John sat in the chair behind Dimera’s desk as the first rays of the sun peeked through the windows. Absently, he rubbed at the knuckles of his right hand, felt the crusts of blood scrape like sand beneath the pad of his thumb. With detached interest he dug harder, releasing a thin trickle of sluggish blood. The ability to still feel something was a surprise, even if the only feeling was pain.

Giving a halfgroan, he shook his head, found himself sipping on cold coffee, and pulled the pack of Marlboros toward him. Last night had seemed like the perfect time to start smoking again. Leaning back in the seat, he stretched out aching muscles and sucked the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. He let it mix with the bitterness of the stale coffee, realizing just how bone deep tired he was. When he was younger, he had gone for days on nothing but caffeine and nicotine. At the moment, however, he felt exhausted and vaguely ill his mind numb, his brain too tired to think. He gave up on thinking and let the memories play through his mind, trying to see what he had missed the night before.

Consumed with worry and guilt, he had been unable to deal with Dimera, to deal with the issue of what he owed and to whom. He had gotten Stefano home and tried to put him to bed, his focus on one thing, the only thing that mattered. Marlena. Marlena and those who threatened her.

The old man had refused to leave the study, so John had left him sitting, alone on the couch. John had enough demons of his own, he’d had no desire to share the ones Stefano had brought down on himself. Instead, he had put the entire Dimera organization into high gear, every operative, every contact given one overriding order find out who was responsible for the hit on Roman Brady.

At first, the hours had passed swiftly. Leads came in. Were evaluated. Were dismissed. As day had turned to night, the leads had become fewer. Possible suspects had been eliminated. Contacts had comeup empty. It was well after midnight before they had exhausted the available alternatives. When Dimera finally lost the battle to with sleep, John had halfcarried him up to bed. He’d left Dimera to his nightmares and come back down to continue the search. The sun now rose on a new day, and still he sat, trying to find some sign, some subtle hint that would lead them to their quarry.

The hit on Roman made no sense. If anyone was going to kill him, it would have been Dimera. But John would stake his soul on the fact that, perhaps for the first time, the old man was actually innocent. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have killed Roman, John knew better than that. But he would never done it in such a sloppy way, never done it in a way that could possibly endanger Marlena and her children. Especially not her unborn child.

It hadn’t been Dimera, but it was obviously a professional. They had already gotten the initial police and arson squad reports through ‘informal’ channels, of course. It had been C4, triggered through the gearbox. The car had goneup when shifted into gear. The fact that it had been a pro was probably the only thing that had saved Marlena’s life. The explosion had been powerful but directed. The force of the blast had disintegrated the interior of the car and everything in it, but the destruction had been localized. If it hadn’t been a professional, Marlena would almost certainly have died too. John decided he would show his appreciation to the expert who had set the bomb by giving him an easy death.

He sighed, dragging deeply on the cigarette and fighting the urge to cough. The fact that it was a professional hit had eliminated 99% of the street punks who might have wanted to see a police Captain laid out. But there just wasn’t any reason for anyone else to be interested in Brady. Since Roman had been back, the man had devoted all of his attention to bringing down Dimera. He hadn’t had time to piss off anyone else!

The ‘Brotherhood’ was the only other option John could comeup with. They were the only other professionals Roman had been connected to but they were not an alternative that made much sense. Roman was working with the organization, of that John had no doubt. There was no reason for the Brotherhood to kill one of their own and if they had wanted to get rid of Brady, they could have just ‘disappeared’ him. There was no reason for the organization to go to such dramatic lengths to take Roman out.

None of it made a damn bit of sense, no matter how many ways he looked at the problem. He’d even run down the possibility that Marlena had been the target some deranged patient with a military background, perhaps. There was nothing. The most powerful criminal cartel in the world at his beck and call, and he had nothing…

Groaning in frustration, he rubbed tired eyes and realized he had killed off the last of the stale coffee. Briefly, he considered going back to the Inn, trying to get some sleep. He could imagine nothing more depressing than laying in that strange bed, staring at the ceiling, seeing the images of Marlena and fire and dead children.

He lurched to his feet and stumbled to the wet bar. Grabbing the first bottle that came to hand, he wove his way back to the chair. Not bothering with a glass, he sank into the thick leather and let the vodka flow down to make war with the coffee that was already busy trying to burn a hole in his stomach. Lighting the third cigarette in a row, he considered the costs and benefits of sitting there behind Dimera’s desk and getting puking drunk. He would still dream, but maybe he wouldn’t remember it when he woke up.

Startled from his revery by Dimera’s heavy tread, he opened his eyes to see the man stalking toward him dressed in his clothes from the night before.

“Get out of my chair.”

John leaned back, giving Dimera an insolent stare. He noticed the dark bruise covering the right side of the man’s face and felt the satisfaction of knowing he had put it there. He brought the bottle to his lips and drank deeply, suppressing a shudder as the liquid fire spread through him. Arrogantly, he rose from the chair and stepped to Stefano, his physical proximity a thinly veiled threat.





“Fine. I was just leaving, anyway.”

With no idea where he was going, John was almost to the door when he felt Dimera’s big hand grab his shoulder. He spun around, his fingers curling into fists, and Stefano released him.

“You are not going anywhere, John. You created this mess. You are damn well going to clean it up!”

“I did not do this!” John shot back, trying to keep his fear from showing his fear that Dimera was right.

A thick finger jammed into his chest, the glare on Dimera’s face a match for the rage John felt building. “You took Roman out of my compound. It was your action that put her at risk! Then, when I should have been concentrating on Marlena, on my child, I’m dealing with your insolence! I’m busy tracking you down because you felt the need to run off and sulk! You should have been here and you were not. You should have obeyed and you did not. You did this to her, John. You!”





Slapping the arm away, John tried to fight the words, to deny their reality. And if he couldn’t escape the knowledge of his fault, he’d be damned if he’d go down alone. “You made me do this to her, Dimera! You made me tear her whole life apart! You made me, you son of a bitch!”

He needed it to belong to someone else. The guilt. The blame. He needed it to belong to someone else so that he would have something to break. The rage sparked, the heat of it washing through him. The rage was so much better than the guilt. He lashed out, swinging wildly, like a child. Joy at the first impact the feeling of forgiveness, the feeling of redemption. Redemption was always paid for in blood.





The blow was a glancing one but it shattered Dimera’s nose, knocking him back, scattering the papers on the edge of the desk. There was no skill in the attack. Skill wasn’t wanted. It wasn’t needed. John grabbed the big man by the collar, ripping him off the desk, slamming him against the bookshelves, hammering him with his fists.

The intent was not to kill but to destroy to pulverize the body before him, beat it into dust, make it as if it had never existed. His vision narrowed to a pinprick and John almost missed the shadow that shifted in the corner of his eye.

A glimpse of movement, reflected in the big mirror over the bar, demanded him. He turned, aware of Stefano’s heavy body falling to the floor, and his booted foot smashed Jensen in the groin before he ever recognized the man’s face. Wanting only to finish what he has started, to finish Dimera, he was stopped as Bryce ran through the open door. The young bodyguard stood frozen in the center of the room, looking for some outside enemy. John’s shoulder took him in the gut, lifting him off of his feet. The room shook as their bodies plowed into the hard brick of the fireplace and Bryce dropped to the ground.

The blood pounded in his ears, the only sound he could hear. John reached down, fingers curling around the smooth wood of a thin log. The heft of it in his grip was right, the long dark hallway calling to him. John focused his attention on Dimera’s groaning form, the trace of a smile curving his lips.

Thought was unnecessary. Thought was unwanted. The movements of this dance were familiar, seared into his soul many years before. He stalked smoothly across the floor, his bat held high. The gold framed mirror above the bar looked down on him, a silent witness to what he had become. The mirror’s truth was the last thing on earth he wanted to see.

He slammed the stick into the face of the man who owned the guilt, the glass shattering around him. He pounded the face into a million shimmering fragments, splintered diamonds that sliced through his flesh. He stopped his assault only when the wood cracked beneath his bloodied hands.

Staggering back, accompanied by the crunch of the glass, he dropped his broken club. Shining within his razor sharp shroud, John blinked unseeing eyes. The huddle of guards gaping at him from the door called him back, their fear a familiar anchor to his world. With a tired sigh, he ordered them to call for the doctor.

John sat behind the big desk, the sun slanting through the windows behind him the only source of light. Surrounded by the shadows, he watched the glint of the sun as it caressed the silver of the metal, the weapon in his hands a perfect balance of form and function.

The room was quiet, a tomb of his own creation. The servants and guards were too afraid to approach him, too afraid to come near. Damn… He should check on Dimera. Should learn the extent of the damage he had wrought. Instead, he looked back at the gun. Dropped the clip. Checked the chamber.

When they had carried Stefano out the man had been only halfconscious, the pounding John had given him more than even his heavy frame could take. Bryce had managed to walk out on his own. Jensen had refused to even try to stand. They had carried the wounded from the room, their fear pervading the air. He had known then that the organization was his for the taking. No one who worked for Dimera would oppose him, their fear of John now greater than their fear of the old man. A victory of sorts.

In celebration of his victory, he brought the barrel of the gun under his chin. Cocked the hammer. Pulled the trigger.

The disappointment was expected as the pin clicked on an empty chamber. Closing hollow eyes, he prayed to whatever Gods would listen for the day she would be safe. That was the day he could be free.

He stepped quietly into the darkened room. Dimera slept, his face pale against the pillow that cradled his head. Moving soundlessly, John sank down in the chair beside the big bed. Noting the darkening smear of the bruises, he winced at the knowledge that this was his gift to the man who had raised him. The man who had taught him how to control the rage. He lay his head back, staring at a point beyond the ceiling. Apparently, Stefano had not taught him quite well enough.

“Are you here to finish the job?”

John saw the glint of a dark eye, noting the dreamy quality of a mind befuddled by the drugs that fought off the pain. Still, the challenge shone through, despite the chemicals, despite the pain. He allowed himself a tight grin, recognizing that the old man had no fear. No fear of him. No fear of death. He wondered if it was the will of some sick and twisted universe that the two of them had found each other.

“The guard should not have let you in,” the voice continued to ramble, undeterred by John’s failure to answer.

“The guards do what I tell them to do.”

Dimera’s attempt at a laugh turned into a groan of pain, bruised ribs protesting the slight movement. “Ahh… The king is dead. Long live the king.”

“You are hardly dead, Stefano sometimes I think you never will be. You’re going to live forever, old man the one constant in my life,” John replied softly, his words both an accusation and a plea.

“If you are asking my forgiveness, John, you will have to do better than that. Much better.”





John’s laugh was bitter. “You raped her, Stefano. You took her against her will. You made a child that should never have been yours. I’m not sorry for your pain. I’m sorry for hers.”

“Then why are you here? Why did you stay?”

“Where else do I have to go?” John replied, his eyes once again seeking the heavens.

For a moment, Stefano managed to make his mind focus. He studied the man slouched in the chair across from him. Even in the relaxed pose, the muscles of his neck seemed to twist. That lean body was primed to explode, the quick pulse of the veins an indicator of the shortness of the fuse. As Dimera let himself drift back into the darkness, he decided that those who played with fire should not complain when they got burned.

John kicked his bare feet up to rest on the heavy desk, stifling a moan. Dressed only in an old pair of grey sweatpants, he enjoyed the feel of the smooth leather against his bare back. He blinked eyes that were gritty from lack of sleep, his only relief in the past two days the couple of hours he had napped at Dimera’s bedside.

He had awakened to find Stefano still lost in the silent solitude of sleep. Moving quietly, he had left him there. A hot shower had washed away the last of the glass that had buried itself in his body, the sting of the cuts a welcome distraction from his own dark thoughts. Sleep had been an impossibility, the threat of dreams a Hell he was not ready to visit. Instead, he had returned to the office, relieved to find the carnage of the morning wiped clean by obsequious servants.

As night had again descended on the world outside, he had studied the reports and stared at the pictures. Pictures of her family. Pictures of her. Pictures were all he had left of her now.

The picture he held now was grainy, clipped from the afternoon paper. In the blurry photo, he thought she looked lost, an abandoned child left alone by those who should be there for her. It was the picture from Roman’s memorial, held at the hospital so that she could attend. Surrounded by friends and family, she still looked all alone.

John was lost in the picture of his family when he sensed his presence in the room. Looking up, he was not surprised to find Dimera on his feet.

“You should be in bed,” John said mildly, noting the bandages that wrapped the man’s chest through the loosely tied robe.

“And you should stay off of my desk,” Dimera shot back, asserting his authority.





Not wanting another fight, John wordlessly got to his feet, allowing the man his dignity. As Dimera settled gingerly down behind his desk, John walked over to collapse across the arms of an overstuffed chair.

“What have you discovered about Brady’s death?”

“There is nothing, Stefano. Nothing new has come out since you went to bed last night,” John answered, easily immersing himself in the familiarity of this game, this role as Stefano’s soldier. They both knew that it was not the same. For the moment, they were both willing to pretend.

“There has to be something. You are missing something. I know it.”

John merely grunted and waved a hand at the files strewn across the desk. “Look for yourself. There’s nothing there.”

Stefano didn’t bother with a reply and John allowed his gaze to drift across the room. “There’s a picture of her on the desk. Today’s paper. It was taken at Roman’s memorial service.” He avoided looking at Stefano as the man pickedup the scrap of paper and looked down on the woman he had wanted for so long.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she,” Stefano said softly, speaking to himself as much as to John.

“Yea. She really is… We should never have tried to touch something so pure, Stefano. We should have known we would end up destroying it.”

“This is not what I meant for her, John. You know that. I never meant her any pain.”

“Neither did I. It’s rather moot now, isn’t it?”.

“She will be all right, won’t she?” Dimera asked, certain that John would know.

“Yes. Physically, she will be fine. There’s a copy of the doctor’s report in there somewhere. They’ll keep her for another day or two, but I think that’s mostly Bo’s doing. He wants to her someplace safe while he tries to figure out what’s going on. We were lucky all she lost was a child and a husband.”

Stefano simply gave him a hard stare and turned his attention back to the files piled up on his desk. As the old man searched the papers for an answer he wouldn’t find, John closed his eyes and surrendered to the dreams. He’d been wrong about the dreams Hell would have been an improvement.

This was the last place on earth John wanted to be, but two days had passed and they were still no closer to discovering those responsible for the bombing. The only person left to talk to was Marlena if she would even see him.

He walked slowly down the long corridors of the hospital, in no rush to get where he was going. If he was really lucky, this wouldn’t go as badly as the ‘meeting’ with Bo Brady had the day before. He wasn’t feeling lucky.

He’d been cooped up in the study so long it had seemed he couldn’t remember being anywhere else. When he’d reached the point where his agitated pacing and snide comments had become more than Stefano was willing to putup with, he’d been ordered from the room. Not wishing to break the uneasy truce that existed, he had complied.

Bo’s eyes are cold, his face closed off. Excuses aren’t going to change a thing. John watches in silence as the man who was his brother stomps angrily away.

Bo hadn’t wanted to listen to his lame attempts at an explanation and he didn’t know why he thought that Marlena would be any different. He did think she would be different. She had to be different. If only for her own protection, Marlena had to trust him enough to talk to him and this was the only chance he was likely to get. She was to be released from the hospital today. If he was going to talk to her, it had to be now. He couldn’t approach her in her own home. Not again. Not after the last time. Damn she had to trust him. She always trusted him…

The police officer at her door held up a hand, eyeing John suspiciously. He looked almost disappointed to find John’s name on the list of visitors Marlena had permitted, and the nod he gave was grudging. “You’re cleared to enter. Do you have any weapons, Mr. Black?”

Expressionless, John stripped the shoulderholster from beneath his jacket. With a careless toss behind him, he turned the gun over to his own man, standing at his assigned post directly across from Marlena’s door. “Nope. No weapons, officer.”

Brushing past the frowning guard, John cautiously pushed the door open and walked into the room. Not wanting to give her a chance to kick him out, he pulled the door tightly shut before calling her name.





“Marlena?”

She didn’t open her eyes, but he saw the grimace of pain flit across her features. “Are you here to apologize?”

Walking softly forward, he studied her in the dim light. Bruises ringed her eyes, shone darkly from her pale face. Christ, she looked like a child. The surge of fear and anger at what had been done to her made thought difficult.

“Apologize for what?” he rasped, coming to a halt beside her bed.

“For killing my husband. For killing my baby,” she whispered, as she opened her eyes and looked at his face.

The words hurt. Hearing her say them hurt more than he could have imagined. He stood silently, unable to defend himself when he knew the guilt was deserved, if not for this sin then for others.

His failure to respond to her challenge made her temper to flare. Siting up, she glared at him. “Don’t bother telling me you would never do such a thing!! I have seen your files, John. I have seen the bodies!! I know what you are capable of!”

He groaned inwardly at the thought of what she had seen the depth and breadth of the destruction that was his life. His face hardened, revealing nothing. “Then you ought to know I would never be so careless in my work. If I had killed Roman, I would have done it upclose. Personal. With a knife. I would never have put you at risk.”

“Oh, yes. I will have to try that one the next time I am defending you to the ISA. ‘John says he would have used a knife to kill Roman.’,” she mimicked, her voice sarcastic.

“Marlena, why would I kill Roman? I got him away from Dimera so he could be with you. Why would I kill him?”

“I know why you killed him. He told me. Told me how he set you up in Paris. God, John! If you had only waited! He was going to turn the whole ‘Brotherhood’ gang over to the ISA. That very morning, he was going to turn them in. He was going to make it right with you...” She hugged her arms tightly around herself, trying to stop the shaking in her body.

His eyes narrowed, the pieces of the puzzle coming together. “You know about the Brotherhood?”

“He told me everything,” she said more calmly. Looking away from him, she studied the far corner of the room. “You didn’t have to kill him, John. He was coming clean about Brotherhood.”

“What did he have on them? Do you know?” he asked, trying not to break the spell. Praying that she would answer him.

“He had everything, John. I saw it. Enough to break the entire organization.” She turned a sad smile on him, the bitterness still in her eyes. “You would have had your revenge on the men who framed you, and you wouldn’t have had to kill him.”

“Marlena, this is important! Can you identify the members of the Brotherhood. How much do you know about them?”

She gave a hard laugh and shook her head. “I have to admire your focus, John! All you care about is protecting Dimera! Well don’t you worry. I know everything. Roman told me everything. I’m meeting with the ISA to identify the rogue agents. You can set your mind at ease.”





“Marlena dammit! This isn’t about Dimera! You aren’t safe. As long as you have this information, you’re a target. Don’t you get that? The ISA is compromised. You won’t be safe working with them.”

“Oh, and I would be safe with you?! Was this the plan all along? Kill Roman so you can get me to come back to Stefano? Let him ‘protect’ me? I think I’ll take my chances with the ISA,” she said coldly.

“You aren’t thinking...”

“Get out. Just, get out, John. Don’t come back,” she said tonelessly, staring down at the thin sheet.

Tears she had tried to hold back trickled down her cheeks. He reached to brush them away and she jerked back from him as if burnt. Nothing left for him to say, he turned from her and walked away. 

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