Chapter Text
When I grow up, I don’t want to have kids.
This thought, Dio first had it when he wasn’t older than ten. Being a father, having a family... It wasn’t for him, neither part of his goals, and for other reasons, too. The young boy born into a poor family in London had always wanted more, knew he deserved more, and had given himself the means to succeed. At thirty-five, few things made his chest swell with pride as much as the diplomas displayed in his office and the many press clipping of the trials won by the brilliant lawyer. He graduated as the valedictorian, was employed in a famous firm, and could plead for clients who had their destinies all mapped out... Nothing resisted him, and in just a few years, he had managed to buy a stunning apartment in the heart of London, equipped by him with stylish furniture whose prices would have made the little boy he had been faint. And he didn’t plan to stop there! Yes, definitely, kids weren’t part of his plan...
So what was he doing on a Friday night at a table with four restless boys speaking all at once?
"Padre, you can’t do this!"
"Are you kidding me?"
"How could you accept this?"
"And what about us?"
His eyes closed, Dio rubbed his temples. "Boys, I’ve had a long day, so stop screaming, please. Eat what I cooked for you instead."
The agitation immediately settled down, or so it seemed, as his sons refocused on their plates, sighing and still giving annoyed looks to their father. The reason? What Dio had announced just after serving dinner:
"I’m working on Christmas day."
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife, and nothing except the metallic sound of cutlery disturbed the silence. At least until the boy sitting closer to Dio opened his mouth.
"Can we at least know what you are doing?"
His hair, as blond as his father’s, was tied in a braid, and he had three curls on his forehead, a unique hairstyle Dio had learned to master over the years. At aged twelve, Giorno was the eldest child.
"My client’s trial date was set on December 24. But since it’s a complex case, it could stretch to the 25th."
The news revived the flames of protestations and a groan rose above them. Donatello, aged ten, held his head with his fist as he stabbed his food with the tip of his fork. A black strand contrasted with his blond hair.
"And why did you even agree?" He said, his brows furrowed. "Come on, you’re well placed, you could have asked for another date! You’re not a doctor, it’s stupid to make you work on Christmas eve!" Looking at his plate, he mumbled: "But we all know you hate the holidays, so it doesn’t matter, right?"
Rikiel and Ungalo, both nine years old and the youngest children, stared at him, eyes full of sadness for one and suspicion for the other. Unlike their brothers, they both had dark hair.
"But Padre," Rikiel began with his high-pitched child voice. "What are we going to do, then?"
Dio cut a piece of his meat and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It won’t change anything for you. Your presents will still be under the tree on the 25th."
"But-"
"On Christmas Eve, I’ll book our usual table, and Vanilla Ice will go with you."
His words didn’t calm things down, quite the contrary, as everyone exclaimed, "No, not Vanilla, please! He’s scary!"
His most loyal assistant’s reputation could have made Dio laugh if he hadn’t been in front of four reproachful faces. "Listen, I can ask Enrico, but you know how busy he is at this time of the year..."
"It's not the problem." Ungalo said. "Padre, last time you promised this year we’d celebrate Christmas at home!"
It was Dio’s turn to sigh. Donatello was right: he hated Christmas. This holiday always tasted weird in his childhood, and it had only soured as he grew up. All this overly joyous atmosphere made him sick. Thus, when a call had proposed the trial date, he had accepted without a second thought. Christmas Day was just another day. And maybe this was why he couldn’t figure out why his sons were so upset. Confusion had already washed over him a year before when, sitting at the table of one of the best restaurants in London and eating delicious dishes, they had expressed their desire to cook the holiday meal themselves next year. He, Dio, would have loved this stupid holiday better if he had tasted such a feast every Christmas instead of... whatever he got, so why weren’t they the happiest? But if there was one jury he couldn’t win against every time, it was this one, and he already knew they would vote him guilty the second he left the table, his sentence more challenging than any jail time. Slowly, he ran his fingers through his hair and rolled his eyes.
"Fine. I get it. I’ll take some holidays before Christmas."
Smiles immediately bloomed on their faces.
"And don’t stay up too late, boys!" Dio called from the corridor after he helped Ungalo and Rikiel with their homework.
Muffled Good night, Padre reached his ears, and he headed to the kitchen. He really needed a drin- a coffee. Rubbing his eyes, he turned the machine on and leaned against the counter. It was finally the weekend. Bitter aromas spread in the room as his thoughts tangled in the promise he had made to his children. Taking holidays wouldn’t be a problem, especially since he had only taken a week during the summer. That was the beauty of his position: his superior knew his seriousness and efficiency, so he wouldn’t mind if the lawyer asked to work from home. It wouldn’t hurt him either, to be honest, as files piling up in November had practically turned the firm into his main house. Dio grabbed his steaming cup and walked to his office. His very own space that his sons were forbidden to enter. Oh, how he loved this room! From his library to the window overlooking a Londoner boulevard, including his lawyer dress... Everything reminded him of how far he had come! He pulled a soft armchair and sat behind his desk.
"So..."
The boys had suggested going somewhere else for the holidays, and for once, Dio agreed: it had been a while. So he turned his computer on and opened his search engine. They wanted a snowy place, where they could do Christmas-themed activities; he wanted a quiet place, not too cold, with optimal comfort. A last condition set after the kids proposed to rent a chalet in the mountains. Dio typed his research and scrolled the various hotel ads. Too close to London, too snowy, the closest shop miles away... He took a sip of his coffee and sighed. The few times a hotel caught his eye, they didn’t have enough rooms available. Scrolling faster and faster through the ads, Dio was just about to close the site when his heart stopped. Before his eyes was a picture of a large Victorian mansion, each balcony of its facade decorated with holly.
"Bed and Breakfast in a lovely town near Liverpool." He read.
A frown on his face, Dio clicked. The ad had been published the previous year and had little reviews, but they were all very positive and praised the host’s kindness. He looked at the pictures. A vast garden with a greenhouse, an old-styled lobby, and bedrooms with fireplaces and four-poster beds. There was even a ballroom and a spacious dining room. Everything seemed to come straight out of another era and seeing these pictures filled Dio’s stomach with thousands of tiny butterflies. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but this mansion gave him an unusual feeling. He brushed it off. According to the ad, dinners and breakfasts were included and many activities could be arranged for customers. Dio didn’t give it a second thought: he clicked on the host’s email address.