Fallen Angel - TOC

Prologue

March, 1997

Laura Cassadine stood in front of the small, gray granite gravestone with an armful of red carnations, heady and fragrant reminders of her continual pain and loss. She sighed and wiped away several stray tears with the back of her hand. There was only one day out of the year that she ever thought of her ex-husband, and this was the day. She wondered where Luke was right now and what he was doing. She’d never seen him again in the graveyard after that one horrible day fourteen years ago. She figured he would avoid the direct reminder of a dream gone wrong and fill his day with endless shots of whiskey, the Spencer cure-all for grief and sorrow.

Laura carefully knelt on the grass in front of the gravestone, not noticing the raw wetness of the ground that saturated her dress and began pooling around her knees. She spread the flowers in front of the marker and caught a sob that tried to escape from the back of her throat. She brushed her hand lightly over her aching heart. Longing and sorrow welled up in her chest until she thought it would burst in agony. They say that time heals all wounds, but not this loss, the endless grief of a mother denied the companionship of her child. Laura reached out a tentative hand and stroked the name on the gravestone, Lucas Lorenzo Spencer, Junior. She sat back on her heels and read the rest of the memorial. Beloved son of Luke and Laura Spencer. Born 1982. Died 1983.

A soft mist fell on her long blond hair and saturated it, sending errant strands onto her reddened cheeks and bonding with her tears. Eventually, she stood up and bowed her head for minutes as she prayed that God would take care of her baby boy and that she would be reunited with him one day. Her husband walked up behind her and gently wrapped his arms around his wife, kissing her on the cheek, and murmuring, "I love you, Laura," into her ear. Laura smiled and reached her hand back to stroke her husband’s strong arm. "And, I love you, Stefan," she replied softly. Stefan brought his hand around to his wife’s pregnant belly and nuzzled her on the neck. "I love our much awaited daughter as dearly as her mother," he said firmly. Laura felt the baby kick at that instant, and both mother and father laughed delightedly. Laura turned around and hugged her husband tightly, her head resting on his shoulder. Stefan gently stroked and kissed her hair. "I’m so sorry," he said repeatedly.

A darkly handsome, well-built young man watched from the distance, leaning against the black Mercedes that had transported the family to this Port Charles graveyard. He impatiently tapped his hand against the car door as he leaned against the passenger’s window. He hated this yearly ritual, this mourning of a brother that he’d never met, someone who meant nothing to him. Each year his mother would become weepy and inconsolable for weeks before and after this date. To his seventeen-year-old mind, it was inconvenient, a drag. He didn’t know what to say or do around her at this time, and his father seemed to go along with it, ignoring him in favor of comforting his mother. Nikolas’ brown, almond-shaped eyes narrowed. He was late for soccer practice. Why did they make him come with them?

~*~*~*~

Sly sat at the narrow, two-seater, drop leaf laminate table in the tiny kitchenette that he shared with Luke Spencer. Sly had been living with Luke for the last two years in the apartment over Luke’s club, ever since Frank Smith had killed his father, aunt and uncle. He held a firm hand to his stomach and wrapped his large, gangly feet around the metal legs of his chair, waiting for his meal as his fourteen-year-old stomach threatened and growled. When Sly had shown up at Luke’s door, he’d been a frightened, twelve-year-old boy with lank, dirty blond hair and sad green eyes that betrayed his loss and sorrow. Luke was the only relative left in Sly’s family, and the authorities had quickly come calling.

Luke had been married years ago to Laura Spencer. Although Frank Smith forced them to live on the run and chased them around the country, the two had been giddy in love, happy with only a nickel between them and the heat from each other’s torrid embraces. Everything changed when Laura became pregnant with their first born son, a boy they proudly named Lucas Lorenzo Spencer, Junior. Luke would never forget the first time he laid eyes on his newborn son, entranced with his perfect, tiny features and the correct number of fingers and toes. The stakes became higher, and Luke moved the young family frequently, always looking over his shoulder for the gun barrel of a hit man or an exploding car bomb.

As the months passed, baby Lucky had developed the brilliant blue Spencer eyes and a head full of tousled blond hair as well as an independent spirit and fierce intelligence. "He’s the best of us both," Laura used to say as she listed his characteristics and personality traits in the precious baby book that she constantly filled with photos and notes. Lucky had rolled over early and stood up unassisted at the improbable age of seven and a half months. But, tragedy had struck viciously with the untimely death of Lucky, and the boy never had the opportunity to learn how to walk, let alone speak. The eternal couple known as Luke and Laura dissolved and melted away in a sea of tears, booze and stony silences.

Luke had been a bachelor for fifteen years now, a connoisseur of the species known as woman. Being the owner of a popular bar had its merits, and Luke frequently enjoyed the company of a string of pretty ladies. Some women grew possessive, clingy or in dire biological need of marriage and babies. Luke gently but firmly separated from those relationships. There’s no way his heart would ever belong to another woman or child, never again.

Sly presented another problem. Sure, he’d shown up on Luke’s doorstep fully formed, with teeth, the ability to speak and a brain in his head, but he was still a child, a sad, lonely twelve year old in need of love, nurturing and protection. Luke had lived alone for years and years, but he’d quickly made room in his life for the boy and faithfully set out on the journey called fatherhood or at least unclehood. Sly was a pensive, watchful child, an introverted foil, really, to Luke’s outgoing nature. The two eventually settled into a routine that grew comfortable and homey, and Sly began to thrive.

"Here you go, sport," Luke said brightly as he set a large glass of milk in front of Sly. "Drink up. Helps those growing bones. Set the table after you’re done, okay? Bowls and spoons tonight," he added, referring to the dinner that he was cooking and the dinnerware required. Luke adjusted his blue ticking stripe apron to cover his chest and returned to the small, apartment-sized stove. The electric can opener whirred as he placed two large cans under it, and he promptly deposited the contents into a saucepan. Luke wiped his fingers on the apron and reached into the dented, avocado green refrigerator next to the stove. He roughly grabbed a half-empty plastic package and removed several pieces of formed meat, depositing them into the simmering mixture. Luke stirred with a large plastic spoon, and then turned off the burner.

When Luke approached the table with dinner, Sly’s stomach growled again even after drinking up most of the milk. Luke served two-thirds of the mixture to Sly and one-third to himself. Luke sat down solidly on his wooden chair. "More food for boys that grow upward, rather than outward," he commented with twinkling blue eyes as he patted his stomach and reached for his spoon.

Sly looked down into his bowl and back up at Luke. "Beanie weenie again?" he asked slowly.

Luke shrugged. "Had it Monday, now it’s Wednesday, eat up!"

Sly poked at a long, uncut hot dog with the edge of his spoon. "I’ll get us some knives," he said as he rose from his seat.

When Sly returned to the table, Luke pushed a large, plastic bottle of generic vitamins in Sly’s direction. "We’re still following our pact, aren’t we? No green vegetables in the house – ever. Better take a vitamin, Sylvester. Beans provide all the roughage a man needs," said Luke with a satisfied look on his face. Sly scrunched his nose up at the implications. "Aren’t you taking home ec?" asked Luke. "You should be cooking us gourmet dinners every evening"

"We’re only up to muffins," replied Sly as he dug into his beanie weenie. "We haven’t made any real food yet," he explained.

"How do you make a muffin?" asked Luke conversationally.

Sly shrugged. "I don’t know. I usually try to catch up on my sleep in home ec. I don’t like it."

Luke laughed and firmly patted Sly on his upper arm. "That’s my man. All you need is a can opener and a saucepan. Life sure was easier when I was a kid. Back then, all boys had to take was wood and metal shop. None of this cooking or sewing nonsense." Luke paused as he chewed and swallowed. "You’re going to stay with your Aunt Bobbie tonight, remember? We’ll head over there after we clean up."

Sly nodded and took another gulp of his milk. It was the same last year when Luke had disappeared for three days around this date, the day that marked the death of his son. Usually, there was a framed photograph of the infant on the end table near the television, but it disappeared, too, on this date. Lucky, his name was. He sure didn’t seem Lucky to Sly, all dead and buried for the last fourteen years. Sly remembered feeling anxious last year when Luke had deposited him on his Aunt Bobbie’s doorstep. Two days had passed, and Luke still didn’t return. His aunt had tried to reassure him that this was typical behavior for her brother. Sometimes he needed to go off by himself to think and drink, and not necessarily in that order. On the third day, Luke had shown up, red-eyed with his hangover and prolonged crying jag. No words had passed between uncle and nephew on the car ride back to the apartment, and Sly had been afraid to say anything, so he’d slumped down in his seat and kept his mouth shut. The next day, Luke seemed normal enough with his string of corny jokes and a big hug just for Sly.

~*~*~*~

Frank Sinatra’s voice moodily crooned from the large speakers within the white, 1978 Cadillac Fleetwood with custom interior and leather seats.

But I must feel quite certain that the love is so real

Frankie smiled as he listened to the music and lazily drove the Cadillac, with one thumb on the large steering wheel and a casual eye on the road in front of him. He loved the old tunes. It must have something to do with growing up in Atlantic City. He remembered meeting Frank Sinatra in person when he was just a little kid. Mr. Sinatra had visited his father’s clubs frequently and was a good family friend. It was funny when everyone around you was either named Frank or called by the nickname, Frankie. Someone would call out the name in a casino, and twenty heads would turn.

The sign to his right read, "Port Charles 100 miles." Frankie was in a hurry to reach his destination, but there was no sense in speeding or attracting the cops at this stage of the game. He’d be finished before he even started, and that wouldn’t be cool. He was impatient to make his mark, to impress his father and gain even more control of the expanding organization.

Here's hoping at least we'll find romance

Frankie laughed long and hard as he thought about the lyrics to the song. You’re so d@mn right, my man, he thought. Every gain requires the element of chance. He glanced down at the custom gold ring that his father had given him when he’d officially made him the number two man in the organization last month. The large FS initials dominated the surface of the elegant ring with an aggressive, dangerous beauty. He loved sharing the bond of the same name passed from father to son. Frank Smith, Junior. It had presence and commanded respect or at least obedience.

Frankie saw the sign for a rest area and decided to stop for a minute. His piercing blue eyes glanced up into the rearview mirror as he signaled long enough for the car discreetly following him to gauge his intentions. Frankie parked in front of the rest area coffee station and bent over to the passenger seat, abruptly opening the glove compartment. About 50 or 60 white cards tumbled out in response. "Shit," he mumbled to himself as he rifled through the phony ID cards, looking for one that would nearly fit his age and appearance. Frankie wasn’t yet sixteen, but that didn’t stop him from driving. Finally, he found one that suited his mission. It read, State of New York, Frank DiMarco, date of birth 9/06/81, height 5’7", weight 150, no driving restrictions, hair brown, eyes blue.

Frankie sat back up in his seat and held the fake driver’s license beside his face as he looked in the mirror hanging from his visor. He smiled broadly, surveying the dye job that had turned his light, blondish brown hair into a deep brunette shade. The contrast of the carefully gelled and styled dark hair, fair skin and blue eyes was noticeable and oddly attractive. Although only fifteen years of age, the face that stared back at him was worn around the eyes, giving him the appearance of a twenty-five year old man, someone who had been around, seen things and lived to talk about it. Frankie checked the silver barreled gun in his waistband, his constant companion and backup, and exited out of his car. His eyes swept the entire area in two seconds, and he walked confidently toward the machines after he was satisfied that the area was clear.

Frankie’s man Johnny was already stationed at the machines in his immaculate black suit and tie. His chisled features tensed as an old couple walked into the shelter and headed in their direction. Spooked by the two strange young men who stared at them continually, the couple quickly purchased two soda pops and left the shelter. Frankie cleared his throat and placed a hand in his pocket. "We’re almost to Port Charles, Johnny," he said. "First we eat, then we find some place to hole up for the night. I need to check in with Frank by 8:00PM tonight." Frankie always called his father by his first name when talking to employees or when conducting business.

Frankie sighed. "Man, I hate these suburban kid clothes," he complained as he looked down at his Levi’s and polo shirt. "Give me your suit, Johnny," he joked, poking the much larger, more muscular man in the ribs. "Strip down, now." Frankie and Johnny laughed while they put change in the machine for coffee. Johnny was Frankie’s bodyguard, his employee, but for the purpose of this mission, he would play the part of Frankie’s uncle. However, Frankie wasn’t about to let Johnny get comfortable in the presence of his boss, and he mildly ordered him around to set the tone for the relationship. The coffee machine spit out one regular coffee, but refused to give up another cup, even though the change placed in the machine was more than adequate for two cups. Frankie lost his temper as he pressed the button repeatedly. "Stupid piece of shit," he ground out menacingly. He kicked the metal vending machine hard and grimaced in pain as he realized he wasn’t wearing his usual leather soled shoes, but teenybopper sneakers instead.

Frankie’s face set in stone as he walked toward his car and motioned back with his thumb. "And the worst part of this is, we own the damn things," he snickered to Johnny in his thick, New Jersey accent.

Next chapter...