Vivian D’pua breezed through the gates of the Alamain Estate, flinging her wrap into the waiting arms of the butler. “Well? His ‘royal highness’ has demanded my presence. Here I am!”

“Um, yes madame,” Ivan said, visibly brightening at the appearance of the petite redhead. “Let me escort you...” Ivan did a doubletake as he saw the train of luggage being manhandled through the front doors. “Umm, you and your luggage to the guest suite and I will inform Master Mikovitch that you are here.”





Vivian scowled at being kept waiting, but allowed Ivan to guide her up the stairs toward the guest wing. She couldn’t very well get mad at the dear boy for following orders.

Her luggage deposited with care inside of the suite of rooms that madeup her quarters, Vivian began unpacking. Grimacing, she pulled her favorite fur from a garment bag, shaking it out until it acquired the proper ‘puff’. All in all, she supposed there were a few places on earth she would dislike visiting even more than she disliked this bloody castle. Siberia, perhaps. A fast food restaurant, probably. Monster truck rallies, most definitely. The fact that there were some places more odious than here was of surprisingly little solace.

Vivian hesitated to imaging what insanity Mikos was up to now. That it somehow involved her was disturbing. At a knock on the door, she called out, “Come in, Ivan. It’s about time, I need help with my dresses and the closets in here will simply not do!”

“Castles do tend to be short on closet space, my dear Vivian.” That voice could still send a shiver down her spine. As smooth as spiders’ silk and just as deadly, the voice well matched the man.

“Mikos! I wasn’t expecting you to greet me in my suite!” Vivian enthused, giving her nephew a careful hug.

“My favorite aunt is making her first visit in three years, I thought that warranted the personal touch. Besides, your suite is very private. There are some issues that might best be discussed away from prying eyes.”

“Oh, now Mikos, you know I have no head for business,” she replied, pasting on her most vacuous smile.

“I know no such thing, Vivian. However, what I wish to discuss with you is ‘family’ business. It seems something has come up… an issue from the past.”

“Mmm,” she prompted noncommittaly.

“Alexander may have been found. I have a picture, I wanted your opinion.”

Oh good lord, he could not be starting with this again. “Mikos, really. I don’t know what help I could be. I haven’t even seen him since he was three years old.”

Ignoring her objections, Mikos dropped a manila file on the dresser in front of her. Bracing his long arms on either side of her, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Just look at the picture. Tell me if you see the same thing I do.”

The smile died on her face and she dutifully opened the file. Oh, this was very bad. The man was the very image of his father, the family resemblance impossible to deny. “Well, there is some slight resemblance, I suppose.”

“He looks just like the pictures of Father,” Mikos replied.

“It’s possible, Mikos. However, you really can’t be sure from this picture...”

“Then perhaps the DNA tests will be more persuasive. They show that he is my brother.”

“Well then, there you have it. It seems you didn’t really need to see me after all.”

“Vivian, you know I never do anything without a reason. I wanted your opinion. About Alexi. About what I should do with him.”

Swallowing hard, Vivian tried to figure out what her nephew most wanted to hear. “Perhaps it would simply be best to leave things as they are, Mikos. It has been a very long time and it might be difficult for him to adapt to the knowledge of his heritage.”

Mikos appeared to consider the idea, though Vivian knew better than to hope her nephew would be reasonable. “Perhaps you’re right, though I think it would be a shame never to know my brother. There are so many things we could share, so many things to talk about.”

“You don’t need to rush to a decision, Mikos. Take your time and consider your options,” she advised.

“We will talk more of this over dinner,” Mikos said, breaking into a sudden smile. “I have a call to make. I will see you downstairs?”

“Of course, dear,” she replied, careful to keep the smile on her lips until the door pulled firmly shut behind Mikos. Oh, how she cursed the day she had talked her sister out of killing her youngest son.

Anna had come to her in tears. Her Mikos, her pride and joy, had pushed his younger bother into the pool. It was as if Mikos had sensed the danger Alexi presented, she had explained to Vivian, in a voice verging on hysteria. Her husband, Illya, must never know. He must never suspect that his first born, his heir, was begot of another man. A man Anna had loved, as she would never love Illya. Illya Mikovitch Alamain, a man she married because her parents had wanted it. A man she married because he offered the power and title of a noble house of Russia. A man whose touch she had detested but endured, all for the sake of her son her son by another man. As long as Alexander lived, he represented a threat to Mikos’ claim on the title.

Anna had wanted to choke off what little life remained in the boy. At only three years old, it would have been easy. Vivian had managed to talk her out of it. Pretend, she had counseled. Pretend he died. He is your son, even if Illya is his father. Let me take him away. Let me send him far away to people who will never know who he is, what he is. Anna, you don’t want to kill your own child.

Ah well, Vivian could not actually bring herself to regret saving the boy. Such a little thing. How could he harm Anna and her plans for her firstborn? Vivian had sent him away. Sent him to the United States. She might never know what happened to the tiny boy, but she would know he was safe. If only she hadn’t told Mikos.

A year after Alexi ‘died’, Illya passed too. Vivian would always wonder if his journey had been hastened by his loving wife. Se did know enough not to ask. When Anna also died young, Vivian had found herself in the unaccustomed role of guardian. Though Mikos was 19, and above the age mandated for taking control of the family, he still looked to his aunt for guidance. And one day, when the load had seemed too much for him to bear, she had made the mistake of suggesting he find his brother.

As the words left her mouth, she had recognized her error. She had seen it in his eyes. Mikos knew. He knew what his brother represented. Anna had told him. Had wanted him to know. He was not the son of Illya. Not the legitimate heir. He was the son of a soldier. A common soldier who had died on a common mission. She had seen the panic in his eyes and had known what it represented.

Whereas Anna, as crazy as she was, had celebrated in the forgery she had managed to pass off, Mikos was frantic to conceal it. While no direct descendent of Illya existed to contest his illegitimate claim, he had reigned in his paranoia. But with a wellintentioned slip of the lip, Vivian had endangered his hold on an empire. Wisely, Vivian had never let on that she knew the truth of Mikos’ parentage. She enjoyed her life far too much to take such a foolish risk.

Looking around at the cold stone walls of the bedchamber, Vivian brought herself back to the present. It was hard to predict what Mikos would do, though she found it impossible to believe Alexi would be left to himself. No, Mikos would not let this go so easily. He would see the threat to his empire ended, one way or another. She could only hope that Alexander was prepared for the coming storm.

John settled back on the barstool, sipping a beer and scanning the crowded Paris nightclub. The thud of the bass reverberated in his skull, strobe lights painting fractured pictures of a lost generation at play. Screaming women, sweating men. He’d seen orgies that lacked this level of sexual intensity. He killed the beer, doing nothing to erase the dryness in his mouth. The girl was tugging at his arm again, trying to drag him out onto the floor. A little ‘gift’ from Dimera, she was cute enough. Straight black hair, hanging down to the center of her back, slim hips, breasts that couldn’t possibly have been homegrown. Ripe. She was most definitely ripe. What the hell, jacking off in the shower had done nothing to ease the ache in his gut. Maybe a willing partner could fill the void.

The dancefloor was packed, the darkhaired girl pressed tight against his body. Marilyn Manson screeched through overloaded amps, stoking the fire that burned inside his head:

[center]


Use me, when you wanna cum


I beg, just to have a touch


When I’m in you I wanna to die

I’m not in love, but I’m gonna fuck you


Till somebody better


comes along [/center]

Christ, the kid in his arms could barely be out of her teens. She could be a classmate of Carrie’s. Carrie…

The girl ground against him, he tried to remember her name. Better that he didn’t. Much better. He pulled her closer, his fingers running across the bare skin of her back. So soft and so young. He could do anything to her. Anything at all. Pale green eyes looked up at him, a selfsatisfied smile baring even white teeth. He punished her with a bruising kiss, hating her for being the wrong woman. His disappointment was complete when she kissed him back.

Locked in an embrace in the center of the crowded room, the couple was all alone. The darkly dressed man reeked of danger. Wearing black jeans and boots, a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck and plastered to his strong frame in the steamy club, he sent off warning vibes even to the carefree clubbers who surged around him. A wolf among sheep, or more aptly in this crowd, a lion among wolves. Still, testosterone and alcohol have a way of dulling even the strongest of selfpreservation skills. There was a certain inevitability in the sharp elbow that dug into John’s broad back as he stood bent over the girl.





“Watch what you’re do...” a belligerent voice started to snarl over the music. The voice was cut short, John’s first blow knocking the young man’s head back, his second blow putting him on the floor. Still holding tightly to the girl, he snarled an ugly grin. The anger burned clean and pure, he drew back a booted foot back and slammed it into the kid’s chest. Christ, this felt way better than kissing some little girl masquerading as a woman. Drawing back for another kick, he found the girl tugging on his arm, trying to pull him off of the dance floor before security showed up. Reluctantly, he allowed her to lead him to a dark corner. The adrenalin still crackled, the rage still burned.

“Come on, baby. You don’t need to get into trouble your first night in town, do you?” Opening the small purse hung over her shoulder, she pulled out a vial and cut a line on the table. “Here, mellow out. We have better things to do tonight than brawl.”

He blinked, hardly believing that this was his life. He blinked again and realized he was home.

The girl looked up at him, eyes bright. “How about it?” she asked, offering him a tightly rolled bill.

What the fuck. Dimera was the only one who cared what he did and Dimera wasn’t here. He bent over the table and inhaled sharply.

And they say you can never go home again…

God, he loved the feel of her silky hair against his bare skin. Dimly, he was aware of the sheet sliding down his body, her hair trailing down his chest and abs. The need for her burned through the fog of sleep as soft lips nipped at his naked flesh.

“Doc, don’t stop,” John groaned, stretching out his long frame. As his eyes slit open, he saw a stranger’s dark mane cascading over his hips, green eyes glinting brightly up at him. Jerking away, he slapped the girl hard, the blow knocking her halfway across the room. In the same motion, he slid from the bed and grabbed his automatic from the nightstand. The girl landed with a thud and looked up at him, stunned to see the black hole of the pistol gaping down at her.

Memory returned and John shook his head, slowly lowering the weapon to his side. “Sorry Elena, was it? I’m just not used to waking up with somebody in my bed,” he half apologized. “Are you okay?”

Fear showing clearly in her eyes, she backed away, her hands automatically rising to cover her bare flesh. For an instant, she knew what it was to be prey. Standing easily, naked but for the gun still gripped in his right hand, John looked like a hungry carnivore debating the effort it would take to kill.

The girl was too scared to speak, crouching in the corner like a frightened little mouse. Great. He’d been in town for less than 24 hours, snorted up, been in a brawl, screwed somebody young enough to be his daughter, and topped off the evening by slapping the kid around. He’d become the scum he used to hunt.

Catching a glimpse of the time out of the corner of his eye, he realized it was already noon. Not only was he was scum, he was late. Dimera would definitely not be happy if he missed his meet with the ‘jewelers’. Not wanting to take the time to shower, he grabbed his jeans off of the back of a nearbye chair. The girl flinched at the sudden movement and scuttled further back in her corner. Sighing, he pulled his billfold out of his jeans and plucked out a couple of hundreds.

“Look, kid. I appreciate the good time and I’m sorry if I scared you. I would take you to lunch, but I’ve business to attend to. Here, take this and treat yourself to something nice. Okay?”

She hesitantly stepped over to take the cash and he dismissed her from his thoughts. Pulling on a clean shirt, he hurried out the door.

John pulled the rental car into the warehouse parking lot, rubbing at his face and wishing he’d had time for a shave. Right now he smelled like cigarettes and sex and it was doing nothing to improve his mood. To further irritate, he’d fallen into his usual habit of forgetting to eat when not actually ordered to by someone else. However, his stomach was still accustomed to the three square meals of the training compound and it was protesting almost 24 hours with no solid food. Grumbling under his breath, he slammed the door to the BMW and strode toward the warehouse. He was greeted at the door by a hulking middleaged man too stupid looking to be anything other than muscle.

“Where’s Mr. Smith?” John asked curtly. “Tell him Mr. Black is here for the meeting with the prospective buyer.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Black. They are waiting for you in the office. Just follow me.”

John was seething, but had managed to hide it. He hadn’t believed his eyes when he’d walked into the office and been introduced to the prospective purchaser of smuggled gems. His training had shown when there was no flash of recognition on being introduced to ‘Mr. James’ a.k.a. Roman Brady. As the meeting had concluded, he had casually suggested ‘Mr. James’ accompany him to the door, as he had other merchandise the man might be interested in. The facade of calm evaporated as soon as they walked out the warehouse.

“Roman, what the hell are you doing here?” hissed John, shoving the man up against the wall.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m out to stop Stefano and if that means I have to go through you, I will!” Roman snarled back, his hatred shining in his eyes.

His gun was in his hand, the urge to use it sang through his synapsis. Roman would throw away what he most coveted. Such a man did not deserve to live. “Why did you leave Marlena? Dimera’s still out there! You think he doesn’t care about her anymore? Do you think I don’t care?!”

“I know you care, you son of a bitch. Why do you think I’m here? The only way she’ll be safe is if both you and Dimera are gone. I’m going to make that happen. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make that happen.”

Roman slapped at John’s constraining hands and John grudgingly let him go. “You were never very bright,” he replied, shaking his head in disgust. “In the first place, Stefano is way too smart to get this close to an illegal operation. In the second place, your responsibility is to look after Marlena. I can handle Stefano from the inside. He won’t go against Marlena while he knows I’ll interfere. But that means you have to be there for her. I can’t believe you’d go running off under cover! You are a selfish bastard Roman and you’re putting your anger ahead of her needs. I’m not going to let you do it! Now, I’m not going to narc you out to my friends, because they would undoubtably put a bullet in your sorry hide. Marlena needs you. She needs you with her and the kids. For her sake, I’m giving you until tonight to get the hell out of Paris. If you’re still here tomorrow, I doubt I’ll be so forgiving.”

Roman watched silently as John stalked to his car. Bastard. He was a criminal, he was a liar and he deserved to rot in jail. Already he was running around doing Dimera’s dirty work and he had the balls to give lectures on the importance of family! Infuriated, Roman walked back into the warehouse. He’d show John how he’d protect the family. He’d make the point painfully clear.

It was after one a.m. when the phone rang. He took another swig from the bottle and debated answering it. What the hell, maybe it was a mission. He needed a mission. A real mission. Something wet. “Black here, what is it?”

“Mr. Black? This is Mr. Smith, your jeweler. We just found out that the prospective buyer appears to have been misrepresenting himself. He’s right here and we thought you might like to come down and join our little discussion.”

That idiot Roman. He must have gone back to finish the deal and they had gotten suspicious. “Okay, just hold tight. Don’t do anything, you understand me. Wait for me to get there.” Tugging on his shirt, he stumbled out the door.

Reaching the warehouse district, he pulled in beside dealer’s Bentley. The parking lot was otherwise deserted and a single light flickered from an upstairs window. It was a set up. He could feel it, even through the haze of the liquor. He should be careful, he should be cautious. At the very least, he should use the backdoor. Instead, he drew his pistol and strolled up to the main entrance. The metal doors clanged loudly as he thrust them open, the sound echoing back at him from the dark recesses of the warehouse. Something was waiting for him in the darkness. He could hear the shallow pants of fearful men, the muffled scrape of a boot against the concrete floor. The trap was about to close. He walked through the doors, figuring this was as good a way to die as any.

The click of metal on stone, and he opened fire. Darkclad bodies, illuminated by the muzzle flash. They didn’t fire back and it pissed him off. The grunt of pain as bullet met flesh improved his mood only marginally. He walked further into the gloom, screamed a challenge. End this now. End this tonight.

His head jerked up, the hiss of displaced air his only warning. He ducked for the ground but not quick enough. Heavy webbing struck his shoulder, the weight of a cargo net forcing him to his knees. Struggling to get to his feet, he fired wildly, knew he hit something, knew it wasn’t going to be enough to save him. Arms wrapped around his legs, clawed at the gun in his grip. The webbing tangled around him, slowing his movements as he lashed out with the barrel of his gun. Impact, metal slamming into more metal where a man’s face should have been. His opponents were using night vision goggles and there were too damn many of them for him to overcome. He wondered why he was still alive as the bodies piled on top of him. The familiar prick of a needle in his shoulder and he slowly faded away. Christ, he couldn’t do anything right. 

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