FanStory.com - Miracles - Chap 30by Begin Again

Eleanor tapped on the massive wooden door to Frank DiVito's office. Before the second tap, Sammy swung it open and invited her inside.

"Come in, Eleanor. Have you recovered from all the excitement? And how's our little girl and her Mommy doing?"

"Very well, because of your efficient team of doctors. We can't thank you enough." She glanced around the room. "I was hoping Frankie was here."

"He's on his way. I saw you on the camera, and I notified him."

Eleanor laughed. "I'll have to remember sneak attacks require me to be invisible." Her body shimmered, faded, and materialized again, startling Sammy, who had never seen her figure as a ghost.

He took it in stride, though. "Wow! That could come in handy."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "I suggest you wait until you are no longer of this world."

Chuckling, Sammy commented, "Yeah, the boss might not take to me popping in and out like that."

Frankie entered the office through a side door, smiling. "Eleanor, how wonderful to see you. I hope this is a social call and not something gone wrong."

Sammy handed his boss a brandy snifter. "Eleanor, can I offer you something?"

"Not tonight, Sammy. I'm on a mission and need all my wits about me."

Frankie raised an eyebrow. "A mission? You haven't discovered another crime, have you? I think Garth and Donatelli need a rest."

Eleanor smiled and shook her head. "This mission involves me and something called payback."

"I'm intrigued. Tell me more." Frank gestured toward the plush chair by the window. "Please, have a seat." After she was comfortable, he chose the chair next to her. "This mission of yours, it wouldn't involve Doyle, would it?"

Eleanor chuckled softly. "Now, why would you ask that, Frankie?"

"Because you don't like loose ends, and that's exactly what the judge is. When he was sentenced to prison, you and everyone else thought his days of crime and power had ended. But he found a way to keep it going."

Eleanor's fingers trailed over the armrest. She studied Frankie, his sharp eyes as unreadable as ever. "Do you think Doyle will ever feel remorse for his actions?"

Frankie leaned back, folding his hands. "Honestly? No. Men like Doyle don't feel sorry. Not if they have money and power to cushion their fall. It's all the same to him, whether outside or behind bars."

Eleanor's jaw tightened. "So, it doesn't matter?"

"Not as things stand," Frankie replied. "He's got his little empire, even in prison — comfort, connections, loyalty bought and paid for. Take that away, though —" He shrugged, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

Her gaze narrowed, a fire igniting in her chest. "Could you call in another favor with Jack Lexington? Maybe make sure Doyle loses all his luxuries?"

Frankie smirked, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Jack's already one step ahead of you. That was his plan all along for Doyle and Rossi. Just waiting on the word."

The corner of Eleanor's mouth lifted, though it was a bitter smile. She glanced around the room. "Could we give him the word now?"

Frankie chuckled. "Done. But something tells me you've got more in mind than just making him uncomfortable."

Eleanor rose, her voice firm as steel. "You're right. It's time he understands what real consequences feel like."

Frankie tipped his glass in her direction. "Good luck with that, Eleanor. Though something tells me you won't need it."

Her gaze was steady, a flicker of something cold and determined burning in her eyes. "Just a little visit to the prison," she said.

Frankie raised his glass in a mock toast. "God help him if you're playing judge and jury."

Eleanor didn't respond. She didn't need to. The fire in her eyes said it all. "Thanks for the chat, Frankie. Have a nice evening because I know I will."

*****

Outside the prison, Eleanor adjusted her coat against the cold night air. Frankie's words echoed in her mind: "Doyle won't ever feel sorry. Not as long as he's got the power to live like a king."

She thought of Doyle, lounging in his cell, feasting on steak and wine while his victims rotted in graves. Tonight, that would change. Eleanor entered the prison, quickly slipping through the locked gates and concrete walls, unnoticed by the guards.

*****

Doyle was staring at the ceiling on a plush mattress inside his cell. The prison was unnervingly quiet, the occasional rattle of a distant gate or muffled voices of nightshift guards the only sounds. Yet, something felt wrong. An eerie sensation lingered, a feeling that he was not alone.

The temperature dropped suddenly, sending a chill through him. Doyle tried to ignore it, dismissing it as his imagination. But the cold seeped into his bones, and his unease deepened.

He had just finished his meal—a thick, medium-rare steak, twice-baked potato covered in the works, and a glass of Chardonnay —the perks of his privileged position behind bars. The guards delivered it without question, a luxury he'd arranged long before. He leaned back on the mattress, the warmth from the wine slowly lulling him into drowsiness.

His vision blurred, and his mind drifted. Then, the shadows on the walls began to shift, their forms flickering at the edges of his vision. They didn't follow the rules of the light, twisting and turning as though they had a life of their own. Doyle tried to ignore it, but his heart raced, and unease prickled at the back of his neck.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but it would not come.

When he opened his eyes again, his cell was gone.

A blinding light filled his vision, the air thick with the scent of smoke and gasoline. He gasped, his hands tightening around the steering wheel of a car speeding down a country road. But it wasn't him steering. The vehicle seemed alive, skidding dangerously close to the edge of the road. His eyes widened as another car slammed against the one he was in.

His heart hammered in his chest, the engine's roar filling his ears. "Stop!" a voice screamed beside him.

Wide-eyed, Doyle turned to see Margaret — her face pale and streaked with tears, yet somehow lifeless. Her empty eyes locked on his.

"You killed me," she sneered. "I thought you loved me, but you used me and sent me to a horrendous death. You shouldn't have done that, John."

The wheel jerked violently as the car swerved off the road. Time slowed as they tumbled into the ravine. Flames erupted, consuming the vehicle as it hurtled downward, slamming into a tree. Doyle screamed as fire engulfed him, the heat searing through his skin.

Margaret sat beside him, untouched by the flames, her hollow eyes fixed on him.

"How does it feel?" she said, her voice icy. "Burn, John, burn!" The flames danced around her before she faded away.

Doyle jolted upright, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. His heart thundered, the nightmare still vivid in his mind. He could almost smell the smoke and feel the heat. The prison's silence returned, but the shadows seemed darker now. He scanned the cell, seeking comfort, but it only deepened his unease.

He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the fear that gripped him.

And then he heard laughter — soft, musical, and feminine.

The sound echoed from every direction, impossibly close yet distant as if it came from nowhere.

"Who's there?" he barked.

The laughter continued, low and seductive. He rolled over and turned toward the bars, and there she was — a tall, voluptuous woman in a flowing red dress. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, and her lips curled into a sultry smile.

"You've been busy tonight, haven't you, John?" she purred.

Doyle's mouth went dry. "Who — who are you?"

She stepped through the bars as if they didn't exist, her movements fluid and almost hypnotic. Her black eyes locked onto his, and Doyle could not look away.

"You like to prey on the weak, don't you?" she murmured, her voice dripping with venom. She grazed his cheek with her icy fingers, sharp enough to draw blood.

"Get away from me," Doyle whispered, his voice a hoarse plea.

"Oh, but you like this, don't you?" She teased, her lips curling into a cruel grin. "You like the power, the control. Watching others suffer while you take what you want." Her smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp, too perfect.

Doyle's instincts screamed at him to run, but his body wouldn't obey. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing his ear, her teeth nipping at the lobe.

"You'll feel what they felt," she whispered. "Think about the pain you've caused."

Suddenly, her face changed. Her smooth skin cracked, deep fissures spreading across her features. Her eyes darkened, and her mouth stretched unnaturally wide. Her fingers lengthened into claws, and her red dress tore into tattered, blood-soaked rags.

The air turned suffocating as chains slithered from the shadows, their metallic clinks mocking him. They wrapped around his wrists and ankles, yanking him to the ground.

"No! Let me go!" Doyle screamed, thrashing against the chains.

The woman — or what remained of her — hovered above him, her claws gleaming in the dim light. A long, barbed whip appeared in her hands, hissing like a living creature.

"Your judgment day has come," she sneered, her voice guttural and alien, reverberating in his skull.

The whip cracked, slicing through the air. Doyle howled in agony, the searing pain burning his back. He clawed at the ground, desperate to escape, but the chains held him tight.

Her laughter echoed through the walls as she brought the whip down again and again until he drifted into unconsciousness.

The darkness didn't offer comfort. It shifted and crept closer like an unseen tide. The air in the cell grew heavy and damp, and the faint scent of stagnant water filled his nostrils.

"No more," Doyle moaned, his voice cracking. But it was not to be. As he closed his eyes, the world around him tilted.

When he opened them, he wasn't in his cell.

He was in a car, strapped into the driver's seat. The wheel was slick beneath his hands, and his wrists were bound tightly with rough cords. Panic surged as he struggled against the restraints, but they wouldn't give.

"Where am I?" Doyle shouted, his voice echoing in the confined space.

The answer came not in words but in the sudden, violent lurch of the car. It tilted forward, dropping, spinning, and splashing into the lake below. He could hear the unmistakable sound of water rushing in. Cold liquid pooled around his feet, climbing rapidly to his knees.

"No! No, no, no!" he screamed, thrashing against the seatbelt.

A dark shape moved outside the window. Doyle turned his head, the water now up to his waist. A face pressed against the glass — a face he recognized.

"Johnny?" Doyle stammered, his breath catching in his throat. The man outside the window was pale and lifeless, but his eyes were sharp, burning with accusation.

"You did this to me!" Johnny said. His voice wasn't angry — it was calm, cold, and final.

The car shuddered as it plunged deeper into the water, and Doyle felt the icy rush against his chest. He kicked at the door and clawed at the handle, but it wouldn't move. The cords binding his wrists bit into his skin, holding him captive.

"You framed Donatelli," Johnny continued, his face still pressed to the glass. "But it was my life you took. My breath. My future. All for your revenge."

"I didn't — I had no choice!" Doyle gasped.

The car tipped again, and now the water was at his neck. He craned his head, desperate for air, but it was useless. The cold engulfed him, pressing down on his chest like a stone.

"Please! Help me!" Doyle begged as he gulped for air.

Johnny didn't move. He stood there, unmoving, unblinking, as Doyle's desperate screams turned into gurgles.

The water closed over Doyle's head, and the world went silent. He thrashed wildly, clawing at the glass, his lungs screaming for air. The figure outside the car blurred as the car, and Doyle sank deeper, the dim light fading into the dark abyss.

As his vision dimmed, the final words he heard were, "You'll drown in your guilt."

When his eyes opened again, he was back in his cell.

A figure cloaked in black loomed in the corner before he spoke, "Perhaps now you understand what it's like to be powerless."

"Who are you?" Doyle whined. "Why are you doing this to me?"

The man in black slipped through the bars, his glowing eyes the only light in the darkness. "You did this to yourself. And these dreams — they're yours to keep."

"What do you mean?" Doyle whimpered, his voice now weak and fearful.

The man in black's grin was ghoulish as he said, " Every night, you'll face the lives you destroyed. Every —single —night."

His hand rested lightly on the bars as he glared at Doyle's shivering form. "There's one more thing." He waved his staff in the air. His eerie laughter sent a chill down Doyle's spine as he faded away.

The cell walls began to ripple, warping and stretching until they melted entirely. Doyle blinked, his surroundings shifting into the grand confines of a courtroom. The air buzzed with tension, and the harsh glare of overhead lights illuminated the space.

He was seated in the defendant's chair, shackles binding his hands and feet. The courtroom was overflowing with people, but the jury and audience were faceless except for their eyes — blank canvases that stared at him with condemnation.

The judge's gavel slammed down, echoing like thunder in the vast chamber. "We are here to pass judgment," a low and foreboding voice boomed.

"Guilty. Guilty. Guilty." The jury chanted, their faceless heads nodding in unison. The sound grew louder, drowning out Doyle's frantic cries.

"No!" he screamed, struggling against his chains. "Please, I'll do anything! Just stop this!"

The judge leaned forward, his face becoming visible in the dim light. Doyle's breath caught in his throat — his own face was staring back at him, twisted with malice.

"Too late," the judge hissed, slamming the gavel one final time. The sound reverberated through the courtroom, and the floor beneath Doyle gave way.

He plunged into darkness, the chant of "Guilty" following him into the void.

Then he saw her — a ghost he recognized.

Eleanor stood in the corner of the cell, her figure framed by the dim light filtering through the narrow window. Her eyes bore into him, cold and unrelenting, making the room feel smaller — the air heavier.

"Enjoying your nightmares, Doyle?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with steel.

He stumbled off the cot, collapsing to his knees. His mind raced with regret and fear. "Eleanor — please," he croaked. "I didn't mean —"

"Don't!" Her voice cut through his desperate plea like a knife. "Save your breath. You've been judged, and your excuses are empty pleas."

"I'll make it right!" he begged, his hands reaching toward her. "I'll fix everything! Please, give me a chance!"

Eleanor tilted her head slightly, a faint, bitter smile curving her lips. "Fix it? Tell me, Doyle, how do you fix a life taken, a soul shattered, or a legacy destroyed?" She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the cold floor. "You can't."

His head fell, and his shoulders shook. "I'll die here," he whispered.

"Oh, no," she replied, her tone icy. "Death would be a mercy, and mercy is not something you've earned." She turned slightly, glancing around the cell as if inspecting it. "Your cozy little arrangement? The fine meals, the luxury of solitude? It's over."

Doyle's head snapped up, his face pale. "What? No! You can't do that!"

Eleanor's gaze locked with his, unflinching. "You're moving to the general population. Let's see how you fare among the criminals you unmercifully put away."

"No!" His voice cracked with raw panic. "You don't understand! They'll kill me!" His words echoed in the empty corridor, a desperate plea for mercy.

Two guards appeared outside his cell. "Pack up, Doyle. You're moving," one of them barked.

Doyle stumbled to his feet, his hands trembling. "Where am I going?"

"Where you belong," the other guard said with a satisfied smirk.

They led him away, his screams fading into the distance. Eleanor watched from the shadows, a faint smile on her lips. In her eyes, justice had been served, and she felt a profound sense of closure.