vacation with her and her nephew over spring break. It’s an island in Greece. Lots of surf and sand. We can try out this new fishing pole, and who knows what we can catch out of the Mediterranean?"
Sly’s face registered his surprise, and he was left speechless.
"Cat got your tongue, Slyster?" Luke teased. "I know I kind of sprang that on you, but what do you think?"
"Wow," said Sly breathlessly. "That’s quite a vacation. Who is Alexis’ nephew? I’ve never heard his name. I didn’t know she had a nephew."
Luke cleared his throat and stopped at a red light. He turned to Sly and looked him in the eyes. "That’s where it gets a bit interesting," he stated. "Alexis’ last name is Davis, but she’s really a member of the Cassadine family. My ex-wife Laura is married to her brother, Stefan. Nikolas Cassadine is her nephew and my ex-wife’s son. Now that’s a mouthful, isn’t it?"
Sly’s eyes bugged. "That rich guy jock – he’s her nephew?" he asked in disbelief.
Luke chuckled. "I suppose you could say that – yes. What’s the matter? You don’t like him?"
Sly shook his head. "No, it’s not that. I don’t know him that well. It’s just that he’s this popular junior at school, a big man on campus. He’s not so bad, though. He picked me up one time when I tripped and landed flat on my back in front of a bunch of girls."
Luke smirked. "Why, Sly, you charmer. Does your babe-catching technique work?"
Sly snorted and looked out of the window. "Hardly," he said morosely.
"I heard some tough kid tell Aunt Ruby today that you were going to help him learn how to talk. What’s that all about, Sly?" Luke asked casually.
"Oh, that’s Frankie," Sly replied with a shrug. "He’s a new friend of mine. He’s kind of helpless around girls. Doesn’t know how to talk to them. I said I’d help him out with that."
"Well, that’s mighty generous of you, Sly," Luke commented lightly. "Just make sure he doesn’t take advantage of you, son. He seems a little rough around the edges. Don’t be too trusting."
"He’s okay," said Sly. "Aunt Bobbie likes him." Sly laughed. "I think she’s got the hots for Frankie’s uncle. They keep making goo-goo eyes at each other. Aunt Bobbie let me invite them to dinner last night. It was fine."
Luke filed that tidbit of information to retrieve and process later. "Here we go," he announced as he pulled the pink Cadillac into the hotel drive. "Home for a night."
~*~*~*~
Frankie sat on his bed and drained the last of his beer. He crushed the empty metal container with a fierce squeezing motion and threw it at a wall. He looked over to the small refrigerator that he’d bought to store his booze. All that was in there was some non-alcoholic brew that Johnny thought he’d sneak in. All it took was one sip to know the score. He’d have to give Johnny a piece of his mind tomorrow morning. If he wanted Johnny to break the law and go buy an underage minor some booze, then he’d better go do it and shut up. Frankie frowned. No one ever said anything about his drinking before – he always had something in his hand when he was at the casino, and Frank didn’t mind if he helped himself to his father’s liquor. Jeez.
Frankie sprang up from the bed and started pacing. His nerves were shot after talking to his father – he needed the relaxation of a few beers. The anticipation of returning to Atlantic City made him very antsy, and he wasn’t so hot about killing off Jason Morgan anymore – not after learning he was Emily’s brother. Frankie’s mind drifted back to when he was ten years old and full of bullet holes. He’d forgotten that there was someone who had dared to speak up to Frank, but never lived to speak again.
*** The men flooded into the small, untidy motel room and stared in shock at the scene before them. Ten year old Frankie was lying face down in a pool of his own blood, his hands still viciously tied to the chair that cradled him. One man knelt immediately and drew a knife. He tried to saw at the ropes, but they were tied so tightly to the child’s wrists that it was hard to get enough leverage to cut them. Frankie never made a sound as another man grabbed the motel phone and dialed rapidly, issuing instructions and an address. The ropes were finally cut, but stuck into the torn flesh of Frankie’s raw wrists.
"Should we move him?" one goon asked the other.
"I dunno. I think you keep ‘em still only if dey have a head or neck
injury," stated another large, overly muscled man. "With dese bullet wounds, ya
gotta press hard on ‘em to keep ‘em from bleedin’out." He walked over
to a bed and grabbed several pillowcases. He lay one under Frankie to catch the blood from
his chest, and then rolled him back onto his stomach. When he removed Frankie’s gag,
the boy made no sound except for strained gasps for breath. His eyes were open, but glassy
and barely registering any of the movement around him.
Two men pressed hard on the multiple bullet wounds and cursed while they waited. There was a loud screeching of brakes outside of the room, and a man with a black suit entered. He took one look at Frankie and ordered, "Carry him to the limo – NOW!" Frankie groaned when they picked him up, and the men hurried out to the car with his bloody body. They gingerly lay Frankie across the length of the back seat, and two men hopped into the limo, one pressing the gas pedal sharply and flooring the vehicle to race away.
Fifteen minutes later, the limo stopped in front of what looked to be a nondescript brick house in a residential neighborhood. The limo drove around back, and the men jumped out of the car and carried Frankie to the back door. Someone was waiting at the door to receive them. Inside, it was apparent that this was no residential house, but a fully equipped mini-hospital – the province of injured goons and mob enforcers. Physicians were required by law to report all bullet wounds, but these doctors worked for the mob exclusively and were paid very well to keep their mouths shut.
The goons laid Frankie on a gurney, and one grunted, "Dis is Frankie – Frank Senior’s boy." The doc paled and said, "Ah, hell. Shit. Get the OR ready for surgery," he ordered tensely. The gravely injured Frankie lay still as medical personnel cut through his blood soaked clothes and tried to clean him off in preparation for surgery. Frankie was weak, but he blinked his eyes, trying to focus them and figure out where he was and what was happening to him. It hurt terribly to breathe, and he wheezed and gurgled with a punctured lung. Fear assaulted him as the lights and sounds of many voices jangled his nerves. He started crying feebly with whatever breath he had left, the pain and confusion gripping him tightly and refusing to let go. Everyone was busy being either a goon or a medical professional, and no one stopped to say a kind word to him or to try to comfort him. The docs knew their lives were in forfeit if they didn’t save this kid, so they rushed him into surgery immediately without talking to him.
Seven hours later, a weary doc emerged from the small OR and smiled weakly. "He’s still alive. We removed all of the bullets – five total. He lost his spleen, part of his left lung, and a couple feet of intestine. Oh, and his kidney was grazed. Tell Frank he should live if he makes it through the next 12 hours."
~*~
Frankie looked so small, like a broken doll hooked up to a ventilator, cardiac monitor and many other devices. Tube stuck out of his chest and abdomen, draining the excess fluids caused by his injuries, and both of his arms lay stretched from the sides of his body, impaled by multiple IV’s. Frank Smith stood by his son’s bedside and looked down at the immobile, gravely injured boy. "You’re not gonna die on me now – not after all the plans I’ve made," he stated grimly. Frank never touched Frankie, never smoothed his hair or whispered any endearments to him. His eyes glared with anger and determination. "Ah, kid, I thought I taught you better than this," he gritted out. "Why’d you go and get yourself kidnapped?" Frank shook his head and left the room.
~*~
Three months later…
Frankie sat up in his hospital bed, drinking a beer and watching cartoons. He’d lost so much weight that he looked almost skeletal. He laughed merrily when Wiley E. Coyote blew up the Roadrunner. "Dat’s right, kill ‘em!" he shouted, shaking his head. "I love that coyote," he whispered to himself. A doctor entered the room and snatched the beer from the kid’s hand. "What in the world are you doing with this?" he asked. "You’ve only been out of a coma for two weeks, and you’re drinking beer. You’re only ten years old. You need to reserve your calories for food."
Frankie frowned. "Gimme back my beer!" he ordered. "That’s mine."
The doctor threw the beverage in the trash and shook his head. "I’ll have them send you back some milk and juice to drink," he stated.
Frankie folded his arms crossly and scowled. He was used to getting what he wanted. His ears perked up when he heard his father’s voice in the hallway. Frank was talking to the doctor that took away his beer. Frank could see their elongated shadows from his doorway.
"That child was drinking beer," protested the doctor. "He’s been in a coma for two months, and he was already malnourished before he was brought in here with his bullet wounds. The boy needs better nutrition. His growth is stunted, and he needs nourishment to heal properly."
"You telling me I don’t take care of my son?" Frank’s cold voice asked.
"No, sir. I’m pointing out that we need to watch him carefully and ensure that he eats well. Beer is only going to interact with his pain medications and cause problems."
"If Frankie wants a beer, he can have one," stated Frank. "What’s your problem? It’s no skin off your nose."
The doctor should have stopped while he was ahead, but for some reason, remembered his Hippocratic oath at a most inconvenient time. "Not feeding the boy properly and allowing him to take alcoholic beverages at his age is child abuse," he stated. "I know you may not mean that, but…" A loud bang rang through the hallways, and was followed by a thud. Frankie watched the shadow dance fiercely as the doctor’s dead body met the floor. He raised his eyebrows when Frank Senior poked his head in the door. "It’s taken care of," Frank said calmly. "Go back to your cartoons." Frankie shrugged and turned up the sound. ***
Frankie coughed repeatedly and sat down on his bed, crossing his arms and pouting. Okay, so he didn’t want to run to Frank and have Johnny killed over a beer disagreement. And why did he have to think about that damn lung injury? Now he was having sympathy pains. Damn, he wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight. Frankie opened up his laptop and stared at Jason Morgan’s mug shot. I wonder if he’s for sale or if he’s interested in defecting? Frankie wracked his brain to think of a way to manage the situation to his own benefit and prevent Emily’s brother from getting caught in the crossfire. But, it felt like things were blossoming out of control, and Frankie wondered when there would be an end to it.
~*~*~*~
Alexis nervously knocked on the huge oak door and waited impatiently, stamping her foot and looking around.
Stefan opened the door to Alexis’ surprise. "Stefan!" she said breathlessly. "Where are the servants?"
Stefan chuckled and stepped aside motioning her in. "Mrs. Lansbury does not work evenings, and the rest of the staff have the night off. It’s just the family here tonight. Are you disappointed?"
"Oh, yes," Alexis said dryly. "I was so looking forward to asking Mrs. Lansbury for help on my knitting project. It seems I can’t remember which comes first – knit or purl?" Alexis raised her eyebrows for emphasis and smiled broadly, accenting her deep dimples.
"Come here," said Stefan happily. "It’s not often I see my sister in my home." Stefan hugged Alexis tightly and smiled at her when she pulled away. "Nikolas tells me that you’re willing to take him to the island for his spring break. Are you sure that’s not an imposition for you?"
Alexis shook her head. "No, it’s not."
"Let’s talk in the drawing room," motioned Stefan. "There are a couple of modern furniture pieces in there."
"Oh, goodie," said Alexis as she walked with Stefan toward the back of the house. "I have a tendency to sit on the wrong pieces or break things when I visit here." Alexis looked around apprehensively as they walked, absorbing the oppressive psychic weight of massive collections of antiques and bibelots. "Have you ever calculated the worth of your estate interiors for insurance purposes?" she asked curiously. Stefan nodded. "Of course. It runs to over $15 million dollars, American." Alexis blinked. "Wow," she stated in disbelief. Expensive hobby for our little Laura.
Alexis took a seat in a long, modern, Italian black leather couch, and Stefan joined her several feet away in a black leather club chair. Alexis wrapped her hands around her crossed knees and took in a deep breath. Her eyes darted over to her brothers’ and she took in a deep breath and held it. "Stefan," she said. "As you know, Nikolas asked me to take him to the island next week, and I agreed." Stefan nodded slowly. "Yes, I discussed it with Nikolas. I appreciate you taking the time from your schedule to go with him. He seemed very anxious to visit the island." Alexis smiled and continued. "Stefan, there’s something else. I invited a friend of mine and his nephew to accompany us. Is that a problem for you?" Alexis looked hopeful as she studied her brother’s face for a reaction. Stefan chuckled and leaned back into the cushions, crossing his legs and smirking as he stroked his goatee. "That friend wouldn’t be Luke Spencer, would he?" he asked in a bemused tone of voice. "Don’t be so shocked, Alexis. You date a man for five years in a town this small and not expect that I would find out?" Stefan waved a hand in dismissal. "I kept silent to protect your privacy. I figured when you wanted me to know, you would tell me. So? Is now the time?"
Alexis’ mouth hung open in shock. When she recovered, she playfully swatted Stefan on the arm. "I cannot believe you kept your knowledge a secret. I thought you would disapprove. You’re my older brother. You know how it is on the island. The older brother "guides" the gullible younger sister. I didn’t want you to tell me whom I could date. And you don’t have a problem that he’s your wife’s ex-husband?"
Stefan shook his head and looked at the floor. "I was before Luke Spencer, and now I am after Luke Spencer. I am secure in the place I have in my wife’s heart. Luke was merely a reaction to her heartbreak over losing her lover and her child."
Alexis didn’t know how to take that statement. Was it a subtle slam against Luke or a reflection of her brother’s arrogance? Or maybe neither. Small matter. She decided to take his near approval and run with it. "Luke has a nephew Sylvester who lives with him. He’s fourteen years old, and really a very sweet, well-mannered boy. I expect that he and Nikolas will be fine together and enjoy one another’s company."
"It sounds like a good plan, then," confirmed Stefan as he patted Alexis’ hand. Stefan frowned lightly before he spoke again. "I would not speak of this with Laura, however," he warned. "I am not sure of her reaction, and I wish her to remain calm before the baby is born. You understand?"
Internally, Alexis rolled her eyes. "I think I understand," she said shortly with a small, tight smile.
~*~*~*~
Sly lay in bed in the dark, his mind rambling and refusing to be quiet so he could go to sleep. Sly turned over on his side and looked over at his Uncle Luke in the other bed. Luke wasn’t snoring loudly so that was a good sign that he wasn’t asleep yet. Once Luke started snoring, almost nothing would wake him up.
"Uncle Luke?" Sly’s soft, tentative voice cut through the darkness. Luke made a small sigh and mumbled sleepily, "Yeah, what?"
"If I tell you something, do you promise to keep it to yourself?" Sly asked hesitantly.
Luke perked up and sat back against his headboard as he realized that something big was on his nephew’s mind, and Sly was about to spill it. "I guess we can have a private conversation," Luke replied.
"I’m worried about something I saw something the other day," Sly began. "It’s my friend Frankie? He has all of these scars on his chest and back. They look really bad – I saw them one day in gym."
"Did you ask him about them?" asked Luke curiously. Luke’s mind went back to Kelly’s diner and his encounter that afternoon with Frankie.
"Yeah, and he said something really strange. That’s why I’m kind of afraid to tell you." Sly stopped talking, and the room filled with silence.
"Go on, Sly," encouraged Luke. "You can tell me."
Sly cleared his throat. "He said his father was successful, and that he when he was kidnapped, the rescue attempt went bad. He mentioned the Mafia and told me to be quiet about it – for my health. That kind of scared me. That’s why I wanted to tell you."
Luke’s mind raced a mile a minute. The kid shows up in town, my club gets ruined by Frank, the kid’s name is Frankie, his father is successful, there’s some problem with the Mafia. Oh my God. I bet he’s Frank Smith’s kid. He had a cut on his hand. He’s the one who busted my door. Oh my God. I don’t believe this. He’s buttering up my nephew to get to me. Spawn of Satan. That damned kid. Luke cleared his throat. "I’m glad you told me, Sly. Just remember to be careful who you’re friends with. I don’t want you to get hurt. Don’t go anywhere with him unless you tell me first. Do you promise?"
"Okay, Uncle Luke," said Sly. "I’ll tell you where I’m going."
"You did right by talking to me," praised Luke. "I hope you always feel comfortable talking to your uncle."
"I do," said Sly happily as he slid back into bed and rolled over to sleep.
Luke folded his hands behind his head and sighed. For now, the napkin stays with me. I need time to think about how to deal with Frank. All this can wait until after we return from the island. I need a break and so does Sly. Luke’s face set hard as his mind wandered to other thoughts. It sure would hurt Frank to lose his son, wouldn’t it? Maybe he should find out how it feels.
~*~*~*~
"Bobbie. Hello. Thanks for inviting me over." Johnny’s broad smile creased his handsome face as he stood in the doorway to Bobbie’s brownstone.
Bobbie’s face lit up. "I’m so glad you could come over for a few minutes. I had fun talking to you on the phone tonight and thought you might like a coffee. How’s Frankie?"
Johnny removed his coat, draped it over the back of the sofa and then took a seat, unbuttoning the button on his suit coat. "Frankie’s fine. He’s studying astronomy. It’s his favorite subject at school. He’s gaga over the stars." He paused and shook his head in amusement. "So how’s Sly?"
Bobbie handed Johnny a cup of coffee. "Sly’s fine. He’s with his uncle again. He only stays with me occasionally when Luke’s busy." Johnny took a careful sip of his coffee. "Mmmm, that’s great," he said appreciatively with his rich baritone voice. Bobbie tittered. "I like these gourmet coffees. It’s one little way that I like to splurge."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "And what are all the other ways that you splurge?"
Bobbie blushed and lowered her eyelashes, then glanced up at Johnny, holding his eyes in a gaze that lasted more than a few seconds. She looked away again and casually placed her cup on the coffee table. "Do you mind?" asked Johnny as he started to remove his suit coat. "Let me help you," suggested Bobbie as she moved closer to him and pulled on the arm of his garment. She was sitting so close to Johnny that she could feel the heat radiating off of his well-muscled chest.
Johnny left the talking to the teenagers, and quickly embraced Bobbie, leaning in for a long, slow kiss. When she moaned and began running her hands up and down his back and through his silky hair, he lowered his body over hers, and they sank down into the sofa, deliciously entwined in one another’s limbs and creating ever-increasing waves of restless heat.
~*~*~*~
Mac groaned as he entered the doorway and hung up his coat. Felicia met him at the door with a big kiss. Mac hugged her and sighed. "What a long day – and night. We’ve got something really big going down in Port Charles." Felicia glanced over to the family room. "Maxie, it’s a school night," she said firmly. "It’s eleven o’clock. Time for you to go to bed." Maxie made a face and flounced up from the couch, wordlessly thumping from the living room to the hallway.
"Come here and sit down," said Felicia as she walked Mac over to the couch. "You need a back rub. Tell me about your day." Felicia began massaging Mac’s neck, and he hung his head, grateful for his wife’s nimble fingers.
"We had a bloody gangland killing tonight in Port Charles. It was a shocking hit. Very public. In fact, it happened around 7:30 tonight at the Port Charles Grille. I can’t believe it. We’ve never had anything as remotely brutal as that attack in this town. I’m contemplating bringing in the FBI."
"That’s terrible! Who was killed?" asked Felicia curiously.
"Joseph Sorel, a local mobster, not very bright or effective, but a bad guy we were looking to bring down. No one along the lines of a Sonny Corinthos, though. Man, whoever did this must be sending a message. The killer was disguised to look like one of Al Capone’s men or something. Eyewitnesses said he was wearing a black zoot suit and a black fedora as well as a black mask. Very strange."
"Do you have any suspects?" Felicia asked while she moved her fingers down to Mac’s shoulders and rubbed them with a circular motion.
"We’re looking into a possible Mafia connection," stated Mac. "But that’s a little extreme – even for them. I wish we had a good tip."
"You’ll get one, honey," assured Felicia. "You always do."
Mac smiled and kissed Felicia, then looked into her eyes as he stroked her hair. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?" he asked softly. "Oh, yes, you have," nodded Felicia as she gave her husband a happy smile. She rose from the sofa and held out her hand to help Mac up. "Why don’t we finish this conversation in the bedroom so you can show me," she suggested with a wink.
~*~*~*~
Maxie lay on her back in bed, her head nestled into a soft pillow. Her eyes had become adjusted to the dark, and she stared up at the ceiling, then over to the window as she watched the light cast from the streetlight shining through the blinds and illuminating her desk beneath it. She’d caught Georgie today in another one of her silly preteen fantasies. Georgie had been dancing around her room with a pillow, squeezing it and kissing it, saying, "Oh, Justin, I love you, Justin. Let’s dance." Georgie was in love with one or another of the members of a boy band. The actual object of affection changed from week to week. God, was I ever that dumb? Maxie wondered.
Maxie smiled. She was ready for a real man, a real romance, none of this fantasy, make-believe stuff that never went anywhere. She was ready for a passionate love affair. Maxie wondered when that Frankie guy would call her. She’d been so sure he’d call tonight that she stayed up late by the phone. That was disappointing, but he did ask her for her number after all. And he sure seemed to like her, staring into her eyes, rubbing her leg and kissing her cheek. I want him so bad, she thought. She imagined their first date and what it would be like. Frankie would show up at the door with a handful of red roses, and the limo would be waiting for them at the curb. They would decide on the Port Charles Grille, and Frankie would tell her to order anything she liked, even the lobster. They would sip on their sparkling apple juice, and Frankie’s eyes would meet hers under the glow of candlelight. Maxie would blush and lower her eyes when Frankie suggested that they meet back at his room so they could have some privacy. Maxie paused as her imagination sputtered out. Sighing, she leaned over to her nightstand and opened the top drawer. She pulled out a flashlight reserved for just these occasions. Her hand fished around until it encountered a book. Maxie pulled out the Special Edition Romance Desire series that she’d bought the other day at the bookstore. Three hundred pages of steamy desire and fantasies fulfilled. Maxie leaned back against her headboard and clicked on her flashlight. There’s got to be something really good in here, she hoped.
~*~*~*~
Frankie slammed his laptop closed. He’d been typing nonstop for two hours and finally completed his Port Charles report and action plan for the takeover. Frankie stroked his chin and frowned. There’s no way he could spare Jason Morgan. Frank always needed a little blood, well, a lot of blood when it came to missions. He wasn’t satisfied otherwise. To him, taking a life was power. Frankie did think of a way to keep Morgan alive for a longer period of time. He’d wait until the end of the mission when they were ready to descend on Corinthos, then take him out quick and dirty. Corinthos would be preoccupied with the death of his number two man, and the Smith organization would swoop down and scoop up the spoils. And, maybe something else would come up to alter the plan in the meantime. So, it might work after all. Frankie shook his head. It was damned inconvenient trying to be nice.