Present Day
It was late.
The air was clear and the atmosphere cold.
A murder had taken place in an Italian suburb, but not one neighbour had stirred and no living soul within the Murder House had been alerted.
Cesare stood in the long, wet grass with an admirer by his side. He recognised Micheletto as useful and as amazingly loyal, but he wasn't sure yet of any real connection between them. He did see in Micheletto a new weapon.
"What is that?" Micheletto pointed at the vial loose in Cesare's hand.
Micheletto's speech was rough for someone so young, but simple and child-like. It spoke of a bad education and rare usage.
"I found it in the basement."
"Was it found," Micheletto asked, "or did something give it to you?"
Cesare smiled, sharp and false, "what makes you ask that?"
Micheletto looked back to the house. The windows were black and empty, like sockets in a skull. He thought of how convenient it was to find two sharp knives, of how he and Cesare were together and how only they, apparently, heard the Intruder breaking into the house.
"It seems like that's a thing that would happen."
Cesare smiled but didn't quite understand, the slight cocking of the head and his flash of a frown betraying this confusion. Micheletto observed him quietly, Cesare was more refined than he, but less aware. Was this a side-effect of being in a house like this for so long?
The wind nipped at thin, pale skin, making Micheletto shiver.
"Let's go inside," said Cesare, worrying a little in a manner he was accustomed to doing only for Lucrezia.
Micheletto considered refusing. He considered insisting on taking himself and his brother back home, but perhaps it was right that this was the place for them. Miss Sforza had directed them here herself, and she'd never been anything but coolly kind to Mich and Gio.
He found himself being guided back in, Cesare holding his arm lightly.
As they went in, Micheletto looked back at the bubbling pool of muddy water. Why had the Intruder come into the house? What had he been looking for?
Cesare led Micheletto up to his own bedroom, insisting that Micheletto sleep in decent nightclothes as he'd been out in the cold.
As soon as they entered the attic Cesare put on Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees quietly before faffing around in his drawers pulling out the warmest pyjamas he could find. Micheletto looked around. The room was cluttered but tidy. Cesare seemed the type to collect. He had a lot of things, most pointless, which added to the impression of wealth taken for granted.
"I'd make you a hot drink," said Cesare, "but I don't want us downstairs at the moment. I've learnt to avoid going out of my room at night. That's when the weirdest stuff happens." He placed some warm pyjamas on the bed in front of Micheletto. They were thick and dark blue.
"They should be ok," Cesare said, as usual finding himself talking more than usual to fill the silence left by Micheletto. "You see these marks on my face?" he gestured at the claw marks and on Micheletto's slow nod, continued, "my brother did that to me a few nights back. It's why he left. When he was ok again, I mean. He was possessed I think, before, when he did this. Something evil was in him. Maybe even that thing we saw outside."
"What is it? Monster?"
"No, ghosts I think. Get dressed."
Micheletto obeyed the command, somewhat self-consciously undressing. Cesare sat on the bed and watched in that calculating way cats have when watching birds.
"If it's ghosts," said Micheletto, pulling his top over his head to reveal a thin torso with small muscles and too many ribs, "then won't he become a ghost?"
"Maybe," answered Cesare, "it's what I was hoping to find out."
The playlist switched to Lauren O'Connell's House of the Rising Sun giving the room a tawdry air, so Cesare stopped watching Micheletto and instead began to undress himself. Normally he only wore boxers to bed, or nothing, but tonight he put on bedclothes. He noticed Micheletto markedly looking away as he undressed.
It was strange how Micheletto swung the pendulum between shy and quietly confident. Maybe when he came fully into his own as a man he would be solely quietly confident, which would be quite a thing to behold. Cesare hoped they would still be friends. He was more invested in being friendly with someone like Micheletto than he was Vitelli or Carlo.
Micheletto looked over the many CDS and records on Cesare's wall and shelves. There was a lot of Dark Wave stuff from the eighties and nineties, which would lead one to think that Cesare was one of those kids overly enamoured with their parents' music, but there was also a lot of modern singers and bands too; the likes of Serj Tankian and Nine Inch Nails to Snow Ghosts and Kanye West.
"What music do you like?" was the smooth voice behind him.
Micheletto shrugged.
"You can borrow any music from me if you like," Cesare said, sitting back in the chair at his desk, watching Micheletto carefully, "it's fine. Lucrezia borrows my music all the time…by the way," he sat up, suddenly remembering her threat from earlier, "Lucrezia, has she said anything strange to you today?"
"She hasn't spoken to me," Micheletto turned to Cesare, deeming it safe. And it was, the boy was dressed. "Neither has your father. You're the only one who has. She looked at me earlier."
Cesare was stunned in to silence for a bit before slowly saying, "that's…embarrassing…I'm sorry. We are a nice family, it's just. It's been strange, I'm sure you understand."
"I saw a preacher being dragged into a back garden swamp by a zombie," Mich answered, "I get it. It's ok."
Cesare stood, "sleep with me tonight."
Micheletto almost fell over, "no!"
Cesare looked at him in shock, already accustomed to Micheletto obeying his every command. "You're in shock," he argued, "tonight was too much for most people. Besides, it's safer. Stay with me."
Micheletto shifted uncomfortably as Cesare climbed under the duvet. He seemed to be gritting his teeth.
Cesare huffed and rolled his eyes. "It's not a big deal, have you never had to share a bed before? Get in."
Reluctantly the boy climbed in. Cesare switched off the lamp by the table but let the music play quietly, it now falling into soft classical.
Micheletto was ramrod straight and awkward in the bed.
Cesare rolled to his side to watch him. Light from outside shone in through the bedroom, the moonlight making them both look paler than normal.
"We'll look after you here Micheletto," Cesare whispered, "you're one of us now, as far as I am concerned. You and Gio will be safe."
Micheletto blinked, turning to look at Cesare. Dove grey eyes analysed the rich browns of Cesare.
"You are used to making promises you cannot keep," he said to Cesare at last. The darker boy frowned.
"I can try to keep us safe," said Micheletto, "and so will you. But you don't need to lie to me Cesare."
Micheletto closed his eyes, his lashes pale and long. Cesare watched him for a while before falling asleep himself, Micheletto's last words resonating.
xxXXxx
Outside, the spirit of Savonarola the Preacher stood upon the sodden earth. He was at a loss. He wasn't in Heaven. He wasn't even Hell.
He was stuck in Purgatory.
Putting his head into his hands, he wailed.
xxXXxx
The sunlight dappled across the bedsheets, the Fawn-like spots dotting through the quilt and patterning the plain mattress cover. Rodrigo crawled up between two lily-white legs, parting them to make space for him. He kissed her legs, smooth and creamy and warmed by the summer heat. The corner of her ankle, the dent of her knee, up into the thickness of her thighs. He allowed in some teeth there, not enough to mark, but enough for her to feel. She flinched and giggled slightly, breathy and girlish. He continued up, her skin becoming softer and warmer. Reaching to wear he knickers sat, he pulled them aside and, slowly, mouthed at the softness there. He could hear her take in a soft breath. He allowed himself a small grin, before gently licking her there. Another little giggle. He let out a small laugh himself, before going in for the kill.
Rodrigo grunted and opened his eyes. He was achingly hard and the sun was blazing into his eyes. It wasn't the warm summer sun of his Spain, but the distant winter sun of Italy. He looked at the time, 8:15am. Damn it, that was too early to be up on a Sunday.
His wife stood at the end of the bed, folding linens belonging the crib which sat in the corner of the room. Its tiny inhabitant was gurgling cheerfully inside it. As irked as he was by the surprise presence of this small creature he had to admit that so far Gio was proving to be a very easy baby to raise.
"You were dreaming," said Vanozza, her cheeks pleasingly pink, her skin dark and tanned and sexy. "You were murmuring her name."
Rodrigo felt his stomach sink. He didn't want to apologise again. He couldn't. The words had lost all meaning by this point.
He brushed his hands over his face. "We need to sort out the other one's education." He said at last, "I suppose you want him in Burkhardts'?"
"Mon dieu, it's too early to think of that! Gio is barely able to crawl."
He bit back the stab of irritation, "not him," he ground out, "the other boy. The older one you 'adopted,'" he used his fingers as quotation marks, "remember him?"
She looked up at him, her eyes glassy.
Rodrigo sighed and looked away. He couldn't stand what was happening to her, "don't worry, forget it. I'll sort it out."
He stumbled out of bed, glancing at the large mirror on their wall as he passed. It was large and ugly, when had it even been put up? He went outside and grabbed a towel from the airing cupboard. He was about to return to his room to use the bedroom en-suite bathroom when he heard footsteps coming down from the narrow attic stairs.
A messy haired, irritatingly sexy-looking Cesare emerged with another boy, a pale, skinny ginger kid. This must be the new boy.
"Ah, good morning," smiled Rodrigo. The boys stared back, Cesare with disdain and the ginger kid with solemnness. For the life of him Rodrigo could not remember his name.
"I'm sorry I didn't see you last night," he explained to the red-head, "I meant to but work came up and then it was late and all the lights were out so I assumed you were asleep. I thought you were in Juan's old bedroom?"
"I wanted him with me," snapped Cesare who was already seething for some reason, "dad go away, god, you're so embarrassing."
"Why am I embarrassing?" demanded Rodrigo, flinging out his arms and feeling completely put out at this point. God damn it, his family were pissing him off this morning.
"You're standing there in your old pants with a hard on!"
Rodrigo looked down. So he was.
"This is how I sleep." He argued, "and hard-ons are perfectly normal so get off the high moral ground." He winked at the ginger kid, "you'll get used to me eventually!"
To his surprise, the kid actually responded with a hint of a Mona Lisa smile, so Rodrigo took that as a win and went into his room shouting that he'd see them both for breakfast.
Inside he saw Vanozza singing to Gio in French. He wondered if she'd actually banged her head at some point and so was suffering some sort of brain damage. He wondered how much it would cost to fix her.
With a sigh he climbed into the shower and washed off. He had a wank, which made him feel much, much better. He thought of Giulia at first, just out of revenge for Vanozza. However he soon felt guilty so switched his fantasy to his wife and came pretty hard anyway. Not bad for an old man.
He came out and dressed. The room was empty. He was a little disconcerted at this. He didn't like being in the room alone for some reason. Something that had been an issue since their move here; he wondered if it was a manifestation of the anxiety about Vanozza leaving him. But then again, there were a couple of places in the house he didn't like. The old Living Room was creepy and he was glad they couldn't go in there due to the damage now; the foyer was creepy as he just related it to seeing one or both of his sons injured; the first floor was creepy since that night when he'd bumped into some random stranger there; and he didn't even look in Joffre's old room. This bedroom was creepy right now because of that mirror. It was so large it took up a good portion of the wall. The light from outside kept reflecting off it and catching in the corner of his eye. He looked over at it. He felt like the mirror was looking at him as opposed to the other way around. He sighed, dressing quickly and getting away from its appraisal.
He wondered why that kid was in Cesare's bedroom. Was Cesare gay? Maybe he was experimenting? The redhead wasn't the hottest kid around; Rodrigo was confident his son could do a lot better, but there was more to a person than looks. The kid had sort of smiled at his joke earlier, that was a mark of good character. Plus, Rodrigo approved of anyone if it meant Cesare cheered up a bit and stopped salivating over Lucrezia. Rodrigo knew nothing was going on between the two but it was only a matter of time. Lucrezia was growing older, sultry and much more aware, and Cesare had limited patience. Frankly, Rodrigo wasn't too sure how to deal with the Freudian mess that was his oldest son.
"Please be closeted gay," he thought, "and not incestuous, my god, how would it affect business if it ever came out?"
Though, if Rodrigo was being completely honest, he could see why Cesare loved Lucrezia so much. She was pretty hot. All his kids were; Juan, Cesare and Lucrezia. No doubt Joffre would have been pretty hot too had he lived to, say, sixteen or so. It was something Rodrigo had been proud of. The world should be grateful to he and Vanozza for blessing them all with such sexy kids. But still, these were private thoughts, nothing he'd say out loud. (Except that one time, when he was drunk- it hadn't gone down well but people purposely misunderstood.)
Thinking on incest bought him back to Giulia. He didn't understand why this particular affair was hitting Vanozza so hard. Well, no, he did know. He wasn't a fool. Giulia, with her long legs and big doe eyes, had been their foster daughter. It was too close to incest, the mistress too friendly to Vanozza. But, it wasn't as if he had been having sex with his daughter. With the level of disgust Vanozza kept throwing at him, it was as if he had committed incest; but he hadn't. He sighed, wishing society was less up-tight. The Cesare could have Lucrezia and get all that out his system and he could have Vanozza and Giulia. Hell, they'd been great friends before Vanozza realised he'd been fucking them both.
He left reached the foyer and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table there and took in the light atmosphere. They had a dining room next door, but that got as much use as the pantry. The kitchen was the nicest room in the house, the gay couple from before had done a good job in this room.
He wasn't alone, Cesare was boiling the kettle and Micheletto was sitting at the table opposite Rodrigo munching on cereal.
It looked like something that had too much sugar in it, but Rodrigo didn't mind; kid looked starved. He frowned, so the 'adoption' centre had taken care of the baby but not the teenager…
"I'm gonna call up Burkhardt's later," he said, "try and get you in for an entrance exam. Then you'll be with your brother and sister."
Micheletto looked up, eyes wide. He glanced at Cesare, who said nothing, before turning to Rodrigo and murmuring, "I'm not clever."
"Not everyone is," answered Rodrigo at length, still trying to remember the kid's name, "don't worry too much."
"I won't get in."
"You might. It's worth trying."
"I won't get in. Don't make me."
There was something of a warning in that. Where most kids would plead, the redhead looked like he was fully prepared to murder Rodrigo if he felt threatened enough. It was disheartening that Rodrigo was just as certain that should the redhead kill his new daddy, that Cesare's response would simply be to continue making tea.
"Ok," he said, sensing that this could play to his advantage as he'd be damned if he could afford another kid in that fucking school, "how about you go to a regular state school, but we'll tutor you on the side? We'll get you all caught up."
The redhead chewed slowly, thinking. At last he nodded.
"Good," Rodrigo took a cup of tea from Cesare gratefully. It was a rule in their house; coffee was fine on any weekday morning, but Sundays was tea and hot chocolate. Cesare placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of the redhead before placing the pot of tea on the table and pouring a cup for himself. It was green tea. God he was too much sometimes; Rodrigo already missed Juan coming down the stairs smelling of weed, B.O. and last night's booze.
"My name is Micheletto," said the boy to Rodrigo, "I know you didn't get to find out before. It's Micheletto Corella."
Something about the way he said it took the shame out of not knowing and Rodrigo almost felt stupid for not simply asking beforehand.
"Thank you," he answered humbly.
"I'm going to show him around Rome," said Cesare, "and maybe go visit Carlos and Vitelli."
"Who the hell are Carlos and Vitelli?"
Cesare rolled his eyes, "friends from school. Look, I'll have my mobile on me ok?"
"Yeah that's fine," answered his father vaguely, still spinning from the information that, for the first time, Cesare had not one but two actual friends. Three, counting Micheletto. Or was this tied into his sexual experimentation? Rodrigo sat back with a frown, no way would someone who drank green tea voluntarily have a sex life that kinky…
December 2011
Roberto sat in the ruins of the Living Room. His head was bowed. Billie Holiday played quietly in the background. He didn't care for the singer himself, but the ghost of Ursula pitched a fit whenever he didn't play it, so he left it on.
He was staring at a text he had received. It was a picture of is boyfriend lying in bed. Someone else's bed. Who had sent him this?
He looked at it. Paolo looked relaxed, far more than he ever had since they moved into this house. He knew that he and Paolo had been pulling apart, that he had become more distant as he was dragged into the world of the dead, but Roberto couldn't believe that Paolo would cheat on him. Whoever he was having this affair with was malicious; what cruel person would send a picture like this to the loyal partner at home?
Roberto switched his phone off and rubbed at his eyes.
He got up from the floor and went upstairs into the Master bedroom of the second floor. He slumped on the bed, hugging the pillow around his body.
"Monsieur, y at-il quelque chose que je puisse faire pour aider?"
Roberto leaned up, his face wet with tears and his nose stuffy.
A large, rather hairy man sat at the bottom of the bed. Roberto hadn't seen this spirit before, but then this was the first time he'd felt this lost and lonely.
"I cannot speak French. I'm Italian."
"Ah, erm, I said," began the spirit, turning to look at him, "is there anything I can do to help?" The spirit looked slightly damp and muddy. His clothes were well-made but musty.
Roberto sat up. "My lover has another. He's having a secret affair, all while I stay locked up in this house."
"Unlike me you are very attractive," said the ghost, "go find another."
Roberto smiled weakly, "I'm not attractive. And in any case I don't want another." He paused, "what happened to you?"
"I was betrayed," said the spirit, "by someone who I thought could love me."
"What is your name?"
"Charles."
Roberto crawled closer to the spirit. He could smell mud and water on him. "Charles," he said carefully, "do not possess me. I do not want it."
"But I can stop the pain," argued the spirit, "I can make him stop hurting you."
"No, I have to try and fix this on my own. I know I called you here, but I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to wake you up. Just don't possess me, please."
Roberto blinked, and the spirit was gone. He looked around the room, wondering if the spirit had merely jumped into a different area, but it seems the room was empty.
The brunet sighed and sat up in the bed. One was never really alone in the Murder House.
Anger moved slowly in his chest, like a caged beast. It would be so easy, to let the angry poltergeists of this house fall upon Paolo, but he would never let that happen. No matter how angry Paolo made him, he always would love him. Paolo was the first person to ever make him feel good about himself. It was a cruel hand that made him also the person that made Roberto feel lower than he ever had before.
He got up and looked out the window. What was he even doing in this place? He had no friends, he couldn't get a job and all his energy was spent on keeping the monsters in his house contented so they didn't kill him or his boyfriend. Of course, Paolo either didn't care or didn't know about any of this; he was conveniently blind to all the weird shit that went down in their home.
"I should just leave," he decided. "Let Paolo deal with the spirits himself. See if he's so blind to them then! But…they'd kill him."
Roberto sighed. He'd challenge Paolo tonight and let that decide the outcome. Maybe he'd insist on them leaving. Maybe they could go somewhere else in the city, maybe out of the Vatican state all together.
But first, he wanted to know who this other person was. He was tempted to text them back, but knew that'd give the other person too much satisfaction.
He marched back downstairs, fury pushing him forwards. Roberto was normally a pretty good boyfriend when it came to respecting people's private things, but as Paolo had betrayed his trust so badly he decided that it was a free for all now.
He marched into the room beside the Living Room. It had once been a Drawing Room but the boys had turned it into a little gym for Paolo, which was pointless as Paolo was always at the gym out in the city anyway.
Going to the filing cabinets reserved for Paolo's business files, Roberto pulled them open and began to search through. He was surprised to find a lot of bills with red lettering.
Present Day
The family were all out. Micheletto and Cesare had skulked out of the house at an unusually early time to go tourist-ing through the Vatican City. Lucrezia had left with her mother and baby Gio to get clothes and other essentials for the baby. Considering they had not been prepared for a baby, that was bound to take most of the day.
"Make sure to get things for Micheletto too," he had said quietly to Lucrezia before she left, "he needs things for his bedroom. And his clothes are terrible. This is Rome, he cannot go about looking like that. He'll be treated terribly and we would look appalling."
"I know," she answered, keeping her voice low, "trust me papa, I know. Poor boy, he came with almost nothing. Mama won't remember him but I'll get some basics. I can't help with clothes, but I'll text Cesare about it."
Rodrigo had nodded, passing one of his credit cards to his daughter. He wasn't happy about spending the money, but he sort of liked Micheletto and Gio, by what he had seen of them. He didn't want to see them go without.
"Take your time today," he said, "I have a patient this afternoon."
Lucrezia smiled warmly, though it wasn't quite the sunny beam he was used to from her, "papa I'm so glad for you." She leaned forwards and kissed him on the cheek.
A loud clearing of the throat made them both turn to Vanozza. She was watching with disapproving eyes.
"We should go," she announced firmly.
Rodrigo let out a sigh, she surely wasn't jealous of their own daughter! Before they left he placed a kiss on her cheek. It was stiff and unresponsive. She was losing too much weight, her cheeks were hollow and her skin was thin.
He spent the morning pleasantly at home. His fear of being alone was silly and not one that he wanted to take a hold of him, so he used the time to enter into the Living room in order to start tidying. The Television lay smashed, its black shards spread across the floor. The room was very still. The curtains were closed, so he opened them. He could see the back garden, wild and in disarray. The Borgias weren't really gardening types, but they really needed to do something; the neighbours would get annoyed if they didn't do up their part of the neighbourhood. He didn't want people to think they were trash.
Focusing back on the living room, he looked at the record player to his side. It was clean and well used. He recognised it as Lucrezia's but for whatever reason it seemed it belonged down here now. He wondered why she kept playing Billie Holiday; Lucrezia's choice of music was very carefully manipulated by Cesare and he was not a fan of the Blues. Perhaps she was falling out from under his thrall?
He got on with work, picking up the shards carefully and discarding them in an old newspaper, wrapping it up tight before putting it in a refuse bag. He then picked up the television and took it out into the foyer. After a moment's thought he decided to dump it in the Pantry, a room they never used, as he couldn't just throw it outside. As he walked passed the stairway, he noticed how cold it was.
The pantry was very white, the walls bright and clean and the windows to the back garden large. He could now see that the door was heavily damaged and broken glass was on the floor. He couldn't tell if the house had been broken into or just damaged. He put down the television and inspected the door for some time. No way could he get someone out to fix it, he couldn't afford it. He'd do it himself.
He grunted to himself in annoyance, the list of today's chores growing longer. If the house had been broken into, nothing was stolen as far as he could tell.
Curious, he stepped through the wreckage and out into the garden. The grass was long and wet with the typical damp of Autumn. The leaves of the trees were on fire with colours of golden and red and brown.
On the concrete slab before the door there was a mess of muddy footprints, obscuring whether someone was coming in or out.
Well if someone had broken in they were gone now and heaven knows no one in the family were hurt. If one of his family had actually broken the door, a scenario seeming more likely at this stage, then he would deal with that in time.
He went back into the house and went up the stairs quickly. There was a curious feeling, like he shouldn't be going up there alone, but he ignored it.
Getting to the second floor he walked more steadily to his room. As he passed Joffre's old bedroom, he could hear someone talking softly inside. Rodrigo paused for a second. He listened carefully, leaning closer to the door. He could hear Joffre, instantly recognising his son's voice, but couldn't make out what he was saying…
He sighed and pulled away. This wasn't real. He knew he was still deep in grief for the loss of his youngest child and that his mind was playing tricks on him. He left the bedroom door and went into his own room, not noticing the shadow on the top of the attic stairs staring down at him.
In his own room, he got onto his knees and looked under the bed, searching blindly until he felt his tool box.
He pulled it out and began to look through it. Yep, all the necessities needed. He hadn't done any D.I.Y. in a while, not since the early days when he and Vanozza were young and poor, but he was sure that it was like riding a bike; no one ever truly forgot skills like that.
Taking the box, he went back out of his room and paused. Joffre's bedroom door was now open. The stain of blood was still on the floor; they hadn't been able to get it out yet and he couldn't afford professionals to deal with it.
With a slightly shaking hand, he reached out and gripped the bedroom door knob. He closed his son's bedroom quietly. Unbeknown to him, the spirit of Joffre watched with wide eyes as his dad locked him into the bedroom again.
Rodrigo moved away, frowning to himself and not noticing that the shadow at the top of the attic stairs was now further down and far closer to him.
He walked away, making his way back down the stairs.
Rodrigo fixed the doorframe pretty easily, the frame being flimsy anyway and so easy to manoeuvre back into place. He had to replace some of the wood and use quite a few drills, but it was fine. It was probably more secure than before, in fact.
He looked back and smiled. He boarded up the window, getting rid of that chill.
Feeling deserving of some lunch he pottered in to the kitchen. He put on the radio to a classic station, Allelujah sung by Micha Luna playing cheerfully as he made a sandwich.
He sat, munching cheerfully and reading the online newspaper from his phone. Across the table sat the spirit of Roberto, observing the patriarch with a critical eye.
The phone beeped, a message had arrived.
I am pregnant.
Rodrigo stopped chewing. The number was unknown. He swallowed and sat up.
Roberto, intrigued, got up, circled around the table, and read the message. He then gave Rodrigo an evil look.
Rodrigo rubbed a hand over his face. The music had stopped and the room was now silent; he hadn't even noticed that the radio was uncannily silent.
Who is this? He text back.
Seriously? It's Giulia. Remember me?
"Oh god," Rodrigo fell forward. This could not be happening. This could not be happening!
He knew she wasn't lying, Giulia wasn't the type. However, he could pretend that he thought she was, make her go through the aggravation of getting proof and so on. That could buy him some time; some time to find a way to keep this a secret from Vanozza. At one time he would have told her and hoped she'd adopt the baby as her own- she was capable of such kindness and love- but with her mental state so fragile now he couldn't risk that. Who knew how much more she'd snap with the knowledge that Giulia was pregnant, right after she'd lost one son permanently and another temporarily?
He could pay Giulia to be silent, but he couldn't afford it. He wasn't surviving as it was, yet the pressure and the expenses kept building up! What was he to do?
December 2011
Bills. Bills. More bills.
Their finances were in complete disarray. They were drowning in debt. The shared accounts were in arrears. They were living off credit cards, day-loans and over drafts.
Roberto felt sick.
The enormity of their joined debt tied them to the house, and it was a rock sinking to the bottom of a filthy swamp. Paolo had ruined them, ruined them. He felt himself hyperventilating at the enormity of what lay before them. How were they going to cope? The marriage was definitely off, no way would that be afforded.
Then he remembered the text. Well, yes, he realised, tears forming in his eyes. Yes, the marriage was off.
His parents were right after all. He never should have left with Paolo. He should have stayed at home and married some lady and lived a normal life.
Then none of… this…nightmare would have happened to him.
Roberto would have to get a job, not one that he wanted, but any job, no matter how bad the pay. Maybe multiple jobs. They needed some sort of income in an attempt to claw back their credit to some sort of reputability in order to keep applying for more credit cards, which now was their lifeline. Paolo's current income was simply a trickle in the ocean. They'd have to declare bankruptcy as Roberto wasn't sure they'd be able to pay this off ever.
No, not them, he. He needed to declare bankruptcy. He needed to get away, far away from this house and this boyfriend and this secret lover and this fucked up house. He needed to go. Get a shitty flat somewhere and begin again, from the start, building up his credit and a new social circle. He couldn't stay here any longer.
"Do you think they'll let you leave?" a quiet voice in the back of his head whispered, "do you think anyone gets out of this house alive?"
Roberto let out a low, fearful whine, putting his fist into his mouth and biting down hard enough to feel but not break the skin. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he considered his options other than keeping the spirits of the house happy; none of them were good.
It had all gone so wrong, so quickly. He began to breathe deeply, trying to fend off the urge to throw up and the encroaching panic. He just had to wait until Paolo came home. Then they'd hash it out. They'd work it out. Somehow. He lowered his head into the darkness of his bunched up legs. He let out a small whimper and tried not to cry or scream.
Roberto lifted his head, hearing a car outside. He glanced over at the clock; he'd lost time again, hours had passed without him realising. His body was stiff from having stayed still so long and his head swayed from the blood rushing out of it.
The house, once lit up brightly from outside, was now dark. A storm was outside and Paolo was back home.
Roberto waited for the front door to open, to hear his boyfriend entering the house, but it was silent.
Seems Paolo was hiding in the car.
That's fine, Roberto could wait. He took out his mobile phone and looked at the photo of his boyfriend on another's pillow case again. His chest seized with hurt and betrayal. Quietly he sobbed as in the Living Room next door one of Bach's Arias began to play politely.
Modern Day
Rodrigo and Giulia, through text only- he didn't think he could bear to hear her voice- decided a time and day to meet later that week. They needed to talk. Maybe he could tell her the truth of his finances, maybe she'd take pity on him. She wasn't a wicked girl, but he knew she was poor herself and he had no idea how she could raise a child. Maybe it would be better for everyone if the child was adopted out. He didn't like the feel of that, especially when he was unofficially adopting two children himself, but he didn't know what else to do.
Reluctant resentment of Micheletto and Gio settled a little more firmly in his chest, as did frustration with his wife. If only she listened to him, if only she didn't disrespect him, then they wouldn't be in this mess!
Roberto looked across at the kitchen door and saw the malevolent spirit of Ludovico lingering. So, he'd come out of his hovel in the basement had he? Roberto scowled at Ludovico, the kitchen door slamming shut in the spirit's face.
Rodrigo jumped as the door shut suddenly. He stared with wide eyes, knowing that no wind was blowing through that could have done such a thing. He barely restrained himself from clutching at the crucifix he wore around his neck. Feeling that suddenly the kitchen was a hostile place, he went outside and ran up the stairs. He needed to change his clothes ready for his new client.
xxXXxx
There was a monotonous thumping at the front door as Rodrigo barrelled down the stairs buttoning up his shirt and straightening his tie. He opened it just in time to see Benito holding his hand up mid-knock.
"Hello," smiled Rodrigo, "Benito Sforza? Catherina's boy?"
"That's me," smiled the handsome brunet, "ready to be cured of my Crazy."
Rodrigo chuckled, used to this sort of humour from most of his patients (and other psychiatrists) and opened the door to allow him in.
The boy was slender but not thin, wearing skinny black jeans and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. They settled in the Study, warm golden light reflected from the autumn leaves outside shining through the window. The light touched gently upon the bookshelves and on Rodrigo's various degrees and awards decorated upon the wall. He knew it was perhaps a bit much putting them up there in frames, but he liked to think his patients were comforted by knowing someone well educated had their mental healing in their hands.
"Mama sent me here," stated Benito, "because of my dreams."
"How Freudian, do continue," Rodrigo loved it when patients dove right into the matter, it was so much easier than easing them in with small talk first.
"I dream of getting up and putting on my war paint. I look like a skull," he gestured to his face, "similar to the candy skulls of Mexico during the Day of the Dead, do you know what I mean?"
"I do."
"Like that, but simpler. Without the fancy artistry. I'm not about making art you see, it's about making a statement. That's what matters more. It isn't about how beautiful or how ugly something is, it's about what the meaning behind it is. Ugliness is a statement, or can be, in itself."
"Well one can argue about the concepts of beauty and what that truly means anyway," argued Rodrigo. Kids like Benito just needed adults to taken them seriously, so that's what he was doing.
The boy shook his head, dismissing his remark.
"Please, let's not get philosophical."
"Is that not what we were doing?"
"No," the boy frowned, "I'm talking practically here. We do know what we mean by ugly and beauty. A shit on the floor is ugly, a rainbow is beautiful. There's only so much you can argue the point in terms of, I don't know, culture or whatever. But on the whole we know what we mean by ugly and beauty. My point is that beauty doesn't matter when it comes to making a statement, and that's what I dream about; making a statement."
"And what is your statement?" Rodrigo picked up a pen and played it against the notepad resting on one raised knee of his crossed legs.
"I wear all black," the boy continued, "get the shot gun from the attic, and then go to school. I wait for class to finish, when people are roaming about the hallways, and then I start shooting. I kill anyone, it doesn't matter who; the girl who was nice to me last Wednesday and lent me her pencil in calculus; the jerk who laughed at me when I fell over two Fridays before; the first-year kid I've never spoken to; all of them," he put up his arms as if he were holding a shot gun, loaded and shot:
"Boom
"Boom
"Boom.
"All gone."
"And what is your statement?" repeated Rodrigo. Since the growing prevalence of high school shootings in America, this fantasy was not a unique one. Many of his younger, and even older clients had fantasies of doing the same thing, for different reasons.
"That everyone dies, and it doesn't matter if you're an old man who treats his wife like shit or a cute little boy crushed under a wardrobe," said Benito with wide eyes. Rodrigo winced but didn't let his discomfort show. "Everyone dies," Benito continued on, "Death catches you. Life really is meaningless. It's a flash. But death is infinite. Life is that one, burning star. Death is the darkness that surrounds it. We shouldn't be less concerned with death, we should be more concerned with it."
"If life is so short," answered Rodrigo, "shouldn't it be savoured? As you say, it is a rare thing. A flash in the dark. Doesn't that make it more precious?"
The boy smirked as he shook his head, "that's what we like to think, but no, no it doesn't. Our lives mean nothing. But death could mean something."
He leaned forwards in his seat, "do you ever see Joffre? Maybe in the periphery, or whispering behind a closed door?"
Rodrigo remained perfectly still, his face composed. "It wouldn't be professional of me to speak of my personal losses," he answered at length, "but I shall speak a little on it as it's of such interest to you. I do sometimes think I see him, in the shadows, or maybe that I am hear him, but I know he isn't around. My son is dead and he is gone. What I feel is grief. Have you ever lost anyone?"
In the back of his mind he cursed his greed; had he been allocated this child properly he would have had time to get his medical records and read his notes. As it was, this student was a blank slate. He'd made an error and underestimated this child's knowledge of his personal life. He should have known; even if he hadn't seen him before, this boy was a neighbour.
"My dad died," Benito said, "right here, in this house."
There was a beat.
"Excuse me?" muttered Rodrigo very quietly.
The boy watched him with careful brown eyes. There were no physical tells of a lie being told. Rodrigo was a good liar, and a good spotter of other liars. This child was not lying.
"In the basement," he said, gesturing with his head in the correct direction.
"And how do you feel being back in this house, with such a dark history?" Rodrigo fought to keep himself calm.
"I like it here." The boy wriggled in his seat, settling in, "I'm used to it now. You do. Get used to it. You have to or else you'd go mad. I mean, mom says I'm crazy, but I'm not. You know it, I know it. Clever, morbid maybe, but in good graces with sanity. I don't judge those who lose it though. Death stretches on endlessly and there's no end, no proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. So it sends you mad. Breaks the mind, thinking of eternity. It's nice, having a connection to the living."
"Is that what I am?" asked Rodrigo, feeling something was amiss, "a link to the living?"
"Very much so," nodded Benito with a serious look on his face.
Rodrigo resisted asking if he meant his words in practicality, or if they were talking solely philosophically.
Instead, Rodrigo cleared his throat and asked, "so, how do you feel about school?"
xxXXxx
"I'm sorry Madam but your card has been declined," the cashier was polite enough to break the news very quietly so those behind in the queue couldn't hear.
"Excuse me?" frowned Vanozza, though she had heard very well. She glanced at Lucrezia, who shrugged in response, before getting another card out of her purse. She put it in the machine and typed in the pin number.
Declined.
"I'm sorry," said the cashier quietly, glancing back at the growing queue whose occupants were becoming restless.
"I have a card," said Lucrezia, heat in her cheeks and the tips of her ears, putting in the one her father had given her. Everyone relaxed when the card was accepted.
The cashier smiled, passing over the various toiletries for their new brothers and wishing them a good day. The ladies replied in kind and left quickly.
"We need to go to the bank," commanded Vanozza, "that shouldn't have happened."
In the coolness of the Bank Lucrezia looked around, spotting a boy from school standing with what looked like his parents. He was a small curly haired boy with dark eyes. He reminded her a little of Cesare, only a younger, much kinder Cesare. A Cesare she remembered from her childhood. The boy spotted her, blushing gently. She smirked, Paolo and Djem having made her realise her power as a woman. She smiled sweetly at him, blinking slow and holding up a hand to say hello. His shy look increased, as did a pleased grin on his face, he waved at her just as his parents went into a private room, him following along.
Alfonso, that was his name. Alfonso Trastamara.
"Mrs. Borgia?"
"That is me," answered Vanozza.
"Please follow me," said the polite young man in a sharp suit.
Vanozza followed, both she and Lucrezia feeling a sense of foreboding.
Lucrezia looked at the text she'd sent to Cesare regarding buying clothes for Micheletto. Hastily she wrote:
Hey, forget what I said before. See you at home x
December 2011
It was raining hard outside. The wind was bellowing, throwing bins and debris down the street and threatening to break out into a full storm. Still, Paolo sat in the car looking pensively at the house. He took out a cigarette and began to smoke, feeling at ease now that its poison was floating through into his lungs. Roberto hated it when he smoked, especially in the car. But for the last few months Roberto had increasingly become insufferable to be around.
It was one of the reasons why Paolo was sitting in the car, and had been for half an hour, simply looking at their home.
It seemed like the house, which had once appeared tall and noble, was now leering down at him. Everything was going wrong. Beside him, on the passenger seat, was a bunch of flowers, (all various shades of red, from scarlet to vermillion, to match the house's dark and passionate decor) which was laughable because how were flowers going to fix anything?
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when Paolo began to fall out of love with Roberto and when Roberto, doubtless sensing this, began to pour all his love and energy into the house instead. It was utter madness. The men had wanted to marry, now that it was legal, and adopt a child or two. Now it was as if the house was Roberto's child. His child and lover.
'Maybe we should go and get therapy?' Paolo mused. "I can't stand the idea that we're one of those couples now, the kind that hardly talk to one another. Going to therapy is stupid and pathetic, but what else can I do?" He glanced at the backseat thinking about what he had been doing in it just over half an hour ago. "God, look what I've become!" He finished his cigarette and threw it out the window before climbing out of his car, grabbing the flowers before he did so.
He ran across the drive up onto the patio before scrambling for his keys and letting himself inside.
As usual the foyer was wide and intimidating. The wide staircase stood before him, the lights were off upstairs and it looked like the staircase was leading off into Death.
For him this house never really seemed like a home and as time had gone on and his relationship with Roberto deteriorated, he increasingly resented it.
A light shone on his right, signalling that Roberto was sitting in the living room. Paolo sighed and hung his head slightly. He had only been in the rain for a few minutes as he had run into the house, but his hair had been sufficiently soaked, and now clear droplets fell to the floor like tears. He hated the living room. He had had a disturbing experience in there a few weeks ago and since had tied to avoid it. Conversely Roberto went in there increasingly frequently.
Steeling himself, he raised himself up to his normal height and walked into the living room. His heart dropped almost immediately. The whole room had been re-arranged, again, and Roberto was sitting on the floor surrounded by letters. Paolo recognised them. They were warning letters from his bank, his lawyers and other companies he owed money to.
Roberto looked at him, brown eyes blank of emotion. He held up a late bill letter that was threatening them. "What is all this?" Roberto said, his voice calm. Paolo was not convinced, he knew that soon the storm was coming. "Why did you not tell me we were in so much debt?"
"You've changed around the furniture?"
"So this is another secret you've kept from me?"
"It looks kinda nineteen-fifties in here now..."
Roberto stood up, "what have you done that you've been sitting in the car for almost an hour? I see you have bought flowers. You never do anything romantic for me anymore unless you feel guilty."
Paolo gritted his teeth and pulled his eyes away from the re-designed room to look at his lover. Roberto looked pale and tired.
"I'm sorry about the bills." He said at last, "I just didn't want you to get worried, and costs just spiralled out of control-"
"Screw the bills!" screamed Roberto, flinging the papers in Paolo's face. Ah, so finally Roberto was reverting back to his usual fire-cracker ways. "You only say that because you now know that I know!" the younger man continued, "you could have told me! You could have! We never kept secrets before! Now we move to this house and I am doing my best to make this house our dream home whilst you waste away our funds!"
"I waste away our funds?" repeated Paolo incredulously, "you keep re-designing the house! You keep redecorating! It's insanity. There was nothing wrong with it when we arrived. For god's sake it was fully furnished. But you keep insisting on bringing it back to whatever period takes your fancy from week to week." He gestured around the room, "why is here now decorated like it's 1953? Why? You've never even been interested in the past? What's this insane obsession?"
"Stop using the word insane," hissed Roberto in response, "If I had known the trouble we were in I wouldn't have spent the money. I re-decorate because I have to. Besides, how else shall I spend my time? I can't get any work in this god-forsaken town and you're out with your whore!"
Paolo opened his mouth to argue but Roberto sighed and sat down on the arm rest of a settee. "I'm so tired." He continued, more to himself than the Paolo. "I decorate the house to keep them happy, so that they feel at home. But I can't do it right. I can't sleep. I can't..." he brushed a hand over his face and through his long, brown hair, "I can't make love to you because I'm so tired. And that's why you go to other men. But I need you. I need your support but every day you slip further away and I fall into the clutches of this house."
"What are you talking about?" whispered Paolo, suddenly feeling cold. The unspoken tension between them was now being voiced, and Paolo found that he was too afraid to talk about it. "Who are 'they'?"
There was a silence before Roberto looked at him, his eyes once more blank and his voice inflectionless. "Nothing," he muttered, "I'm not talking about anything. Forget it." He stood and walked over to Paolo with small, subdued movements. "Thanks you for the flowers. They'll match the first floor bedroom."
"We'll sell the house," called Paolo after Roberto had taken the flowers and walked to the living room door, "we'll sell it and move away. We'll have a fresh start somewhere new."
"This was our fresh start," bit back Roberto, "remember?"
Watching his boyfriend vanish into the living room, Paolo took out his phone and text his lover:
Hey. Look, we need to stop this. I'm sorry. X
Present Day
Rodrigo sat behind his desk. He toyed with the idea of leaving the house, but then became annoyed that he was so frightened that he couldn't stay alone in his own home, and so stayed put.
Quietly, he seethed. Why the hell had that bitch next door not warned him about the death of her husband in this house? She hadn't told him that they had lived here! What else didn't he know? The bitch who sold him the damned place had kept that to herself as well.
He opened up a drawer and took out a bottle of scotch. He didn't normally drink this time of day but he was too angry and up-tight. Besides, he wasn't like goody-two-shoes Cesare who was far too much like his damnable mother as far as Rodrigo was concerned.
He poured two fingers and downed it in one go before pouring another two.
Benito put him on edge but he couldn't afford to pass the kid on to someone else. God knows the whole thing was unprofessional; the kid was too closely connected to his family and their home. But he needed the money. Damn Vanozza and those brats she bought into the house…
He shook his head, frowning as the negative thoughts crowded into his mind, blurring his thinking. No, he didn't hate his wife or the kids. He loved kids as a general rule and knew a lot of this current situation was due to his own poor actions.
He downed another glass and turned up the thermostat. The house was freezing. Outside the weather had turned. The sky was slate grey and raining morosely.
Rodrigo felt strange. Like something was crawling around his skin, prodding and poking, seeping into his pores. He shuddered and rubbed his neck, wanting to get the creeping feeling off.
He downed another tumbler before refilling. Something was wrong but he couldn't figure out what. It was just like this house; strangers appearing and disappearing in the corridors, his children behaving secretively and strangely, the loss of family and the arrival of new ones. He felt as if he was continuously having the rug pulled from under him. There was never any respite.
His body suddenly felt weak. He slumped in the chair of his office, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, focusing down onto the soles of his feet. It was a mindfulness technique, meant to help with in-coming panic and stress. He focused down and allowed the darkness to surround him. However as everything began to slow, he heard a whisper of:
"daddy…"
He grunted.
"Daddy… watch out."
He jerked violently, eyes open and sweat on his brow. He had heard that last bit. Heard it, as if someone was in the room with him. No, not someone. He knew that voice. He had heard Joffre, loud and clear. He looked around. That hadn't been in his head, it hadn't been an illusion. But how was it possible?
It was raining hard outside, the drops beating themselves against the window pane.
Rodrigo forced himself to calm down. He must have imagined Joffre's voice. It seemed unlikely, because Rodrigo knew his own mind and knew his senses, but there was no other logical explanation.
He took a swig from his tumbler when it happened. He felt his body grow tense and taut. His jaw gripped together and his couldn't cry out. He let out a few muffled sounds of panic before…
It stopped.
Rodrigo was now sitting in his chair. He was very still. Blinking slowly, he looked at the tumbler in his hand and frowned slightly.
He jerked up when he heard the front door opened and shut. Walking out into the foyer Rodrigo saw Micheletto standing, very wet, with Cesare. The boys were taking off their coats, Cesare's thick and warm, Micheletto's a small, thin jacket.
"Why is he still dressed like that?" he barked at Cesare, pointing at Micheletto.
Both boys startled suddenly and then stared at him with wide eyes.
"What-?" began Cesare, a frown forming.
"Save whatever smart ass comment you have for me," Rodrigo growled, "why is he still dressed like a tramp? For god's sakes it makes us look like idiots having him look like sick dog! I told you to get him sorted."
Cesare's eyes darkened and a tremendous scowl blackened his features, "first of all," he said quietly as if to counter Rodrigo's noise, "he isn't a dog and he doesn't need to be sorted. Second, you said no such thing to me."
"I told Lucrezia to tell you."
"She text me to tell me to get him clothes but then twenty minutes later said to forget about it!" Cesare shouted back, feeling intense anger and humiliation on behalf of his foster brother, "who do you think you are speaking about him like that! He's a kid in your care! I don't give a fuck what people think about us!"
"Well maybe you should and then you'd actually have friends!"
"I have friends!"
Rodrigo let out a scoff, "I doubt that Cesare. Probably some poor saps you've bullied into submission or some losers like this guy pining over you," he gestured at Micheletto, who watched the whole argument quietly and dispassionately.
"Are you drunk?" asked Cesare suddenly. "Oh god you are. Well, we'll leave you to feel like a jack ass tomorrow, but don't bother apologising to me because I don't forgive you!"
"Of course you don't," sighed Rodrigo disdainfully.
Cesare grabbed Micheletto's arm and raced up the stairs.
"They used to call me Il Moro!" Rodrigo shouted up at them, "that's how respected I was! That's how much people used to look up to me!"
Cesare slammed his bedroom door shut, having pulled Micheletto all the way up there. He buzzed around the room, pointlessly angry and moving without purpose.
"He's a fucking pathetic animal!" shouted Cesare, turning on Micheletto with wild eyes, "you need to ignore him! Understand? Never listen to a thing he has to say! He doesn't respect anyone of any worth and only cares for the most base and most useless things in life!"
He stared at Micheletto for a moment before pulling the boy into a bone crushing hug. Micheletto allowed him, feeling pretty stunned by the whole situation.
"You're so much better than Juan," said Cesare brokenly, "don't let them tell you otherwise. You're not stupid, or a dog, or a loser."
Carefully, Micheletto moved his hand so that he was gently tapping Cesare on the back in a 'there, there' motion. Cesare cried softly and bitterly, feeling humiliated by his father. He couldn't bear Micheletto seeing him in such a state, so he pushed him out of the room as suddenly as he pulled him into a hug.
"I'll get you clothes, go to your room," he bit out, slamming the bedroom door on Micheletto before throwing himself on his bed and crying into his pillow, hating how dramatic he was being but feeling at a loss to stopping it.
Outside, the family car came screeching into the driveway.
Vanozza stormed out. The rain was pouring heavily. Her face was wet and make up was running down it. She looked a lot like Beatrice. She stormed into the house, leaving her two children in the car.
Lucrezia leaned over to the driver's door and shut it, making no move to leave the car. She looked back to Gio who was sitting in the back seat, in a baby chair. He smiled gummily at her. She returned the smile. She wasn't going to let what happened to Joffre happen to Gio, he wasn't going to grow up hearing his parents arguing. Instead they would just sit in the car and wait it out. She turned on the radio and turned up the heating, pointedly ignoring the fact that outside her window Giovanni Sforza was staring at her, one cigarette hanging out his mouth.
Inside his bedroom, Cesare began to slow his tears. He rubbed at his face angrily, embarrassed that Micheletto had seen him in such a state. There was something wrong with his father, he knew that much. He wasn't stupid enough to not notice that Rodrigo had been speaking in a way that was completely unlike him…and yet…
And yet… Cesare couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth in Rodrigo's words. Cesare knew how much Father craved the affections and respect of people around them, how much he needed to be validated by others. So was it such a stretch to imagine him being ashamed of Micheletto, of being ashamed of Cesare?
The way Rodrigo looked at Juan was so different to how he looked at Cesare. It was clear that Cesare was a nuisance to him, a bore. Juan and Rodrigo would have long chats together, laughing and cackling. They were lads together. It was never like that between Cesare and his dad.
He leaned up and turned so he was sitting on the bed when, suddenly, a force dragged him across the bed so that he ended up falling on the floor. He yelped in pain, scrambling to his feet just as something violently threw him. This time he hit into the wall by the window. He let out a pained cry before running to the bedroom door. He got out and slammed the door just as a heavy chest from his desk flew at his head.
Stunned and in pain, Cesare raced down the stairs to reach Micheletto.
Micheletto had arrived on the first floor just as the door opened and he heard a whole lot of shouting in French.
He stilled for a moment, considering going into his bedroom, but against his better judgement, slowly peeked around the stairs to see Vanozza and Rodrigo staring at each other in the foyer. She looked half mad and he looked drunk off his ass.
Micheletto felt a slight stab of panic; where was his little brother?
Vanozza began to shout again, pointing dramatically at Rodrigo.
"I don't speak French you crazy whore," he said belligerently, swaying slightly. The bottle of scotch now in his hand. How it had gotten there so quickly was anyone's guess.
She began to play around with her bag, struggling to get it open until at last it tore free and she tipped its contents onto the floor. From the mess on the ground she scrambled to pick up a piece of paper. She continued to yell, tears streaming down her face.
Micheletto jumped when he suddenly saw Cesare at his periphery. It wasn't often Micheletto was snuck up on; so either Cesare was very stealthy or he had been more distracted by the argument than he realised. Cesare was bleeding slightly on the lip and one of the scratches on his face had re-opened. Tears tracks were on his face.
Micheletto looked away.
Rodrigo looked at it with bleary eyes, and then began to laugh. "Yes, we're broke!" He laughed, "it's all over! We're ruined!"
Vanozza dropped to her knees and began to cry.
"Hah!" shouted Rodrigo, "you didn't react that badly even after Joffre died!"
Suddenly a black ball of anger barrelled into Rodrigo's side, knocking him over and sending him flying across the polished foyer floor. Rodrigo looked up to see Cesare standing over him. Further back he saw Micheletto standing by Vanozza.
"You little bastard," he bit out angrily, "how dare you! Do you know who I am?"
"Do you?" asked Cesare.
Rodrigo stood up, no longer Rodrigo but now Ludovico Sforza. He looked at the boys, now seeing Ascanio and Benito.
"You think you little bastards can kill me?" he asked, "you really think that?"
Micheletto took a couple of steps back, not liking where this was going. He wanted to get Vanozza into the kitchen, but she was just slumped on the floor like a rag doll. She was dead weight and at his light weight and small height he wasn't strong enough to move her.
As he stood by the kitchen door, he felt something pressed into his hand. Before he even had a chance to register the feeling and look up to whoever had put something there, Rodrigo rushed Cesare, barrelling on top of him and punching him in the face. Cesare began to fight back, but naturally pulled his punches as it was his father he was fighting with.
Micheletto ran over and pushed Rodrigo off, pushing the thing in his hand into Rodrigo's side.
Rodrigo fell heavily, crying out in pain.
Cesare pushed himself up on his arms, looking at his father and then Micheletto with wide eyes. Micheletto looked down and saw that in his hand was a bloodied knife. He felt his heart flutter.
"I didn't mean to," he said immediately to Cesare, hoping the boy believed him.
Cesare got to his feet.
He walked over to where his father lay on the floor, grabbing at his bleeding side, and taking a vase from a nearby table, smacked him over the head with it.
xxXXxx
Lucrezia was still waiting in the car when the ambulance and police arrived. She watched from inside the car as her heavily bandaged father was taken away.
She watched Cesare watching his father leave, with a cold glint in his eyes. And in that moment, she knew it had been her brother who had done that to her father. Besides Cesare stood Micheletto, her brother's new shadow.
It was still raining. Vanozza was in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, staring down and apparently in shock. Cesare had lied to the police, saying an intruder had attacked his father. It hadn't been very convincing despite how well Cesare lied. However, the moment he gave them the description of the Preacher, the police had given each other ominous and knowing glances. Suddenly, his story seemed more reliable and the police were willing to leave, at least for now.
Standing by Cesare, watching an unconscious and possibly dying Rodrigo being taken away in the ambulance, Micheletto glanced over to the car. Lucrezia was watching them, staring with wide eyes, like they were monsters. But then, he supposed they were.
He was relieved to see Gio in the backseat, staring forwards as if focused on Lucrezia. That was interesting; Gio never showed much interest in anyone usually.
"Get Lucrezia and the baby in the house," Cesare commanded Micheletto without taking his eyes off the receding ambulance, "the police are leaving a couple of family support officers outside to watch over the house. I don't want anything suspicious going on, like her refusing to come inside."
Micheletto nodded and went to do his bidding, stepping out into the pouring rain.
He tapped on the car window. Lucrezia wound down the window.
"Your brother wants you inside," said Micheletto.
"You mean our brother," she answered faintly. Micheletto didn't respond.
That was the first time the pair had ever spoken to one another.
Slowly, she unzipped her seat belt and followed him inside, he holding happily gurgling Gio who he'd taken out of the backseat.
Sensing that this was the right thing to do, she hooked her arm around Micheletto's free one. He looked a little surprised by this, but allowed it.
They passed Cesare standing on the threshold of the house, neither looking at the dark-haired boy.
Cesare closed the door behind them.
A.N. Hey all. So first of all, I loved writing Rodrigo. He was a lot easier than Cesare or Lucrezia, who are like water and shadow to me. I also hated trying to write that big fight at the end. It was short and from so many perspectives and so messy. It's the sort of thing that would be easier to film. I struggled with it for ages but it still comes across as choppy and messy.
Also, I know I took a long time to update. All my fanfics are suffering currently. Basically my mom was diagnosed with cancer back in the summer. We all fooled ourselves into thinking she had a few years but she didn't. She died a couple of months ago and I don't have a dad, so I'm trying to watch out for my siblings whilst also feeling pretty lonely. I'm an adult, so don't panic I'm not a kid, but still...it's not a good place. Anyway, all my stories deal with death and mayhem and most with family. So as you can imagine trying to write fanfic got a lot harder. Anyway, trying to 'get back on the wagon' now.