Chapter 2 Dead

Drugs. Really good drugs were his salvation. Drugs and sleep. They wouldn't give him whatever it was that had knocked him out before, but whatever he was getting, was still pretty good. He slept, waking only when nurses forced him into consciousness with their nagging, cheerful banter. Someone was always taking his vitals, or making him sit up to eat or worse, giving him a sponge bath. He kept his peace as multiple doctors stopped in to poke this, or probe that and ask him questions that he might or might not know the answers too. He was cautious with what he said and offered no resistance when they forced him into a wheelchair for daily tours up and down the hall.

But mostly, he slept, surrendering to the relief the drugs offered, knowing that it was only a matter of time before this quiet reprieve he was experiencing would come to an end.

Waking up after being in a coma only to be told that you were dead was a bit disconcerting. But he hadn't been surprised. Not really. After all, it had been family that had put him in the coma in the first place. He was just lucky he had woken up at all. The attorney that strolled in one morning about a week after he fully gained consciousness was his first and only visitor and laid out it clearly.

They had had a funeral. It had been open casket, with his body actually laying in state. There were lots of pictures. A cold, paralyzing chill crept over him as he looked at himself laying in a silver satin-lined casket wearing a black suit, his face oddly swollen and bruised twinged under pale pasty makeup.

He didn't really hear anything that was said after a picture of his mother turned up. She was leaning over his casket, grasping its edge, creasing the silver satin lining with the effort to hold herself up as she wept. He reached out to brush over her image, trying to touch her, to offer comfort. It was this image that twisted something deep inside him and that made him truly understand. He, Dominick DiNapoli, youngest son of Vincent DiNapoli, the secret head of the Genovese crime family, was dead.

He wasn't sure how long the attorney sat there with him that day, patiently waiting for him to come out of whatever fugue he had fallen into. He was vaguely aware of nurses coming and going, doing whatever it was they needed to do. Gradually, his mind cleared and random thoughts filtered through. How had they done it? And why? He had no illusions. His father was more than capable of having him killed. Why not just kill him and be done with it? He knew his brothers would have handled the details, followed orders and kept yet another secret within the family. If they wanted him dead, why bother to fake it? Why keep him alive? Who would benefit?

Finally, at some point during the last day and first day of his life he asked, "What happens now?"

The attorney nodded solemnly and handed him a vanilla folder, saying, "Meet Blaine Anderson."

He hadn't had a choice as to his new name and he knew enough not to ask. He quietly signed a few papers the man handed him and nodded at the right places as his future was laid out. Blaine was to remain in the hospital until he was ready to be moved to a private rehabilitation center where his expected stay was to last many months considering the severity of his injuries. When Blaine left the rehabilitation center he would be repeating his freshman year at a boys preparatory school that had yet to be chosen. Since it was likely that his rehabilitation would be completed during the coming summer, he was told to be prepared to attend some summer camps until classes started at his new school.

The attorney had spoken to Blaine in a careful, neutral manner and then sat quietly, clearly expecting some sort of reaction. Eventually, when none came he rose and perched himself on Blaine's bed, shaking the boy out of his thoughts with the surprise of having someone sitting so close.

"Blaine," he said emphasizing the name, "I need you to understand that I'm your attorney."

"I'm your lawyer. No matter who pays me, I represent you and your best interests. Whatever you say to me stays with me. It's called attorney-client privilege. You are my client," the man enunciated each word forcefully, seeming to will Blaine to respond and understand.

"You're my lawyer?" Blaine huffed out with a bit of wonder and sarcasm, obviously questioning why he would need one.

"Yes. I am," he confirmed. Adding a bit hesitantly, "I know there is nothing I can say that can make any of this... ok."

Blaine snorted softly, surprised that the unexpected acknowledgment of how fucked up his life was, was causing tears to seep into his eyes.

"I think you and I both know given the circumstances of how you were injured, it's a miracle that you're even alive. And, given the parties and societal expectations involved and the options available to them, I can't help but believe that this is the best solution for you," the attorney continued.

Blaine gasped out a laugh, before he was trying to breath through the pain it had caused him. "Societal expectations?! Ah, yeah. A DiNapoli can't be queer, it would destroy the family!" his voice pitching a bit hysterically at the end of his outburst.

The lawyer acquiesced with a slight nod, watching for any other reaction before offering, "If you want to ask some questions, I'll tell you what I can."

Blaine sat there silently looking down at the casts on his hands, at the white hospital blanket that was pulled up to his chest, that covered so many scars. His pain medication had been wearing off so he was starting to feel the deep ache within and across his body; but he was glad because while his head throbbed at least he was thinking clearly. He had been tilted upward so when he finally raised his eyes to fully look at the man that had been sitting with him for the better part of the day, he was startled by how close he was.

His attorney was clad in an expensive wool suit. He was a few years younger than his father; in his forties maybe, but where his father was dark and commanding, the man before him was rather beige and subdued. Nothing remarkable stood out about him from his thinning gray-brown hair to his carefully held neutral expression.

His soberness was expected, but the compassion and concern emanating from him took Blaine by surprise. They pierced through the swirl of confusion he had been trapped in since he had awoken. For just a moment everything stilled and he felt like he could finally breath. It gave him the courage to ask the questions that were pressing in on him, trusting he'd finally get some honest answers.

"Is my mother-? Does she - ?" Blaine croaked out a whisper.

"She's fine," the attorney answered quickly. "She believes you are dead. That you were killed trying to stop a gay bashing of two other boys." He added with a shade of admiration in his voice, "She's instigated quite a campaign - demanding public justice, instead of keeping it within the family. She's been very vocal publicly about tolerance and anti-bullying."

Shocked, Blaine eyes flew back up at the man in front of him, clearly not sure what to ask but wanting to know more about what he had just said.

"Your father has allowed it," the lawyer said, a trace of amusement slipping through his careful mask. "When asked, he's emphasized that you were defending others. Your cousins were arrested and brought up on charges for your death and the beating of the other two. They also face hate crime charges, due to the nature of the attack, but whether those charges will stick, I don't know."

"He emphasizes I was defending others?" the boy quietly repeated with sarcasm. "He just wanted to make sure that it was clear to everyone not in the know that the DiNapoli involved wasn't gay! Bet that's playing out great in the news! Mom's out campaigning against bullying and the family is now tolerant of alternative lifestyles?"

Blaine gasped with an aborted laugh, tears once again threatening to fall. He shook with silent laughter, his breath coming in short painful pants as his emotions overwhelmed him. The mixature of typical family hypocrispy, pride in his mother and amusement over how uncomfortable his father had to be with how things had to be playing in the media simply left him feeling overwrought.

The attorney didn't respond to his outburst, not that Blaine expected him to. They both knew there was nothing either of them could do. Instead, the man poured him a glass of water and calmly waited for Blaine to compose himself.

Finally, the young man gasped out with a broken whisper, "Why? Why would he -"

His lawyer took his time answering, finally offering, "If I were to guess, I would say that he loves you and your mother very much."

Blaine's eyes flashed up in surprise to meet the man's sincere gaze, a few tears finally escaping down the side of his face as he looked at the man that was destroying and rebuilding his world with his every word.

"Maybe he understood that this was an opportunity," the attorney proposed.

"This was a way to get you out. And, to protect your mother," he continued thoughtfully.

"She will never know - never have to witness what would have happened when you got older. In it's way it was a discrete way to handle a delicate situation that could have destroyed both of his families."

Blaine pushed out a breathy laugh, followed by a wince, "Yeah. He got rid of me before the family forced him to or they took matters into their own hands, which uh...they kind of did."

With nothing to add, the attorney got up and sat in the chair he had occupied most of the day. "I'm sure you know it would be in your best interests to never contact anyone from your past, or to say anything, to anyone about any of this - ever."

"The fewer people that know that you're still alive increases the chance that you will continue to stay alive. There are many within the family and without that could use proof of your continued existence, as well as your death, in their favor."

"Right now, your father is comfortable with the number of people who know you are alive. Lets keep it that way," the attorney emphasizing his words, waiting for Blaine to acknowledge the seriousness of his statement.

The attorney paused, collecting a few items from his briefcase before adding, "I have to say I was relieved to learn that you were discrete enough not to ask any unfortunate questions when you woke earlier this week."

"Yeah, Well," Blaine huffed in annoyance, "unfortunate questions had gotten me drugged out of my skull the last few times I came round. This time I wasn't as confused, so I kept my mouth shut."

Blaine leveled a dark look at his attorney, asking, "Do you know how fucked up it is to have everyone around you calling you by a name that isn't yours and not being able to tell them because your mouth is wired shut?"

When the attorney didn't respond, he offered in a more accepting tone, "I...get it now," as he looked down at his hands, absently playing with the edge of a sheet. "It's just...no one was here and I was so out of it."

There was little that could be said so the attorney said nothing, waiting the boy out as he had the entire day. Once Blaine glanced over at him and began to fidget just a bit in his bed the man knew the boy was ready to move on. Sitting forward he held up a folder, "For now - when asked about your family you are to say your parents have passed and that a distant uncle is your guardian. That should keep most questions at bay.

"Your story has been back filled sufficiently that I don't think even the IRS could find out who you really are, unless you tell someone. In essence, Dominick DiNapoli is dead," the attorney summed up, making eye contact with Blaine at the end, to be sure he understood.

He began to place the files and pictures he had used during his visit, into his briefcase, readying himself to leave. He moved forward, handing Blaine a new wallet, saying, "Social Security card, credit card, my card and everything else you'll need is in there. Don't loose it. Read the news clippings about your parents deaths, get to know your school history."

Placing his briefcase at the foot of the bed the attorney turned to Blaine smiling slightly and added, "Don't go nuts spending money, or I'll have to put you on an allowance. But go ahead and get yourself what you need. Clothes, computer, video games - whatever it is a kid your age needs. Ok?"

"I'll check in with you now and then to see how you're doing. If you need anything text or call me and I'll see what I can do."

Blaine looked at the man who had essentially killed him, but also brought him back to life within the span of a day.

Not knowing what to say, Blaine numbly nodded.

"Take care of yourself, Blaine," the man said, as he stepped closer to gently squeeze Blaine's forearm reassuringly. He offered one last semi-forced smile in acknowledgment and walked out of Blaine's hospital room.

With the dull thump of the door closing Blaine blinked a few times, shook his head and looked around. It had gotten dark outside during his attorney's visit and he had to wonder just how long the man had been there. His dinner tray was sitting off to the side, clearly cold and long forgotten but he didn't really care. For the first time in over a year Blaine didn't feel on jagged edge, cut off from everything and everyone. Nothing was anywhere near to OK. And, it probably wouldn't be for a long time. But there was the potential that it would be.