Disclaimer: No. No. No. No. No. I don't own any of it. Apart from a WAY convoluted storyline.

It's a little bit early, but I'm feeling good, considering I'm four days from my birthday : )

Enjoy!

.

.

.

.

.


Italy, 1992 (The night of Francesca's Mother's Death)

.

Damon heard everything. Every single word, and for a moment, he felt as though he was about to lose everything that mattered. Mama Luch was about to throw Damon to the dogs - and he didn't even have any idea why.

Then his mind clicked to the only other Salvatore he knew. Stefan.

Damon knew that Stefan had gone a little bit crazy in the early seventies, and he knew that more than once, Stefan had turned to Lexi, who had then been backpacking with someone or other, in order to seek help with curbing his bloodlust. But he hadn't bothered to ask him what was going on... There was a short moment where Damon considered whether he could get back from their place to Francesca before she returned, and, when he was sure he could, he took a running leap at the window and almost dived through it, somersaulting through the air and landing on his feet.

If anyone had seen him, there would definitely have been applause.

"Stefan!" Silence greeted Damon's furious call, "Brother! Here, now!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Stefan's soft voice was barely audible through the house; he seemed so far away, so Damon followed it to its source, right up in the eaves of the attic.

In half a second, Damon was stood beside the spot where Stefan was just levering himself in through the skylight and brushing himself free of all the moss and grime that accompanied taking a seat on the roof tiles.

"What do you want?" If Stefan had stopped to consider his question, he would have seen the fury in Damon's face, dark eyes blacker than black, eyebrows narrowed so close together that it appeared that they would meet in the middle, an expression which, in combination, screamed danger! to anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

Without even pausing to take a breath, the elder of the Salvatore brothers had his younger, weaker brother pinned against the wall, demonic expression firmly in place.

"What did you do to Juliet Luch's family?" He spoke through gritted teeth, but the name itself made no impression on the brother currently struggling to breathe.

"Who?"

"Francesca's mother, you fool!"

"I didn't know anybody named Luch before Francesca..." Stefan paused, his face darkening with a little smile, "and you don't let me close enough to her to get to know her, either!"

"You're a liar!" It was the most emotional Stefan had seen Damon in the past century and a half, his eyes blazing, his teeth almost snapping and he was nearly snarling too.

Stefan was nearly afraid of his brother.

"The nineteen seventies," Damon started, pulling away and allowing his brother to drop to the floor like a rag doll, "Where did you stay?"

"Milan." Stefan was still gasping for air as he massaged his neck, "You know that! You were in Rome, doing god knows what!"

"That's where her family's from... Milan..." Damon was speaking more to himself, but Stefan was still not listening, "You... You must have known her family... Beforehand..." He shook his head and looked up at his brother.

"I didn't do anything!" Though in his heart, Stefan knew something had gone wrong.

"Francesca's mother is currently telling her daughter – my girlfriend – that she shouldn't be with me! Because I'll leave her! Because I'll hurt her and I don't know what the hell's brought it on! I can't be painted as the bad guy here, Stefan!" He stopped and looked at his brother, painfully aware of the semi-smirk which was almost glittering on Saint Stefan's face in the moonlight.

"Why not, Damon? It's not as if you've ever been the good guy before." The words made Damon ache, almost immediately, as though they had awakened the ever-present pain in his chest and drawn it to the surface in a bruise of seriously damaging proportions.

"Forget you, brother." Damon managed the words before he lifted the smirking Stefan from his feet and threw him along the length of the attic until he hit the wall and smashed through the window.

Sprinting through the streets, painfully aware of how long it was taking for him to pound the pavements, Damon made his way back to the Luch household, and straight back up into Francesca's window.

She was already there, lying asleep in her bed.

He had broken his word.

His breaths sharpened as though he had run a mile, and he let out a groan.

"Mi dispiace," Damon whispered sadly as he climbed in beside her, slowly wrapping his arm around her waist in an attempt to anchor him back to reality.

In a moment of pure and simple rejection, she rolled away from him, and, in a voice he wished never to hear again, so filled with hurt and pain and honest anguish, whispered words which shattered the glass around his heart.

"You promised."

.

.

1971

.

She had no idea it would be this good. He was kind, he was sweet and he was honest, but oh, God, she didn't know how good it could feel.

Annabelle Luch had been fucked, and she had been fucked but good.

.

19. 04. 1971

Dear diary,

His name is Stefan Salvatore, and he is... perfect. I will admit, he has one fatal flaw, but his pride is nothing compared to the beauty I see. He has startling hair, and his face is just so... angular. At first, I did not understand how he could be so perfect, and he could be so wonderful all at once, but he told me.

My lover is a vampire. My sister will not believe it – she has already got herself a husband, and she is pregnant with her first daughter already, she has decided to call her Francesca after mama, but that is beside the point.

Stefan can walk in the day – he is not like Dracula, he says, because he has a ring which will protect him from the rays of the sun. It is Lapis Lazuli, and I think it is beautiful – it is just as beautiful as he is, with his big eyes and sparkling smile.

.

30. 06. 1971

Dear Diary,

Strange things happen when you are not expecting them to, do they not? Stefan bit me today. He said it was 'just to try', but as soon as he had done it, he was unable to stop, and it took me all of my strength to fight him off.

It scared me. It was as though he was crazy, fighting so hard and then he was attached to me, as though he were a leech, and I couldn't fight it, because I... I didn't want to.

It was most worrying. But then again, I would not change it for a thing. He was considerate when he had calmed down, healing me and making me feel so good as he laid next to me and laughed about the entire thing.

.

01. 07. 1971

He says he is leaving me.

I cannot allow him to leave!

Why would he leave when I am alright with the blood? I do not mind if he bites me, if he wants to change me, then so be it, it is not my place to stop him – I love him, I honestly do. It hurts me to know he wants to leave – does he not...

Does he love me less than I had assumed? I don't like this feeling, one of neglect or hurt, I'm not sure which it is, but it hurts. So much.

I do not want him to leave...

.

.

Stefan Salvatore left town three nights after Annabelle wrote her final entry in her diary, and as she laid in her bed and watched the ceiling swim in front of her, she wondered whether it was her inadequacies which had caused him to leave.

Was she too quiet? Was she too loud, too fat, too clingy? Or was he just using her to get his twisted, sick kicks, and then leaving her because he had had his fill of her body, her brains, and of her, pure and simple?

She did not know, and she did not have any desire to find out. It sickened her, and it made her feel rather ill.

.

On the fourth of August, nineteen-seventy-one, Annabelle Moretti was discovered in the Moretti family home in Seri, with her femoral artery severed. An investigation into this death found that the wound appeared to be self-inflicted, as blood, and the fingerprints of the young woman in question, were found on a kitchen knife in the same room, along with several different blood spatter patterns across the bedroom sheets and the walls which appear to correlate with this ruling.

.

Juliet Luch, neé Moretti, walked into her sister's bedroom with the intent to show her the new booties she had bought for her soon-to-be-born daughter. Instead, she was greeted by the most sickening sight that was possible to see.

Blood had been spattered up the walls, and it appeared to be coloured black in the sunlight as it dried. There was a kitchen knife in the bedspread, glinting in the setting sun and making Juliet want to vomit, it was horrible, and with the heat of August, it began to smell.

She gagged as she forced herself to take steps toward the body and shake her sister violently. Nothing, and as a pregnant woman, it was not easy to feel the baby kicking as the mother retched over the carpet, her sister lying dead in a pool of her own blood, knife in one hand, diary in the other.

Juliet Luch picked up the diary which laid in her sisters hands, and began to scream.

.

.

Italy, 1992, The Night of Juliet Luch's Passing.

.

.

"Mia madre aveva esplicitamente ragione su di te," She whispered, even though she didn't particularly want to share what she had just heard with anyone. It was Damon, however, and no matter how furious she was with him, she would not stay that way – it was almost impossible.

"I know," He whispered back to her, running his fingers through her hair. She tensed, but relaxed as he pulled his hand away, "But, understand, I had to know what he did."

Francesca stiffened in the darkness and quirked an eyebrow in question, even though she knew he would not be able to see her expression.

"What who did?"

"It wasn't me," He whispered, slowly drawing her hair back, away from her ear so he could murmur the words she would hear clearly and hopefully feel the same way. "I promise you, it was not me."

"What? Damon, you're making no sense," and then, as though the words had slotted into place like the pieces of a complex jigsaw, she let out a gasp. "How much did you hear?"

"Everything," He whispered honestly, knowing now was not the time to be keeping secrets, "but I did... I didn't know how you would react, whether you'd be mad at me... Your mother is a convincing
woman."

"Was." Francesca whispered as she turned over to face him, burying herself in his arms, her face pressed into his chest, and let out a soft wail as she felt the fresh tears begin to drip down her face.

"Was? No-" Damon felt worse, as though somebody had cut him and left him to bleed to death, "no..."

"Yes..." She clutched at the flannel shirt he was wearing and nearly pulled all of the buttons away, don't leave me.

"No, I won't." He whispered simply, "On my life, I will stay with you."

"No lies," Francesca murmured, "Damon, please, do not be lying..."

"I am not lying." He forced the words out of a tight throat and looked straight into her eyes, "I will not leave you, my pretty girl." His thumb found the soft curve of her cheek, wiped away her tears and tilted her head up to look at him. "Not now, not ever."

"You can't promise that," She whispered, but he shook his head.

"Trust me, please. I very, very rarely break my word."

You did tonight. The words remained unspoken, but it was obviously hanging in the air between them. It was painful to see, and it hurt Damon to watch his girl with tears in her eyes, clinging to him almost for dear life.

He would not leave her until they knew what had happened.

No.

He would not leave her at all.

.

.

.

.

.


A/N: Early, yes, but damn, I hope you liked it?

Review?

Translations:

"Mi Dispiace" – I'm sorry (hell, Damon's using this a lot, eh?)

"Mia madre aveva esplicitamente ragione su di te" – My mother was right about you (which, of course, she maybe a little bit was.)