She'd taken to wandering around his brothers room, now that he was gone.

Renaldo could find her there at least once a day, either sitting at his brothers desk flipping through one of his books, or staring blankly at his monitor, her once-tanned face now pale and drawn. Sometimes she would flip through the books and journals, her movements careful and slow. The movements of the elderly, or the addict. Her eyes were more often than not heavy-lidded from the medications she insisted on taking "For the pain, dear. For the pain" she would say to him, cupping his cheek in her palm before descending the stairs, her fingers cool upon his face.

He remembered when things had been different. When they'd been a real family, and had spent weekends at the beach on the Jersey shore, her limbs as golden as the sand and her laughter carefree and ever present. When they were younger... he sighed as he drained his scotch, the ice in the tumbler clinking gently when he set the glass down on the counter. The liquor was warm in his belly. Nearly as warm as the bar of afternoon sunlight that fell from the kitchen window atop the back of his hand. He was leaning against the counter arms behind him, feet crossed. The half-empty scotch bottle stood next to the glass, a mute testament to just how bad his day had been.

He closed his eyes and sighed, images of what had once been danced there on the inside of his eyelids when he did so, and so he opened them again quickly. "I'm going out, mother," he called loud enough to be heard through the open door to the basement. "Do you need anything?"

No reply. He knew there wouldn't be one, but hope sprang eternal, right? Hope that she wasn't lying there on his bed, or simply standing in the middle of the room, pale arms wrapped tightly around herself as she crooned into the emptiness. She'd had such a wonderful voice once. Had been such a beauty.

The folder lay next to his right hand, the keys to the Camry lying on top of it. The kitchen clock said he had an hour to get across town to Angelo's home. Plenty of time, even with some snow on the ground. Plenty of time. There was always plenty of time. He pushed away from the counter, scooped up the folder and the keys, shrugged into his coat and locked up behind him. "Good afternoon, Father!" their neighbor, Mrs Toddmaine called, poking up from her gardening like a dickey-bird, eyes bright and inquisitive. She was wearing her great floppy sunhat, and this made her look like a garden gnome. He waved at the old busy-body politely, then replied "Why, hello there Gladys! And how are you today?" He skipped down the steps and onto the path to the sidewalk, cheeks reddening in the cold air. 

"Fine, fine. Doing a bit of gardening," she replied, waving an earth-covered glove up as evidence. That there was three inches of snow on the ground didn't seem to perturb her one bit. The woman was a maniac, but you had to give her points for style if nothing else.

"Lot's of lime in the soil, that's what my dad used to say," Renaldo replied as he let himself out of the gate, moving carefully to keep from slipping on the icy stone. "Make sure you've got lots of lime in the soil, Mrs. Toddmaine." She laughed and nodded, her eyes never leaving him as he climbed into the car. She gave a final wave then disappeared once more beneath her rhoddedendrums. "Lime has so many uses," he said, turning the key with a grin and firing up the defroster. The folder was now on the passengers seat, and he could almost hear its contents ticking gently. While the car warmed up, he thought long and hard about what he was planning, looking at it from every conceivable angle, trying to find the flaws. Angelo would do this thing - of that there was no doubt. The old man would want to know why, of course, and this was his right as head of the family. A pity Renaldo wasn't going to tell him. Rather, he thought as he pulled out into traffic, that he wouldn't be told the truth.

Renaldo wondered what it would end up costing him when it was all said and done. Then he laughed, and flicked on the radio, fingers tapping on the steering wheel along with the pop music that poured out of the cheap speakers. Whatever the cost, it would be worth it.
 

* * * * *

Spanish leather, crafted and stitched by hand to custom design, the chair cost more than a luxury sedan.  Angelo's broad frame fit perfectly into it.  It was his favorite chair.  While sometimes he wished for it in his downtown office, other times he was grateful to have it at the house, the centerpiece of his study, behind a massive desk of pristine mahogany.  Right now it was turned about, facing the bay windows and overlooking the grounds.  His hands were steepled together, index fingers resting at his lips. 

The afternoon pushed on around him: Katherine in the kitchen on one side of the house, Jennifer preening in her room on the other, the help bustling in between.  Like everything else in his life, it was a mechanism.  It had pieces and parts.  It served a fine purpose.  It functioned under his careful tuning.  Much like this Team, except perhaps for the last.  This he found troubling.  This afternoon, it had caused his fine leather chair to point South and the lights in his study to dim.  He sat in the dark, brooding as the hours passed.  That was until the interruption.

There were scant few things on the desk.  One of them chirped into the silence, simultaneously illuminating a small red light.  "Sir, you have a guest at the front gate," it said.

The patriarch sighed heavily and turned away from the window where he had watched the car pull up.  "Renaldo," he answered.

"Yes, sir."

"Send him in."

* * * * *

Renaldo handed his keys to the man who'd been waiting for him at the top of the drive. "Father," the man had said politely, by way of greeting. "Now I don't want to hear that you've been out sliding in this beast," Renaldo replied, patting the hood of the battered Camry fondly as he headed up towards the door. The only reply had been a snort of disbelief as the man had gotten in and driven off to park the car in one of Angelo's garages.

There were three.

Renaldo paused a moment before going in, turning to take in the splendid forested view that his family enjoyed here at the Patriarch's estate. An ornamental fountain of metal bars and angles sat before the house in the center of a large circular drive. As far as the eye could see there was unspoiled forest, the trees beautiful with their frosting of snow from last nights storm. His aunt's flowerbeds, massive things, one on each side of the wide stone steps that led up to the house, were full of clematis, heather, winter jasmine and snowberries. The plants set off the dark wood of the homes exterior nicely, the smell of the jasmine pleasant in the crisp cold air.

He shivered, then hustled up the clean stone steps. Another of the house servants was already opening one of the ornate double-doors, all polished oak and leaded glass. "Good afternoon sir," the young man said as Renaldo hurried inside. "May I take your coat?"

"Please," Renaldo replied, quickly unwrapping his scarf and then unbuttoning his coat. He handed to the smiling servant, (Murry, was it?), then blew into his cupped hands, letting the warmth of the hall seep into them. "Angelo will see you in his study. Right this way, please?" Murry moved quickly down the hall and Renaldo followed, past portraits of family members present and past, photographs of Angelo and his immediate family, and oil paintings of nature scenes. They went left at the end of the hall and down a short flight of six steps and into another hallway. From somewhere deep in the massive house came the sounds of a cello or violin, the notes low and lovely. Another right turn and Murry was opening the study to Angelo's office.

"Renaldo for you sir," he said, stepping aside to let the priest pass. "Thank you," Renaldo murmured as he moved past the man and into the dragon's lair. "Uncle!" he said brightly, striding forward and extending a hand. His folder was tucked snugly under the other arm, and upon his face a warm and welcoming smile.

Angelo pushed himself to his feet (taking a little more effort these days to do so, Renaldo noticed) and clasped hands.  His smile was not as warm.  "Renaldo, it has been too long.  How is your mother?"

Ass

"Much the same Uncle, thank you for asking," Renaldo replied, releasing the old man's hand and taking a seat, tucking the manilla folder in between the arm of the chair and his leg. "And your own family? I try to keep up with things as much as I'm able, but the work keeps me so busy."

Angelo grunted with irony at the last part.  "It does, it does."  He went to the bar at the west end of the room and returned with two half-full glasses.  He offered one to his guest.  "Scotch?"

"Thank you," Renaldo said, standing, taking the glass and raising it. "To your continued good health," he said warmly, then knocked back the drink. "Good stuff. You always have the best scotch, Uncle." Renaldo placed the empty glass on the edge of the massive desk, scooped the manilla folder up from the chair and took his seat once more, watching his uncle move slowly back around to his own chair. 

The older man considered his own glass briefly before downing it.  "What brings you to see me today, Renaldo?" he asked finally, his tone level and expectant.

"Family," Renaldo replied, sliding the folder across the desktop towards his uncle. "I've been reading in the papers about DP's latest undertaking, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help."

Angelo gave him a creased look that read plainly: I don't need your help.  But after a sigh, he leaned over the desk and collected the folder in one large hand.  "You know," he said, after having leaned back to inspect the contents, "This is Ophilia's project, not mine..."

"Anything with the DP brand is ultimately yours, uncle." Renaldo replied with a shrug. "I suspect you have more than a passing interest." He smiled and folded his hands in his lap, waiting for his uncle to peruse the folders contents. 

It was a dossier of sorts.  A kid.  A great nephew, or something.  Some metahuman manifestations, mild shapeshifting, remarkable healing characteristics.  The rest of the folder contained known associates, brief professional background, interests, et cetera.  Angelo grunted as he flipped from page to page.

Finally he folded the contents back together and tossed it back on the desk with a heavy sigh.  He sat back and leveled Renaldo with an appraising look, one hand strumming the desk with large, manicured fingertips.  Then he squinted in thought, and asked, "Do you smoke?"

"Not in plain sight of widows or children" the priest replied. "What'cha got?"

"Cigars."  Angelo produced a finely crafted humidor, raised the lid, and offered the contents to his guest.

"Nice. Thank you," Renaldo said, helping himself. He borrowed a pair of clippers, snipped the end, then lit up, taking a long pull on the fine leaf. "Very nice," he said after a moment, blowing smoke and squinting at the cigar as he held it before him. 

Angelo stood as he did the same.  The cigar delicately between his teeth, he inspected instead the clippers, still comfortable in his fingers.  He snipped the air once and it made a satisfying slice.  He asked finally without looking up, "Why do you ask me for this favor?"

Renaldo studied his uncle through a haze of fine blue smoke. Getting fat, old man. Getting comfortable. But the mind is still sharp, isn't it? Sharper, maybe... "Well, I would think that obvious. I'm a DiSantiago - this is a DiSantiago undertaking that poses considerable risk, and I don't want anyone being called home to the arms of our Heavenly Father any earlier than neccessary  - especially under the watchful eyes of the media. This boy could help keep that from happening." He settled more comfortably back into the chair, legs crossed at the ankles. "This isn't about me, uncle. It's about the family." 

Angelo chuckled at that last addition and shot Renaldo an amused look.  "Is it?" he said simply, rhetorically.  With a breath of cigar, the older man puffed out three perfect rings as he considered.

"He's just a kid," he continued as if that was answer enough.  "He has no real experience with this kind of thing.  Who is to say he will not be more of a liability than an asset?"

Renaldo shrugged. "No one. But half of that team has no experience with this kind of thing. That's why my darling cousin hired a team trainer, no?" He watched the smoke rings his uncle had created drift lazily across the study, diffusing as they expanded. "And I don't like the look of that JACE character," he added. "I've no doubt he's got the ability to be effective as a medico, but..." he waved his lit cigar in the air lazily. "I'd rather there be more DiSantiago's in a DiSantiago endeavor as big as this." He cocked his head as though considering something. "Even though his last name isn't DiSantiago." he finally added around a self-mocking grimace. 

Angelo smiled.  Then chuckled.  This time, the sound wasn't as dark or ominous.  It was genuine.  He regarded his cigar and shook his head, still chuckling softly to himself.  "Okay, Renaldo, you've got a point... more than one, actually.  I'll get the kid an interview, but that's all I can promise.  It'll be up to him beyond that."

His humor faded and the smile he wore no longer held any warmth.  "This kid, he is important to you?"

The priest smiled. "Of course. Aren't all of my children" he asked, tapping the white collar at his throat.

"Good," he said and grinned wide, toothy and wolfish.  "Then we have a deal."  He collected the empty glasses and moved across the room to fill them once more.

The priest's smile curled at the edges in a decidedly un-priestly manner. There were angels in that smile, but they were of the fallen sort, dark and leather-winged. Oh yes, Uncle. A deal. I do so love my deals. His eyes glittered in triumph. Still, by the time Angelo turned back, the younger man was once more the picture of innocence and familial concern. "Agreed." he said, raising his glass to his uncle. "I felt like I owed you one after..." he let the smile fall a bit. "Well, after the thing with my brother didn't go so well." He sighed heavily, regarded his now-empty glass briefly, then placed it on the desk before him and stood. "I'll give the boy a call if you like and get you an interview with him, yes?"

Angelo was still smiling faintly as he showed his guest to the door where Murray was quietly waiting - already there in anticipation of the meeting's close.  "Have him call Ophilia, I'm sure she would prefer to conduct the interview personally.  I'll let her know she will be hearing from him.  As you will be hearing again from me, Renaldo, when the time is right."

The priest took his coat and gloves from the manservant and shrugged into them. "Uncle, you know I love hearing from the family. I look forward to it!" He shook his uncles hand once more, winked slyly at Murray, then headed out into the cold, clear afternoon. He took the steps quickly, and as the door closed behind him Murray heard the whistled notes of a song he couldn't quite place. Whatever it was, it was cheerful.