To Doctor for single-handedly making me write this fic.

This fic will be updated regularly and probably every three days

I don't own the vampires diaries

please review

Prologue

"This is where I have wasted the best years of my life"

Greta Garbo

"I don't have any salt left, Mrs Gianluca," Bonnie shouts as soon as she hears the knock. "You took it all yesterday." She adds with a pinch of bitterness.

The times are hard, and little things go a long way. Now, she has to wait for next week paycheck to get salt. Bonnie could have refused to give her salt, but Mrs Gianluca is a helpful old lady. She is Bonnie's next-door neighbour. Unfortunately, she is the only soul who would knock at Bonnie's door at five o'clock.

The knocks continue, and Bonnie grudgingly rises from the couch, where she involuntarily slept. Her left flank hurts, and she takes a second to recover of her cracking bones.

The knocks become louder, and Bonnie hurries to the door. An extra second of noise would have disastrous outcomes. Bonnie attempts to avoid it. She makes it to the door after crashing into everything of her old life, which can fit in the cramped living room of her one-bedroom apartment in Mulberry Street's crappiest buildings. However, Bonnie prefers to remember that this apartment is better than any pavement of Detroit.

Her toes hitting the leg of the dining room's table and her legs slamming into Matthew's crib adds to Bonnie's grumpiness. She ultimately stumbles on the sofa, and she is only an inch away from the light switch.

Having one space to fit a kitchen, a dining room, a nursery, and a living room comes with health hazards. Bonnie makes it to the door with a throbbing foot. However, her efforts are in vain. The cries begin to resonate in the small apartment, and Bonnie sighs.

"Enzo," Bonnie yells, and she waits for the answer, which never comes. "Not again," she says with exasperation.

Matthew continues to cry, and the exhaustion overtakes Bonnie's body. She looks at her nightgown, and the milk halo, which makes the cheap cotton of her seed dress stick to her nipples, reminds her that she birthed a child three months ago.

The cries of her son fill the room, and Bonnie's headache rises to an unprecedented extent. The loud knock does not help.

"Mrs Gianluca, didn't you hear me?" She groans, "I don't have salt," she drags herself to the entrance," and it's too early to make pasta." Bonnie says as soon as she pulls the door open.

Bonnie is never so rude with anyone, but the sleep deprivation and new motherhood have peculiar effects on her behaviours. Bonnie intends immediately to close the door, but the presence of the police halts the motion of her hand.

….

…

...

"Mrs Saint John?" The officers slowly ask.

For a minute, Bonnie hesitates. She sighs, and it is a regular occurrence to have the police around the building. It is common to have them at her door when her husband is god knows where. Bonnie looks at the clock, and there is no reason to be surprised.

"What fuckery did Enzo do this time?" She asks after a yawn. "Excuse my language," she quietly adds," I just had a baby," she laments.

Bonnie expectantly looks at the man with one thought in mind. She cannot afford the bail, and her husband, Enzo, knows as much. They can barely manage the electricity and the water bills since the birth of the baby.

Enzo has not held a job since Detroit, and he is in no hurry to find one. It does not matter if every other man in town is rushing to get jobs, which Roosevelt is giving. Enzo claims to be too good-looking for hard labour. They can barely manage a meal on Bonnie's meagre salary. How would they pay a bond? Enzo is prone to fuckery. She looks at the police officer with the necessity to end the conversation.

Matthew is emptying his lungs with his god-forsaken cry, and Bonnie forgets about the officers. She runs to the bedroom while the officers call after her. She returns with her arms full of a gorgeous cherub.

"Are you going to tell me what Enzo did this time?" She asks while Matthew sucks at her cotton-covered nipple, and it distracts her, "here," she pulls her breast through the collar of her nightgown, and she lets her ravenous son eat. "Officer?" Bonnie insists.

The officer clears his throat, and he looks at his partner with a prompting expression.

"You need to come with us to the precinct, Mrs St John." The second officer announces.

Bonnie frowns, and she corrects Matthew's head posture.

"You can keep him in one of the cells because I have no cash. At least, he will have three meals a day." Bonnie says with lassitude, "I can't deal with his fuckery now. I have to take care of my three-month-old son." She deadpans.

Bonnie pushes the door to close it.

The police officer places his shoe between the frame and the door.

"Mrs Saint John, you need to come to identify a body," The officer says.

"A body," she confusedly repeats, "why?"

"To confirm if the victim is Mr Enzo Saint John." He says with a firmer tone.

Bonnie blinks, and she looks at the officer. His words suddenly become empty sounds. She shakes her head, and she chuckles while being unamused by the joke.

"He is down at the casino. Enzo is down at the casino." Bonnie sounds alarmed, and Matthew munching at her breast is no longer at the forefront of her mind. "He is always at that stupid casino. If he isn't, he must be with his boys across the building." She adds with an unwavering tone.

….

…

…

A look of concern falls on her face, and the officer's hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Bonnie flinches, and she moves out his touch. The officer begins to speak with a softer tone. She does not hear much of what he says. However, she will never forget the short explanation while they lead her to their service car.

"They discovered him down the thirteen streets." The officer adds.

The streets around her blocks are noisy, and the people always have their noses in other people's business. It never stops, and she hears the whispers while they walk down the stairs. Noon or five o'clock in the morning, the time does not matter. Some neighbours are at the window, and the bold ones dare to ask why the police escort sweet Bonnie.

"Cara," Bonnie recognises the honey tone of Mrs Gianluca's voice, "What's going on, Bonnie?" She runs after Bonnie with the best speed, which seventy-five years old can produce.

"I don't know," Bonnie confusedly answers, and she has not processed everything they told her, "A brawl at the Salvatores' casino; and someone got stabbed." She blinks and attempts to remember what they said about finding a body in the back alley of the casino, "Mrs Gianluca, can you watch Matthew? You know where the key is," she adds.

Bonnie mindlessly passes her son to her neighbour.

Two hours later, Bonnie returns from the police precinct. She opens the door, and she finds Mrs Gianluca feeding Matthew. She would ask where the milk comes from if she can find it in her to speak.

"Bonnie," Mrs Gianluca says with concern when a quiet Bonnie takes a spot by her.

Bonnie lets her head fall in her hands, and she gasps loudly. She has not gulped fresh air since they brought her into the autopsy room. Two hours have the impact of eternity on her tired mind.

"I made some pasta if you don't mind." Mrs Gianluca says.

Bonnie looks at the older woman. She has many questions. She settles for the easiest one.

"Where does the milk come from?" She asks with confusion, and she has no money to pay for formula.

"Miss Gilbert," Mrs Gianluca replies, "You know Elena, not Katherine." She continues in a tone, which Bonnie recognises as the one for juicy gossip. Bonnie nods, "well, she got an out of wedlock baby, but her poor father can't do anything about it. I heard the baby's dad is one of the Salvatore boys." Mrs Gianluca shakes her head.

"Hun," Bonnie's reaction is one of confusion.

"You know the Salvatore boys, Giuseppe's sons." Mrs Gianluca clarifies.

Bonnie does not reply, and her expression twists in a frown.

"Salvatore," She replies with a voice, which breaks.

"Are you okay, Cara?" Mrs Gianluca asks, and she takes hold of Bonnie's trembling hands.

Bonnie looks at her neighbour. Glistening eyes and tears rolling on her cheeks, she thinks at the answer to that question.

"Enzo is dead."

Three days have passed since Enzo's death. It is not the quiet affair, which Bonnie foresaw, and Lorenzo has acquaintances, who he never mentioned to his wife. From the old people to the children, who create a scene as they run around the dug and empty graves, Bonnie cannot recognise a visage.

They moved to New York a year ago, and five years before that, she had moved to Detroit. She met Enzo in Detroit, and he was a good man. He had a job, and he was charming. It was before the crisis, and then Enzo no longer had a job. He became less charming as the year passed.

In the same way, Bonnie no longer knew who her husband was, and she does not know who are all the people claiming to know him. However, she remains polite. She courteously accepts their condolences, and she pretends to listen when they share anecdotes.

For Enzo's last goodbye, there is no intimacy. In his death, there is a mocking irony to life. The drops of water sit on her shoulder until the cheap fabric gives up. Cold, the water runs along her collarbone. Her altar dress paid with the pennies, which she collected from her old pocket, is beautiful in the old and overused way. Bonnie is the portrait of a regal widow.

With her hair pulled away from her soft features, her old dancer days do not seem so far. Matthew lies heavy in her arm. She stands as straight as she can. She looks at the spectacle around her, and it may be fitting of Enzo.

….

….

...

Bonnie paid the priest for the hour with money, which she borrowed from her grams who hated her husband. She paid the priest, and yet, the old vulture is late. Bonnie attempts to calm an understandably cranky Matthew.

"I'll take him." Bonnie's grandmother announces.

Bonnie moves her son out of Sheila's grip. She brings Matthew closer to her breast.

"It's okay." She adds with slight annoyance, "I can handle this."

The rain, if she can call a drizzle that way, must have slowed him down. Lorenzo's grave is now mud. Bonnie looks at the hole in the floor, and it costs a fortune. It is the worst part of the cemetery, but it is better than the commune grave.

The drops of rain do not hide the tears, and Bonnie's cries are not the loudest in the crowd. Perhaps, she has not loved Enzo as hard as the woman with dusty blonde hair. She is crying as beautifully as an old primadonna giving her last performance.

Faces and tears, Bonnie wanted a small affair. She does not appreciate the spectacle of the masses, but Lorenzo's friends are people, which she never knew. Bonnie stares at the blonde woman. She is a beauty clad in a better dress than she is. The hemline of the dress is above the ankles, and the black of the fabric is truly dark.

Bonnie's dress is what she could afford. It is black under a greyish sky. Her thoughts are trivial, but Bonnie had a rough couple of days. Bonnie inhales, and she stops looking at the blonde woman who cries louder than the widow does.

….

….

...

Bonnie wraps her son's head under the heaviest blanket, which she could find. A hot neon pink, which clashes with her black dress. Her pretty chignon starts to give up under the crushing pressure of water.

"Here, here, sweetheart." The tears will be appropriate for the moment, but maternal instincts prevail. "Please, don't cry." She continues to soothe her baby.

The priest has yet to come. At twenty dollar by the hour, she expected punctuality. Finally, the man walks around the small crowd, and it should start. Although, it does not.

"Please, hold him, grams" Bonnie regretfully passes her child to Sheila, "I'll be back," she begins a focused march across people.

The crowd is the biggest inconvenience. She has never been to a big funeral, and she never presumed to hold one. Lorenzo was not a person who she could expect to be the people's man. Somehow, a shy character, Bonnie married adequately. A man with a tongue, which turns venom into a fragile rose. A compliment here and there, he was a charmer, and yet, the extravagant funeral remains inadequate. She could not stand who he had become.

"What is going on, old Marco?" Bonnie approaches the priest, and he is another old friend from around the corner of her street.

He is an excommunicated priest for nothing sordid, but old Marco likes his women. She paid with her pockets for his services, and Bonnie's pockets are of ridiculous size. They were notably small when Lorenzo was alive, but now, they will earn her the devil's pity.

"We have to wait," Marco answers as if it is public knowledge. "Dear Lorenzo, god bless his soul, was a man who knew people. Those people have to be present for his burial."

Bonnie blinks, and the surprises continue to pile at her feet. Her look delivers the furious tirade, which her mourning tongue cannot say. What is another scene in a spectacle of life?

"What? What are you talking about again? Are you drunk again?" Bonnie asks, and the regrets push down those brave shoulders. "Old Marco, don't make me take back my money."

"Mr Mikaelson is coming, and he hates it when things start before him. Remember old Marianna and the funeral of her grandniece. You must know the story. Everyone around the block does." Marco attempts to explain, and Bonnie knows the story.

"My Lorenzo has nothing to do with these low life people, and…" God must be out to embarrass her for missing last Sunday's mass.

There is a little commotion, and greetings start to fill Bonnie's ears. In a sea of unknown faces, one stands. His smirk is a mockery of what is holy, and death does not seem to be an exception. Strolling through the mud with shoes ten times, worth what cost the funeral, he walks to the front row.

Unbothered by the brouhaha, which he created, he elegantly sits on the rusty chairs, which Bonnie rented. She does not know him, but she can easily sum her twos.

Mr Mikaelson's presence suddenly prevents the chaos. Children have stopped running around graves. The older people have found respect to withhold their gossips for later in the day. Although, the blonde woman cries remain the constant chant escorting Lorenzo in his last haven.

Bonnie's eyes return to Mr Mikaelson. He crosses his legs, and his eyes are on Bonnie and old Marco. A distinct node seems to be the order for life to catch up with his pace. Old Marco's nonchalance consumed by the desire to please. Mr Mikaelson gives a stern smile to Bonnie.

"We can start now," Old Marco says with annoyance because Bonnie will make him late.

"What?" Bonnie asks in confusion, which restricts her anger.

"Klaus Mikaelson does not like to wait, and the hour, which you paid for, does not last an eternity."

…..

….

….

The rain is heavier, and she does her best to protect Matthew from it. Klaus Mikaelson stands by her side as if he is a member of her family. Bonnie does not know the man, and she has never spoken to him in her life.

He does not appear to care for their proximity. He continues to turn her husband's funeral into a mundane gathering. By his side, a gorgeous woman sits, and she looks like a Hollywood actress. They often share little giggles.

Bonnie ignores the crassness of their attitudes. She ignores the entire crowd. Her tears have long dried, but some of old Marco's words steer emotions. The rain is unbearable. She drags Matthew closer to her chest. Something hard softly hits her thigh.

"Thank you," She reluctantly whispers when he hands her an umbrella.

Klaus does not respond, and he returns to his side conversation. The rain precipitates the end of the burial. Bonnie does not have the misfortune to do Enzo's eulogy.

….

….

….

Klaus Mikaelson leaves before she has the will to return his umbrella. It is a miracle that there is enough to eat for the crowd, which she is hosting. Although she wants nothing but to end the funeral, Bonnie joins the small crowd inside Mrs Gianluca's apartment. Bonnie's living room cannot fit ten people. How could sixty-three people fit?

"He was a sweet man."

She nods, and she offers an exhausted smile.

Bonnie avoids most of the people. She does so by sitting an hour in Mrs Gianluca's bathroom. Inside the warm room, she achieves to cry. It is not as loud as the blonde woman with the pretty dress is.

"Sweetheart," Bonnie recognises her grandmother's voice, "We need you out here."

"I'll be out in a minute," Bonnie replies.

However, she needs more than a minute. Bonnie does not know how much time she needs. Truly, it does not matter. She has a minute. Bonnie stares at her ruined mascara in the mirror. She grabs a piece of tissue paper, and she wipes her tears and the ugliness associated with them.

"Grams," Bonnie opens the door, "What is it?"

"I'm taking Matthew back home. He is crankier than he was in the morning." Sheila Bennett announces.

She holds her great-grandchild with extreme care. Matthew is the only reason Grams does not celebrate Enzo's death.

"He is hungry," Bonnie replies, and she takes her son from Sheila's arms.

Bonnie turns, and Sheila lowers her zipper. She returns to the bathroom, and she sits on the sink with her feet dangling above the ground.

"I think we will stay here until it ends, my love." She whispers to her son who voraciously sucks at her teat.

Bonnie inhales, and she feels lost. In her arms, she has the only thing, which she has in this world. Twenty-three years old, poor, young mother and widow. Bonnie accumulates the struggles.

"We're screwed, Matthew." Bonnie sighs, and she refrains from crying again. "You and me versus the world," she adds. "We're screwed, my love."

Matthew continues to eat peacefully, and Bonnie continues to sob silently. When she ultimately stumbles out of the room, it is solely because Matthew needs to sleep.

"I'm so sorry. Enzo was a good man."

Bonnie does not recognise the man. She does not know anyone in this gathering to honour her dead husband. She accepts the condolences, and she walks away before the anecdote can follow.

"Mrs Saint John,"

Bonnie abruptly stops, and she looks for the owner of the voice in the poorly lit corridor, which separates Mrs Gianluca's apartment with hers. She cannot find him, and so she continues to walk.

"Thanks for your sympathies," Bonnie says as an afterthought.

She has repeated the sentence countless times, and she no longer cares to know what they might say about Enzo.

"I have not offered any." He drawls with an amused tone lacing every word.

His steps echo in the corridor, and Bonnie strengthens her hold around Matthew. Her heartbeat grows anxious, as the echoes of his steps become louder.

"That's okay," Bonnie says with a voice, which retains a courageous stand." Enzo was a good man," she says with weariness what he should say.

"a good man doesn't owe me money."

Her eyes finally find the shadow of his silhouette. He leans against her door. The weak orange light when it should have been yellow highlights his most delicate features. With one glance, she can say that he is too refined to be one of her neighbours.

"Please step in," He kindly adds while he comes to stand behind her.

His slender frame crowds Bonnie's space. She brings Matthew closer to her chest. His distinguished fragrance made of scents, which she has no sufficient education to describe for lack of empirical knowledge, lingers like a threatening aura.

It is easy to hear the authority in his voice. Although, he gently whispers those words. Bonnie struggles with the keys, and his hand comes to cover hers. She does not dare to look beyond her shoulder, and so, she lets him lead her hand until the sound of unfastening lock clicks in the uncomfortable silence.

"Please step in, doll face." He places his hand in the small of her back.

If Bonnie were not tense, she would hardly feel his touch. Although, it is a guiding pressure. Bonnie steps to her apartment, and he follows. She manoeuvres around the usual obstacles to reach the switch for the light.

When the light comes on, Bonnie's eyes widen. She is unsure if she has correctly masked her emotions. He stands in her living room looking like Edward VII. She does not know what to say, and so she remains mute.

He takes the chair, which she does not offer. His pants are more expensive than her third hand busted sofa. He crosses his legs, and he offers her a seat in her house. The audacity is enough to arouse Bonnie's brain. Although, she reacts contrary to her will. She sits where his extended hand points.

"Niklaus Mikaelson," He states after a few seconds of Bonnie glaring at him.

"Your umbrella," Bonnie replies.

Nothing else would explain Niklaus Mikaelson's presence in her home. Until this morning, she did not know Niklaus Mikaelson. She cannot recognise him under dimmed light. However, he is in her living room, and Bonnie has no reason to explain his presence beyond a fancy umbrella.

"It's not the reason why I came, doll." He replies and leans deeper on her sofa.

"I don't know you," Bonnie says.

She looks at him with curiosity. It is a unique thing how he fits in her home. Klaus pulls a gold box out of his pocket, and he picks a cigarette from it.

"Your husband did quite well." He says with a voice distorted by his effort to light his cigarette.

"A minute,"

Bonnie pulls Matthew's lip away from the wet fabric of her dress. The infant insists on pressing his gum on her breast. Nearly struggling, Bonnie manages to unfasten her dress, and she expertly drags part of the collar off her shoulder. She places the nipple in her son's mouth.

Klaus watches her. She conserves her modesty with inches of her collarbone covered by her son's body. He can perceive the mound of her breast, but it is in an unrevealing way. Klaus blows the smoke of his cigarette while he watches Bonnie feed her son.

"It's ten p.m." Bonnie's voice calls for Klaus' intention.

He forces his eyes away from the gum munching into her soft flesh. Klaus wets his lips, and his eyes settle on Bonnie's visage.

"It's essential." He responds, and he continues with a charming tone," I thought we needed a formal introduction."

"We don't,"

Her look is hard. Her day has been long and filled with too many introductions and strangers' faces. She stands to see him out.

"It's the polite way to go when matters involve money."

Klaus remains seated.

"Money?" Bonnie asks.

She retakes her spot. Her eyes full of questions scrutinise Klaus. He takes a breath, and he taps his cigarette to break the buildup of ashes.

"Money," He repeats," I'm not informing you about your husband's gambling habits." He adds with a tone, which she would call mocking because of the meek smirk, which follows the statement.

"He died in a casino brawl," Bonnie cannot prevent that sentence from leaving her lips.

Perhaps, she needed to say it since the beginning of the day. She may have wanted to say it to those funeral guests. All these people who repeated how good of a man her husband was. Although, Klaus could care less if Enzo was a good man.

" Good, if the hard part is out of the way," her words do not affect him, and her frustrated tone is the last of his worry," your husband left a tab in several of my casinos. "

"And?" Bonnie replies.

What else can she say? Enzo had a keen interest in foolish acts. She intends to continue to ignore the consequences of that interest.

"It's gracious to give you sometimes to mourn." Klaus replies," Once the week is up, I expect you to pay the thirty-five thousand, which you owe me." He appends, and his sombre tone does what a thousand threats would do inefficiently.

The lights in her apartment are brighter, and she can see what she missed in the corridor. His visage has many sharp angles. His eyes carry threats while he thinks of them. She draws a deep breath. Bonnie does not know how to react, and Klaus could care less for her shock.

He stands, and he dusts his pants. He looks out of place in her cramped apartment. He is too tall, too elegant, and too at ease to fit in this messy space.

"Good night, Mrs Saint John." He says with an unsettling softness. "To the pleasure to meet you again"