Chapter 7

Dante Falconeri gathered what few belongings they had, straightening the living room, double-checking and then checking again to ensure that the owners would not realize that anyone had been in the house. Dante raked his fingers through his hair, revealing his frustration. He was anxious to leave, to find out what else Ciara remembered about her time as Lulu Spencer.

So many pieces of the puzzle did not fit. If the Balkan knew that she had assumed the Irish lass's identity, then why was Ciara able to move about freely. Why hadn't he revealed the truth to her years earlier? Was her family in Ireland aware of who she was? Did Ciara's father, Seamus Kelly, knowingly abduct the child of an international spy? And if the Balkan did indeed know that Ciara Kelly was in fact, Lulu Spencer, where was the real Irish lass? Was she even still amongst the living?

All of these questions and thoughts plagued Dante's mind, the answers out of reach, as he tried to analyze the Balkan's motives and gauge his next move. His head was spinning, his thoughts like ping pongs in his head, endlessly trapped, as the paddles hit back and forth.

Jesus, he was a detective for Christ's sake, not once in all the cases he had worked on, had he been so completely rattled that he questioned his actions, that he triple-checked everything. Being a cop was second nature to him and he always instinctively knew the next course of action. Until now.

"Are you ready? I need to contact Lucky and let him know what we've learned," Dante told her, as she stood with her hands on her hips, glaring back at him.

"I doona answer to you," Ciara told him, sparks shooting from her eyes, as her ire increased by the second, "Your interference has made a muck of my plans. They'll be wanting to know where I am."

"Your friends?" Dante answered, "If they're so worried about you, where the hell are they, Lulu?"

"I told you, Yank. The name is Ciara. I'll not be answering to any other," she answered, as Dante moved closer.

"Answer, or don't answer, CIARA," Dante said, "it doesn't change who you are. You'll have to face it sooner, or later. Aren't you curious? Don't you want to know your family?"

"I got all the family I need. My real family, Yank, and I doona mean your Spencer's," Ciara replied, stubbornly, "Now, I doona have all day, time's awastin. You coming, or not?"

"Depends on where we're going?" Dante questioned her, feeling out of sorts. He wasn't used to taking the backseat and letting someone else lead. Ever since he'd joined the police academy, he'd always been a leader, striving to prove himself and his skills. The fact that Ciara, no Lulu, he thought, was taking the lead, was a bit unsettling. Yet, at the same time he admired the hell out of her. She was ballsy, he'd give her that. Stubborn too, but he was confident that he could reverse their roles soon enough.

"Our destination doona concern you, Yank," Ciara told him, walking toward the door, as Dante stood fuming, behind her, "Stay, or go. I doona care."

It didn't concern him?

Everything she did concerned him, he thought, his insides steaming.

Every breath she took. Every step her stubborn feet moved.

She didn't care, he thought completely riled.

Liar.

"Make no mistake, Ciara. From now on, everything you do concerns me. I will let you make the decisions for now, but if I see-"

"You will let me," Ciara answered, the smoke practically pouring from her ears, as she moved toward him, pointing her finger into his chest.

"Yes, Ciara, I will let you, for now," Dante answered, reaching for the hand whose finger was pressed against his chest, "But, if I think that you are in the slightest bit of danger, Ciara-"

"I doona need your help. I can take care of myself," Ciara said softly, as Dante held her hand within his grip.

"If I see you are threatened in any way, Ciara. I lead. Understood?" Dante informed her, not budging an inch.

"He won't find us. Not where we are going. You doona have to worry," Ciara replied.

"I'm not worried, Ciara," Dante answered, tracing the scar beneath her neck, "I won't let him anywhere near you. Now, promise me," Dante insisted, waiting for her to say the words.

"Jeezus, fine. I give you my word," Ciara told him, crossing her fingers behind her.

"I want to hear you say it, Ciara," Dante demanded, his posture rigid and his face hard like stone.

"Yes, I willna barrel ahead if you get a feeling of danger. Happy?" she informed him, a bit cocky.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" Dante told her, smiling, as she glared back at him.

"Gloating does not become you, Yank," Ciara replied, as Dante gently pushed her to the side, as he canvassed the exterior of the house. Confident that all was well, he looked toward the right, deducing that the lights of Dublin couldn't be more than a fifteen minute walk from where they stood. He reached for her hand and started to walk east, when he was abruptly pulled back.

"This way, Yank," she told him, as he answered with a stubborn look of his own.

"No, it's this way," Dante insisted, once again attempting to lead her in his direction.

"Just like a fecking Yank. In Ireland for all of five seconds and you already be thinking you know her every street. Dublin is this way," she pointed to the left, pulling Dante after her.

They walked up cobbled streets, keeping to the shadows, their footsteps silent with each step. Soon drops of rain pelted their skin, followed minutes later by heavy rainfall. They walked faster, the fields beside them soon replaced by stone cottages and even further turning into the stone facades of the local businesses.

"You still have not told me where we are going?" Dante asked her, walking alongside her, the rain continuing to fall, as his eyes constantly screened their surroundings, "Are you sure we are going in the right direction?"

"Yes. We will be there soon enough," she told him, slowing down, as they neared a stone cottage on the outskirts of Dublin. She was soaked to the skin, praying that the owner was home.

"This is it?" Dante questioned her, the rain causing his clothes to stick to his body, as his curiosity peaked. It didn't look like the kind of place that would harbor missing children, "It doesn't look at all like I expected."

"The meeting willna be here. We need to change," Ciara said, looking back at him, "I doona suppose you have an off button."

"Off button? Did you just tell me I talk too much?" Dante asked, in surprise.

"Not a word about who you think I be, understood?" Ciara ordered, waiting until Dante nodded in agreement. She knocked on the door, anxiously waiting for it to be opened.

"Mommy," Ciara cried out, hugging the petite, gray-haired woman in front of her.

"Och, child. Get outta the rain," she scolded, looking toward Ciara's guest with curiosity.

"You know better than to walk about Dublin in this rain, Ciara," her mother told her, embracing her and placing a kiss upon her forehead, "Not that I doona enjoy seeing your blessed face. I missed you, my angel."

"I missed you too, Mommy."

Dante watched the two women sit side by side, their hands touching, the tears marking their faces, as they conversed on the couch. Each one seemed to memorize the movements of the other, storing them until future visits. He smiled thinking of his own mother back in Bensonhurst whom he had not spoken with since he and Lucky arrived in Ireland, and he made a mental note to check in with her as soon as he returned to the pub.

"Ciara, angel. I was worried. Shane rang me that he doona know where you be. I doona like this, Ciara." her mother told her, the agony written on her face.

"Doona fret, Mommy. Shane doona need to be making you worry. You see me. I am fine," Ciara answered, as her mother looked at her, frowning.

"And you, Yank. What is it you call yourself?"

"I'm Dante. Dante Falconeri, ma'am," he answered, smiling.

"He thinks he is my bodyguard, Mommy," Ciara answered, in irritation.

"Good. You be needing one, Ciara. Yank, or no, I thank you," Ciara's mother told Dante, sending him a welcoming glance, "Ciara willna admit it, but she dances a bit too closely to the fire. Been burned more than once, she has," her mother stated, looking toward Ciara's scars.

"I intend to make sure that doesn't happen again, Ma'am," Dante replied, smiling, reassuringly.

"Please, call me, Moira."

"Moira, pleased to meet you. You have a very beautiful daughter. You must be very proud," Dante told her.

"That I be. Are you tied to anyone, Dante?" Ciara's mother asked.

"Mommy?" Ciara replied, placing her hands on her hips, and revealing a scowl.

"What? I doona get to hope to see you married, my angel. To see you hold your own lil ones in your arms."

"No, Mommy, when the man in question be a Yank!" Ciara exploded, turning to Dante, "He needs some clothes. Shane and Ranulf are waiting."

"At that club?" her mother answered, sullenly.

"It is safe, Mommy. The Underground is the perfect place to hide. Doona worry," Ciara said, kissing her mother on the top of her head, "Now, clothe him, please, Mommy."

"He looks handsome enough," Ciara's mother replied, as if Dante were not in the room, "I be thinking Kiernan's clothes will fit him."

"What's wrong with the clothes I have on?" Dante questioned Ciara, who grinned back at him, "You willna get in wearing those," Ciara chided him, "The Underground is highly selective, Yank."

"Well, I'm a pretty sexy guy," Dante fired back with a grin.

"You think so," Ciara answered, smiling, "If you were not going with me. Angus wouldna let you in."

Angus, Dante thought, as Ciara's mother brought him a pair of jeans and a black shirt. The jeans were an inch too long and the black tee shirt molded to his upper body, causing him to pull at the fabric and will it to stretch.

"Oh my," Ciara said aloud, standing still, as she took in Dante's appearance. The shirt fit him perfectly, the black cotton stretching across his chest and revealing the muscles beneath.

"It's too tight," Dante answered, pulling at the shirt.

"Doona fash yourself. It fits you perfectly," Ciara told him, reaching for the shirt and running her hands over the sides. She moved her hands upward, feeling every inhaled breath that Dante took, before stopping at the collar and giving it a yank. The fabric tore slightly and Dante let out a breath of air, as Ciara grinned.

"Not that I haven't thought about you tearing my clothes off, but the shirt wasn't that tight," Dante exclaimed, "So, what kind of place is The Underground?"

"Techno, with gyrating tunes that will move your feet. They have the best mixer in Dublin," Ciara told him with a grin, "But you doona need to worry. This early, no one is about."

"It's a front," Dante realized, watching Ciara's face.

"You have no idea, Yank. None at all," she answered, with a grin.

Ten minutes later, Ciara led Dante toward a red-brick building. The building could have passed as any of the brownstones in Port Charles, but this one had a black-iron railing that lined the front of the building. Metal points spiked, led them down narrow steps, flanked by concrete walls. Down into the very depths of hell, Dante thought, as they came upon a wooden door, stained red, with a slat in the middle. Ciara banged on the door with her fist, waiting. The slat opened.

"Who goes there?" the man asked her, with a thick accent, his beady eyes peering through the opening in the door.

"Ciara," she whispered, as Dante heard the rattle of the locks and stood closely at Ciara's side. Until he knew whether the man were friend, or foe, he would stick to Ciara like glue.

"The Yank doona be on the list, Ciara," the man informed her, his stone-faced expression giving away nothing, as he looked over Dante. He was a hulking, brute of a man, much taller than Dante and nearly twice his girth.

"Well, add him, Angus," Ciara answered, pushing her way inside,"Are you coming, Yank? I doona have all day."

Dante followed Ciara inside, moved past the guard at the door, whose eyes revealed his dislike and glanced around at his surroundings.

The club was silent, the strobe lights above turned off, the mixing booth silent. It was a fairly decent-sized space for a bar, Dante thought. Not that he'd ever been in this type of place. He could only imagine how packed it would become when the neon lights of the club pulsated throughout and the room was filled with sweating bodies gyrating to the beats of the DJ mixer. Techno music, Dante cringed. Definitely not his "cup of tea," he laughed softly.

"Do you find me amusing?" Ciara asked him, turning to hear his chuckle.

"Every second, Ciara. And beautiful. Sexy as hell, too," Dante replied, with a grin.

"I doona have time for your foolery, Yank. We have work to do," she told him, leading him toward the back of the club.

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't the truth, Ciara," Dante answered, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the hallway, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see soon enough, Yank," Ciara informed him, opening a door with stairs. They seemed to lead down to a cellar of sorts. The musty smell at the bottom assaulting Dante's nose. It really was the depths of hell, he thought, as Ciara moved forward, down the steps and Dante followed.

The air was damp, the shelves at the bottom of the stairs holding all shapes and sizes of bottles and jars, with ingredients that he had no desire to know. One jar seemed to draw him in, its contents floating in a murky bath. Were those feet?

"This way, Yank," Ciara instructed him, as he moved mechanically, his eyes darting to the contents of the jars around him.

"What the hell is this?" Dante asked her, a grotesque look upon his face.

"The Underground stores some of its late-night fare in the cellar. The weather provides a cool environment for storage."

"Remind me not to eat anything in this place," Dante answered, in disgust.

"Afeared are you, Yank? Irish fare has an exceptional taste. It's not for the faint of heart."

"I'm not afraid, Ciara. I just like to know what I put in my mouth before I eat it," Dante told her, his eyes widening at each of the jars stored on the shelves, "What's in there? That's not going anywhere near my stomach."

"Just wait til you try the Haggis," Ciara told him, giggling.

"No way. Not happening. Sheep's intestines. Isn't that Scottish?" Dante declared, cringing at the very thought.

"Doona worry, Yank. The Underground willna serve that here," she answered, stopping in front of a padlocked door, "Most Irish dishes are made of lamb and sausages."

She inserted a key and pushed the door open, the blinding light from the other side, causing Dante's eyes to squint.

When he opened them he was surprised to see the modern hallway with white walls and a hard surface that seemed to stretch for miles.

"Just a few more minutes, "Ciara told him, as she led him toward a massive door with a sign posted on the front.

IPAEC Personnel Only: Scan ID Required Beyond Security Checkpoint.

Scan Identification? IPAEC?

What the hell was this place?

To the right of the door was a box, not more than a cigarette carton in size. In the middle was a single sheet of glass, oval in size and not bigger than the size of your thumb.

"I think I saw something like this in one of those sci-fi movies, Men in Black, I think," Dante laughed, as he noticed the red light above the door, "Let me guess retina scan?"

"Doona be silly, Yank. I've never seen that movie," Ciara told him, placing her thumb over the glass.

Dante heard the blare of one, short sound and suddenly the light turned from red to green and the door unlocked. He closed his eyes for just a millisecond, secretly expecting to see all sorts of crazy alien creatures flying and walking behind that door. What he saw instead blew his mind just the same.

The noise assaulted Dante's senses first, voices were shouting back and forth at each other, sounds of fingers tapping on keyboards, and machines humming with activity. Then his eyes took in the wall to wall desks, computers upon each and people everywhere. Sitting, standing, pushing past him. Some nodded in welcome at Ciara, while others sent a quick glance his way and then retreated back to whatever task was at hand.

In the back of the room, stretching from the left to the right side of the wall, was one massive screen that was divided in quarters. One displayed satellite images of some sort, with red dots marking a map of sorts. Another showcased images of children, all ages and sizes, with their basic information beneath. Height, weight, name, location of their disappearance and the clothing they were last seen in.

The last screen displayed several images of the same man, bald in one image, a matte of reddish hair in another. The computer seemed to be scanning images from the satellite in the first screen and looking for matches with the images of the man in the latter. Dante hadn't seen anything like it, even working Vice for two years in the Sex Crimes Unit of the NYPD.

It was like something straight from one of those cop shows on television, where the FBI swoops in to solve the local police's case and brings all of their high-tech gear with them.

"What is this place?" Dante asked, completely mesmerized by his surroundings.

"This is our headquarters. From here we are able to keep track of him. Stay one step ahead of him," Ciara told Dante, with a look of pride.

"This is how you find the children," Dante questioned her, looking down at the monitors that displayed up-to-the-minute traffic reports, news reports and scans of streets in not only Dublin, but all across Ireland, "This is unbelievable."

"A few years back we received a sizable donation. We doona have an Amber Alert here, Dante. Not like in your States. Here, we take care of our own," Ciara answered, gazing at the caos around her.

Dante was beaming with adoration, his eyes clearly displaying the pride he felt at her achievement, when the man approached her, his face ashen and his lips pursed in a thin line.

"What is it?" Ciara asked him, dreading the answer to come.

"We've found him, Ciara. I doona believe it, but we've actually found him."