Summary: Before becoming a man, a boy tells bares his soul to his father's spirit.
Author's Notes: Filiusfamilias: A son still under the power of his father. I found that term when I was digging around a Latin phrase book for an interesting and fitting title. That seems about as fitting as it gets.
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It was suffocating in the church, every inch covered in black-cloaked figures. As Claire stood in the sanctuary doorway, he fought off the irrational fear of everyone swarming, descending upon him like a great flock of crows.
"You know, at first I assumed Papa chose the church to keep up appearances, make himself the good Catholic everyone believed he was. But I think it was also because it was the only place that would hold this many," he commented under his breath.
As Claire scanned the crowd, he couldn't find more than more than ten familiar faces, of those only a handful whose names he could place.
Claire turned to his companion. "I do not want all of them at his burial."
Giovanni pulled off his sunglasses and sighed empathetically.
"Leonelli senior specified in the will that no one except you and close business associates attend, thank God."
Claire fixed his face into a hard expression, squared his shoulders, and strode down the aisle, his bodyguard trailing him. Mitchal and Ian sat in the last pew. There was no need for three escorts to trail their boss across the sanctuary.
Out of the corner of Claire's eye he spotted Avi sitting in a pew talking with his cousin Eliza. He'd matured a bit in the four years since seeing him last and now donned a pair of wine-rims, but he was still handsome. When he noticed Claire watching he stared back intently, giving a slight nod. Claire did the same but continued on his way. They'd speak after the service. Now Claire had a quest that would not wait.
As Claire reached the hallway coming off the edge of the sanctuary, his legs refused to move. He stood facing the door across from him, dreading having to confront what lay within but knowing it was necessary. It was some time before he was able to make any use of his legs again.
"The door locks from the inside," Giovanni informed him. "Not that anybody will come for him until the service in an hour."
Claire didn't respond. Keeping himself from fainting or throwing up were the only things he could focus on for the moment.
"If that isn't enough I'll stand guard at the door," he added.
"No, I'll manage," Claire got out. His voice seemed to come from far away.
Giovanni studied him for a moment with that worried, empathetic look he occasionally got. It always drove Claire crazy.
Finally, the man nodded. "I'll be in the sanctuary."
Claire heard the sound of retreating footsteps as he stared at the doorknob and willed himself to grab it. Surprisingly it took several tries.
As he curled his fingers around the knob, he counted to three before turning it and pushing the door open.
The room was pale and understated. The black coffin lying in the middle reminded Claire of a black slash across a blank piece of printer paper, chaos amidst serenity.
As he peered closer he gave a start, noticing the lid off. An ashen, waxy figure lay in the box, imitating his father.
A pulse pounded in Claire's ears and his vision wavered. As his legs grew rubbery and fever swept over him, he knew he was about to faint. He slammed the door closed and collapsed into the chair beside the coffin, breathing deeply and leaning over until the feeling cleared.
"I'm going to do this," he told his body. "You can make me as sick as you want but I will not pass out and I will not throw up."
A few minutes passed before Claire felt well enough to get to his feet.
He leaned over the casket, scrutinizing the corpse that was a living man just two days previous.
Lorenzo wore his finest suit, the one reserved for the most formal of events. Someone had placed his monocle over one eye and neatly combed his hair back.
"You look nice Papa. Even in death you're dignified," Claire quietly stated. The sound of his own voice was strangely comforting, making him feel less alone.
Tentatively, Claire reached out a finger to touch his father's face as curiosity overwhelmed him. It was ice cold, almost surreal.
"Your tombstone is beautiful, you have good taste."
Was it supposed to be this awkward? On the drive to the church Claire imagined this clearing of grievances as something smooth and powerful. Instead, he was making small talk with a man who couldn't even hear him.
"You won't be happy, but I'm officially quitting school tomorrow. I know you planned for me to inherit the title and business after I graduated and you taught me how to run it, but obviously, things didn't work out that way. I don't have the time now to go to classes with my new responsibilities. I'm sorry. I'll try and return to college someday, since I know you would have wanted that."
Claire sat back down, sighing softly.
"I did try, you know; to be what you wanted. For nineteen years I tried. You always thought I did nothing but try to rebel, but I didn't, at least not in any great way. I was always on the straight and narrow. I never did the things most teenagers do, always came home immediately after school, studied constantly and never once stayed out all night. "
Rage slithered up through Claire's veins.
"You know, you may have given me your title and empire but I'm not stupid enough not to know it would have gone to someone better if you had the option," he spat out.
Claire gave a bitter, humourless laugh. "You've never trusted me, have you? I knew damned well why you sent me to those shrinks years ago. You thought I was fucking crazy! You even feared me at times, I could tell.
"Little did you know I feared you! Oh not often, just those rare times when you'd go over the edge and use your fucking weapons on me, smacking me across the face for some stupid thing I said. It was usually your hand but sometimes it was that whip, like I was some slave."
He glared up the corners of the ceiling, searching them for cameras. He found none. A nasty smirk stretched over his face as he pulled out a bowie knife. It had been Giovanni's when he came to live with Claire and his father years ago, but he'd given it to Claire eight years later.
"In case I'm ever gone and you protection," he'd said, "just take this out, hold it and pretend I'm there."
Without allowing himself a moment's hesitation, he gripped the knife with both hands and plunged it completely through Lorenzo's right wrist. The disturbed, disgusted feeling Claire expected turned out to be quite mild.
Grunting, Claire yanked the knife out and plunged it in again, beside the other wound.
"Without this fucking hand maybe I can forget those times and remember you the way I want to."
After another plunge on the other side of the first wound, he pulled the knife out and went to work sawing at the remainder of the wrist. Tears sprang to Claire's eyes and he pretended they resulted from the exertion.
"Why was I so awful, Papa? Why'd you stop spending any time with me? Was I that horrible when I grew up?"
He choked back a sob.
"Tell me, did you quit loving me or just quit being able to stand me?"
The wrist finally gave. Claire returned the knife to his to his suit pocket and picked up the hand, surprising himself by cradling it to his chest like a mother.
"Don't hate me," he tearfully murmured. "Please God, don't hate me."
Claire studied the hand with red-rimmed eyes as a memory swam to mind, four years old but clear as anything.
He was on the living room couch with Avi, the only person who'd ever fallen in love with him; practically the only person who could stand him. The beautiful boy was a year older than Claire with thick black curls and deep blue eyes. They were pressed together, locked in a passionate kiss when Lorenzo caught them.
The man towered over them, his horror and anger naked upon his features. When Claire and Avi promptly parted, Lorenzo turned to his son, seeming to stare through him.
"As of late I've gotten quite enough hell from you. I will not tolerate you shaming me by making a spectacle of your "quirks" . Your…friend is never to see you again," his father explained in the icy tone Claire knew so well.
Avi sat stiffly, torn between anger at Claire's father and guilt for causing the man's rage. He stood, ready to defend Claire, when Lorenzo pinned him in place with a look and swept out of the room.
Avi and Claire exchanged e-mails and phone calls for months after, meeting once more when Giovanni snuck Claire out, but inevitably they drifted apart. Avi now went to college hours away and never wrote more than three times a year, always short, bland letters. It was both a relief and a shock to see him out there today.
"Abi in malam crucem!" screamed Claire, throwing the hand against the wall with everything he had.
It was ironic, his using his father's beloved curse. To the devil with you, it meant. Lorenzo always loved Latin. He majored in it and used Latin phrases often. At home nearly all he spoke was Italian, his native tongue, frequently smattered with Latin.
"It's ironic, always using those Christian sayings," Claire mused, his rage caged for the moment. "You always played the part of the good Catholic, always needing to please your father just like me."
He smiled coldly.
"He never did know you were an atheist, did he? He died believing his son was the eternal alter boy."
Claire chuckled, drawing closer to Lorenzo.
"But it never mattered, he still preferred dear old Marco, the saintly younger brother. Even when they threw him in jail for his many crimes, your loyal parents still stood by him. After all, Marco could never have been behind his own beloved wife's sudden, suspicious death. Marco could never have touched his angelic little daughter Eliza. Marco could never have embezzled a quarter of Vita's yearly earnings."
Peals of arrogant, sadistic laughter poured from Claire as he clapped his hands together.
"Looks like I'm not the only "beloved" son whose father hated having him in power. Of course you ran everything just as Lorenzo senior advised, despite it being your corporation. I, on the other hand, will run it my way. You always told me to avoid making waves and kiss ass to make peace, as if that's any fun.
"Nope, I'm making a splash. And there's no way they'll mutiny, as you always told me would come from doing things my way. They may not want me, but they're weak, they'll eventually follow me. Then they'll realise how stupid they ever were to doubt me. Just watch, with me Company Vita will become the biggest in the world! I will finally get the approval I never got from you in life. You'll finally be proud of me."
With a sigh, Claire fell back into his seat.
"I want to be happy. I've always wanted to inherit this," he said quietly. "But at the same time, I dread it. You aren't the only one who doesn't want me as Vampire. I've heard you talking with your men. I know they don't trust me either. They'll accept me, but only because they have to. Thank God for bodyguards because I know there will always be plenty of idiots trying to off me when my back is turned.
"Maybe it's best they think I'm nuts. If I scare 'em enough, maybe I'll actually live to thirty. Not that I care much, but it might be nice."
Claire walked over to the hand on the floor, picked it up and, feeling a little embarrassed for his action, gently laid it on his father's lap. It was then that he noticed the gold, ruby incrusted ring the man wore. Immediately Claire was five again, leaning against the antique armchair Lorenzo sat in and studying the ring intently. He'd been fascinated by its texture as he rubbed his tiny thumb over it.
"You know, it's hard to know how to remember you. You always had such a split personality. There was the man who took me to the fireworks show at the park when I was six and rescued Giovanni from the ghetto out of pure sympathy. Then there was the man who whipped me and made me paranoid of everyone. I never did know which was the real you.
"Would you have been different if I hadn't caused Mama to die? Would we have gotten along?"
Here it came, more tears as I leaned over, inches from Lorenzo's face. Claire had forgotten he was capable of such open, dramatic displays.
"I'm sorry I came seven weeks early, I'm sorry you got stuck with a pre-mature baby and a dead wife. Most of all I'm sorry I wasn't a good enough son for you."
A tear fell from Claire's eye onto Lorenzo's cheek, sliding down towards his ear. It almost looked as though he were crying too.
"Please know I love you Papa," whispered Claire. "If there's an afterlife and you see Mama, tell her I love her too."
He tenderly kissed his father's cool forehead and replaced the lid.
"I don't know what I'll do yet, but I'll do something to make this day special for you," Claire vowed, running his finger over the gold cross incrusted in the lid.
After allowing himself a moment to reign his grief in, Claire straightened and strode from the room. He had to keep up appearances. In mere days he'd cease being the Leonelli brat, as many called him, and become Vampire.
The End