NOTE:  This takes place AFTER the Payback thread.  We've been waiting to release this, and the events will not be diminished or plans changed due to JShowell's need to leave TCQ.  

This is a story of duty.

Duty born of blood. Duty born of Fear. And duty born of darkness.

Angelo Christiano DiSantiago is a man who understands the concept of duty more than most. He is the head of one of the most powerful families upon the face of the world, and it is to him that all the rest must answer too. His are the words that bless the marriages. His are the words that sanction the new businesses. It is to him that all must come, should they wish to better an already priviliged station in life into something even larger, to see dreams that would make angels weep and devils smile be given birth. None dare gainsay him, lest he turn his blessings elsewhere and leave them to wither upon a lonely branch of the family tree.

His word, in short, is law.

It is his duty to ensure that the decisions he makes further the interests of the family, which can be a very difficult thing considering the sheer scope and size of all concerned.

And yet...

To everyone, there is a higher authority. Someone to whom even kings must bow, no matter how it burns their souls or clenches their teeth. Even modern day princes and lords amoung men have their own duties to another, more powerful authority. The tides of influence and power, obligation and duty flow back and forth, go in and out, forever re-arranging the shorelines of human history

Angelo DiSantiago is about to discover what true duty means. The tide is coming in. And he is not ready.

***

Katherine DiSantiago moved purposefully through the quiet house, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two long stemmed crystal glasses in another. She was smiling, the expression soothing the more severe lines of a face that was so often a mask. It was just another tool to be used to further her own agendas normally, or the agendas of her husbands family.

Her family.

She had a wonderful smile, paid for with long hours in the dental chair and on the plastic surgeons couch. It was warm, her smile. Warm and genuine, even when it wasn't either of these things. There were women in the city who would kill for Katherine's smile. It was so photographic, so honest, so real in this age of plastic people. That smile could, and had, swayed congressman and mayors, chiefs of police and mob bosses. It had warmed the hearts of countless grandchildren and nieces and nephews, and had even at one time been able to sway her own children, before they'd figured out what it really was. 

Ah well. 

She pushed open the door to Angelo's study, saw him frowning down at one of three laptops on his desk, stubby fingers stabbing swiftly at the keys. "I brought champagne," she said simply as she moved gracefully into the room. She set the glasses down upon his desk and handed him the bottle. 

She showed him the smile. 

"I thought you might like some, given the news." 

His fingers paused in their tapping.  He glanced at her.  Then again for longer, taking in the bottle and glasses.  "The news?"

She paused in the act of sitting in one of the brown over-stuffed leather chairs that held permanent station across from his desk and looked at him wryly, one expensively-styled eyebrow raised. "Yes dear. Don't tell me you haven't heard?" She sat, crossing her legs at the knee, folding her hands in her lap. She smiled. 

Angelo could tell a game when he saw one.  Katherine had that glint in her eye and he was no fool.  For now he would play along.  Slowly he leaned back in his chair and applied a small, sly smile.  "What have you heard... my dear?"

She laughed, her eyes sparkling, the sound of it like songbirds escaping the cage. "Oh no," she said, shaking her head and gesturing towards the unopened bottle with one slim hand, the diamond and emeralds in her wedding ring flashing fire in the rooms dim light. "You'll want to open that first. Like I said, this is a celebration." 

He eyed her skeptically for a brief moment.  Then stood and came around the desk, picking up the bottle as he did so.  He made a show of inspecting it first as he leaned against the desk and began to unwrap the neck.  "You always did have expensive taste," he murmured.  Katherine's shapely legs extended from her dress like the stems of a delicate flower, ending in perfectly fit Prada heels.  These details, like others, were not lost on him despite the distraction. 

Then, more pointedly, he paused and remarked, "You know I can't open this until you tell me the occasion."  Angelo leaned in, a playful smile and greedy eyes.  "And be specific."

"That's fair, I suppose," she said meeting his gaze with one just as challenging as his own. "It's about Ophilia. She's been Chosen." She said it easily, eyes sparkling. "Isn't that wonderful?"

His breath caught in his throat and for a second he was frozen, eyes wide.  Whatever illusion he had that this was some kind of game were shattered.  There was rarely news that he was not the first to know.  This revelation was not one of those exceptions.

He jerked away from the desk, still clutching the unopened champagne bottle in his hands which seemed suddenly heavy.  His free hand went to his forehead, ruffled his hair.  When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper.

"Where did you hear this?"

"From Francisco, of course," she replied brightly. She leaned forward in the chair and lifted a hand, noting his expression. "Are you alright darling?"

Concern. Surprise.

"Do you need to sit down?" 

He ignored her concern, occluded by his own.  "You spoke to him?"

She seemed to consider this question for a moment. "Yes," she said slowly. "In a way, I suppose I did." She regarded him critically. "You really have gone a bit pale, Angelo. Perhaps you should sit down for a moment?" 

He slumped heavily back into his chair behind his desk, seeming not to notice her hesitation.  He wasn't quite sure of the emotion that had overcome him.  Somewhere within was gratitude, a well of relief that his niece had been chosen -- of them, she was most deserving.  But there were other concerns, more turbulent.  More visceral.  Resentment: the position should be his.  Rivalry: this power should have been his.  Frustration: Katherine knew before he did.  Confusion.  Anger.  Defeat.

Angelo rested the bottle on the desk and began to count.  The color of his knuckles turned white, then red, then pink.  He slouched and wiped his free hand over his face, then looked across the desk at his wife.  He studied her for a long time.  Then, simply: "When?"

"When she saved that vigilante's life, I suppose." Katherine replied calmly, pulling her attention back from his hands. "He'd been watching her for some time now, and that was the act that decided him." 

Angelo was confused anew.  This feeling of obscurity, of not understanding, of being on the fringe - it continued to infuriate him.  "What are you talking about?"

She seemed to think about this for a second, registering his confusion and matching it with a look of her own. Then she laughed, one slim hand going to her throat. "Oh! Oh that's right, because of the time shift it never happened." She shook her head. "Oh, I'm a silly old thing from time to time, forgive me Angelo. I'll explain." She gestured at the bottle. "Some champagne though? It's a very good year." 

His first thought was to throw the goddamn bottle through the fucking window.  His second thought was how much it would cost to replace the window.  And it was good champagne.  He was so bothered by her insistence that he almost overlooked the time reference.  Almost.

After a moment of intense consideration, he wrenched the cork free.  It popped loudly but without celebration.  He snatched the two delicate glasses from the table, filled them each half way, and roughly shoved one towards her.  His words were bitten off with voracity.  "Now, if you don't mind?"

"There was an event roughly a month ago. The bachelor auction, do you remember it?" 

Angelo's eyes narrowed impatiently.

"Well, at that event, a gunman showed up to murder one of Ophilia's teammates. The one with the goggles and the stick. Nemesis, I believe is his name." She nodded. "Yes, Nemesis. At any rate, Ophilia, bless her heart, has feelings for the man. We can only guess at why, because he seems more frat boy than knight in shining armor..." she was looking at Angelo intently now. "But the heart doesn't always make the right choices, as we both know, mmm?" She smiled, the smile, and continued. "Instead of letting him die, she put herself in the line of fire. She was killed instantly." 

Angelo winced briefly at the mention of her death.  Something wasn't making sense, and it wasn't simply the fact that this story was more fiction than fact.  None of it happened.  He was there that night.  He would have remembered this.  He stared at her.

"Through a series of events I'm not able to explain," she said, then noting his look, added "...because they haven't really been explained to me, don't give me that look Angelo." She frowned at him, but there was mischief in her eyes. "At any rate, certain members of Ophilia's team were able to go back into time and undo what was done. And before you ask, again, I don't know how it was done. Just that it was." 

Again his eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly this time.  This time the confusion was being calculated through, step by step.  She could almost hear it.  As the story wove forward, the man across from her became more and more unseated.  He became darker.  More dangerous.

"Well, because of that, because even Ophilia had no idea that her sacrifice wasn't going to be a permanent one, and because she's always tried to do the right thing, even though she's not always succeeded, she's tried, well..." Katherine gave another wave of her hand. "Francisco decided that she would be one of her generation to be Chosen." 

Angelo breathed in.  Then smiled a small, thin smile.  Behind it, his teeth were clenched.  "He did, did he?"

"He did," she replied.

Her husband stood and faced the window.  He considered his half-filled glass for the first time in his hands, then drank it completely.  He didn't turn, not right away.  "How did you come by this story, Katherine?" her name was spoken differently, and his tone was drawn tight.

"I was there." A man's voice. Richer, and resonant. Tenor. 

Angelo chuckled lightly, a sound completely devoid of humor.  Even without turning, he knew.  Gone. Katherine was gone.

In her chair, holding the champagne glass she'd held (it still showed a faint trace of her lipstick on the rim) was a small man. Dark, he was. Swarthy of skin, a mass of curly midnight black hair. Eyes of azure blue that regarded Angelo with a lack of human warmth and compassion that measured on the Kelvin scale. A twitch of a smile, there and gone again like lightning.

To look at him, dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt, open at the collar, this little man in the chair Angelo's wife had been in moments ago... to see the frailty of him, the delicate hands, the thinness. To look was to believe that Angelo, who was a large man even by today's standards, well... you'd believe that this little man could be broken like a twig.  

"Took you long enough. You're getting old, boy," the little man said with a smile and another sip of champagne.

Angelo finally, slowly, almost carefully, turned around.  One hand rested heavily on the back of his desk chair.  The smile he wore, much like his laugh, reflected cynicism, not mirth.  A deep hatred burned behind his eyes.

"My wife?" he said at last.  "My home and my wife?  To tell me this tale? For what purpose, demon?  To gloat?  To see my reaction?""

"Your wife," said the man in the chair "is in her room, asleep. She will wake in a few hours, and suspect fatigue. Nothing more." He looked back to the glass, swirling the champagne within it, watching as the bubbles formed and popped within the golden liquid. "As is your daughter." He looked up at Angelo and smiled. "And we wouldn't want to do anything that would change that state of peaceful slumber to something more permanent, now would we boy?" 

Angelo's entire body tensed.  His teeth clenched.  The glass in his hand broke like a dry twig and he discarded it to his feet.  Every muscle in his body was barely restrained against leaping over the desk.

"I notice you have separate bedrooms now." He raised an eyebrow. "Marital troubles?" 

"You fucking swine," spat the older man.  There was violence in his voice.  "What do you want?"

"I want you to sit down, compose yourself, and stop acting like a child," replied the man in his soft, smooth tenor voice. "We both know how a confrontation between us would end, Angelo." He waved a hand at the desk. "Sit. And we'll talk." 

Angelo's face was petulant and bitter.  "I'll stand.  You talk."

The man in the chair set his champagne glass carefully on the floor, near his foot, folded his long fingers together in his lap, and waited. 

Angelo's fists clenched and unclenched.  His right eye twitched as he stared at the man across the desk.  Finally, with an acidic chuckle, he pulled the chair, turned it, and sat.  Smiling bitterly, he gave a dramatic gesture for the intruder to continue.

"Everything I have told you so far is true," the man in the chair said calmly. "Ophilia did die. Her team," and here one eyebrow twitched in amusement, "the DiSantiago team, did go back into time and save her, re-writing the events so that they never occurred." A trace of irritation could be seen upon his face as he continued. "I don't know what they did, or how it all turned out, as I was rather forceably removed from their presence at the beginning. I will have words with the individual responsible, of this I can assure you." The irritation faded from his voice. "Because she has been chosen, her destiny now is her own. This is the gift I and I alone can give to those I deem worthy." 

"For one to be chosen, another must die." he continued. "Vincento will not be making it over for Thanksgiving dinner this year, if you catch my meaning." 

"You are to leave her alone. Neither you nor your agents are to make any trouble for her. She is to have access to the family fortune as it relates to her own affairs, and you will not interfere with her business dealings in any way, unless they threaten overall DiSantiago interests." He smiled. "At that point, I expect you to act accordingly in your capacity as Patriarch." 

"You are to also not interfere with her team mates. She is to be given every chance we are able to give to make her dream a reality, so long as it does not trump DiSantiago long-term goals. I won't have you corrupting or removing her associates on the team in some sort of petty revenge scheme, or out of pique."

"Should Carlotta come asking about her son, tell her the truth. Make sure you are armed at the time of course, as her mind will probably snap like rotten ice. If she touches a hair on Ophilia's head, I'll come after you. And your family. Their deaths, should my will in these things not be obeyed, will be lingering. They will be public. They will be oh so very painful, and will no doubt drive you so far past the madness horizon you'll come out the other side." 

Angelo sat calmly across the desk, watching with keen, almost amused interest.  He let a moment linger on, after which he added expectantly, "Are you quite done?"

"I'm never done, Angelo." he said. The words had the finality of slamming crypt doors. "Ever." 

The larger man leaned forward and spoke in even, controlled tones as if lecturing a child.  "I've had quite enough of your threats, you sanctimonious piece of unholy shit."

Angelo took a breath and smiled thin and tight.  "This is no longer your family - it's my family.  You are not in control.  You do not run things.  You have not built this empire.  You mettle in business that is not your own, empowered by a self-righteous, ill-begotten and unholy legacy - an age old curse.  Well, my old friend, your reign has come to an end.  This time, you've crossed the line.  You are no longer welcome in my house.  Ophilia will live her destiny and we will all enjoy watching it play out.  And Vincent's loss will be mourned.  But this is your final act, for I swear to you this, you leech..."

His eyes narrowed, his teeth barred.  Behind his eyes raged a fire stoked with hatred.  In the dark, Angelo himself had taken on an unholy cast. 

"...I am going to kill you."

The man in the chair sighed heavily, then retrieved his glass from near his foot and placed it on the desk. "Twelve," he said to Angelo. "You'll hear me say that again, one more time. I'll explain its meaning to you then." His gaze took in Angelo's own, noting Angelo's fury. His conviction.  His restraint. "Everything you have, you owe to me Angelo. Everything. It's best you not forget that."

He turned and headed out of the office, his steps graceful and unhurried. "Be seeing you." He opened the walnut paneled door silently, letting one long-fingered hand caress the wood for just an instant. 

"Soon," he added, just before it closed behind him with a gentle click. 

Angelo stared after him for a long time, frozen in his rage that seemed to pulse hot through his veins with every beat of his heart.  He took a deep breath, but it didn't help.  Without taking his eyes from the door, he reached out and keyed his phone.  The response was immediate.  "Sir?"

"Call my brother.  Get him over here now."

"Right away sir."

"And tell him," Angelo added as an afterthought, "Tell him to bring Raphael with him."