Author: J.A.K

Rating: R- for real life feelings and real life situations that aren't always PG-13

Summary: Summary: Clark is born a Luthor; but the surprise doesn't end there. It also turns out that his father is the most notorious mobster in the nation. Fighting desperately for a forbidden love, he must also fight against who he is; as he is the son of a godfather.

Disclaimers: I don't intend to make a profit off of this story; I only intend to entertain those of like mind.

Author's Note: I didn't want to say in my prologue what ship this story was going to be. But I'll tell you now that it's a Clark/Chloe ship (what else could it really be) and that is mainly b/c I think it's most logical that Clark and Chloe end up together. It's a C&C fic partly b/c I think Lana should be with no one else except Lex.

Enough of my ramblings...on with the story. Enjoy!


^Chapter One^


Clark

I felt frustrated by the stubbornness of a monotony that always came and just as stubbornly refused to leave.


Wake up, get dressed, go to school, and come home.


It was that said frustration that convinced me that it was going to be one of those days. A day where I was positive that I had to do something- anything- to remind himself that I was indeed a human being walking among the living.


A tight grin abruptly swept over the dry surface of my mouth.


I knew just the thing that would make my adrenaline execute a swift sprint in the half mile dash to my heart. The English office, I decided, was in need for a modest dose of remodeling.


It wasn't the first time I'd done it so I wasn't worried about getting kicked out of my current station by Saint Francis' division of educational management. The only thing I worried about was the question I was sure to be bombarded with- repeatedly- by varying and random people.


'Why would he act out in such a way?' They'd say.


Well, I wasn't going to utter it…I wasn't even going to think it out loud- because it sounded too clichéd even by my own standards.


To say my antics were done solely to add a little color to my day just so I could accidentally on purpose get my fathers' attention was a bit much; but really what other explanation did I have. I was bored; and although admittedly it sounded like a really rich kid thing to say, it was simply the truth.


As for how my father got involved with my antics; well…it was simple.


The man didn't give a rat's ass or more than one sentence recognition to academic success. Getting A+ in all of my classes (except one where I got an A) didn't make him blink. The most I got was a mandatory "keep up the good work" and that was it.


So one day while feeling especially angry at the hand fate had dealt me, I fortuitously set one of my test tubes on fire with a miscalculated stream of conflagration from my lighter. And apparently concentrated fire mixed with large amounts of flammable liquids equaled minor explosion.


It was the first time my father had had an actual conversation with me, one where he spoke about keeping up appearances and not drawing attention to him. Okay... so the content of our exchange was admittedly crap, but at least I got to verbally engage with my father for more than five minutes.


As a result of my self proclaimed victory I continued the pattern, breaking things and lighting up objects, all the while disguising my actions as pranks… forever more… Amen.


I looked around my room again. Inhaling deeply, I took a measured look at all the shapes and patterns of the objects that made up my space. Today, I knew, was going to be interesting and at the same time extremely fulfilling. I could already imagine the look of outrage on my fathers face.


Today was going to be a good day.

****************************************************************

Chloe


I felt betrayed.


Firstly betrayed by my dad, and secondly betrayed by my own stupidity.


How could I not have recognized it before?; all the signs that pointed to the same logical conclusion.


I had not too long ago considered myself a top notch reporter; someone with the eyes of a hawk and the instinct of a devoted parent. But now I wasn't sure.


What good could I ever be to the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, or even the Washington Post if I couldn't manage what was right in my own home?


'Wow' I thought.


If H-E-L-P was the residence of a hotline I could call, there was no doubt in my mind that I'd be breaking every long distance rule to contact the home base.


But no.


There was no one to talk to about this; no one except myself or my diary, which I hadn't written to since I was twelve years old.


I sighed and got up from my desk. Going through my "outdated" pile of things, I cursed and flung my way through a mountain of possession's I was sure at one time or another I'd never have use for again.


Ironically, the very second I felt ready to give up my search, was the precise moment I found what I was looking for. I gave the small object the once over and construed it to be the same as it was from the time when I last saw it; perhaps it was a little dustier and a little moldier, but it was still that annoying shade of pink and still- I realized- my most trusted confidant.

When I opened my journal- as I'd begun to call it at age eleven when diary sounded too babyish- I saw my first entry. I had been eight years old and excited that I finally had something to talk to, even though it could not answer me back.


Dear diary: My daddy gave you to me today for no reason. Just cause he loves me he says. He still thinks I like pink but I don't. and even tho you are pink I like you anyways. Bye for now- Chloe.


Tears welled up unexpectedly and settled in the corner of my eyes.


I flipped through more pages and saw an entry from when I was ten years old writing about Lionel Luthor's son, Clark Luthor, and how I'd only seen him from a distance, but how I could still tell he was really fine.


I closed the book and felt a sliver of bitterness creep into the smile I was wearing.


I remembered that day clearly. It was the first time my dad had taken me to one of his many functions that were associated with his work. Looking back now, it made a perfect amount of sense why everyone was dressed in suits that outweighed their paychecks; why I could feel, what I now recognized as tension in the air; and why I was never taken back to another one of those "functions", hosted and sponsored in part by one Luthor Corporations.


But I hadn't written any of those things down; I hadn't even given them a second thought. All I could think about that day was how Clark Luthor hadn't even spared me a glance, and how completely devastated I was.


Good old pre-teen angst.


What I wouldn't have given for some of that right now. Even regular teen angst would have seemed like bliss compared to what was happening to me now. I was going through living Hell.


Yeah... it sounded dramatic, but what else could one call it when he or she finds out that their life is a certifiable sham. That most of everyone they knew- including that person's dad- had been lying to them since childhood. That their father- for God knows how long- worked for the mob.

An part 2: Reviews arte greatly appreciated and muchly adored!