by Holly Bargo
“Cecily, will you marry me?” he asked between panted breaths.
“Oh, Pyotr, of course, I’ll marry you,” she replied.
He drew back and gazed into her eyes. She saw the question lurking within them and added, “All I ever needed was the choice.”
And that, he realized, was the issue all along. Cecily had been forced, first taken into his custody and then shifted to Maksim’s restaurant—a disposition of her future that she could not endure because she had not chosen it. In short, she wanted to be asked, to know that her opinion and decisions mattered.
The splat of his semen dripping from her body and hitting the floor caught his attention.
“You do realize that if you’re not pregnant already, then you soon will be,” he said.
“Then you’d better marry me pretty damned quick,” she quipped and smiled back at him. She reached up to stroke his cheek.
“Stay home today,” he urged, feeling months of deprivation make his cock twitch as it once again sought to return to its favorite place.
Cecily inhaled and considered his request which hadn’t been couched as a question, but as a command. However, she seemed to realize its importance. Pyotr had sacrificed much in order to be with her. She had given him her devotion and love, but not her commitment and the big man, who seemed to need so little, needed that. She looked at him, this indomitable man who had nearly lost all of himself and who asked for nothing and everything. She needed to show him that he mattered, what he wanted mattered.
“Hand me the phone, big guy.”
Pyotr released a long, low breath of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as he crossed the kitchen to bring her the phone. He watched in anticipatory silence as she dialed.
“Hey, Jaime, it’s me, Cecily.”
“What’s up, Cecily?”
“I can’t make it into work today.”
“That’s not giving me much notice, Cecily.”
She flinched from his disapproval, but held her ground. “Pyotr wants me to stay with him today and I will do this for him.”
Jaime sighed, not wanting to accede to her demand, but not wanting to lose his best chef, either. “You’ve been working some extra-long hours these past several weeks. Take today, but be in on time tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Jaime. You bet I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“What are you and Pyotr doing today?”
Not wanting to tell her boss that she was staying home to make love with her fiancé, she glanced at Pyotr who overheard the question. He said loudly, “We’re getting married.”
“Pyotr!” Cecily exclaimed even as Jaime hung up. The dial tone beeped as she dropped the phone.
He caught her up in his arms and wondered if Cecily would mind postponing their honeymoon. He had a meeting tomorrow to lock down the storefront to open his martial arts studio.
After an extended shower during which no water was conserved, they made their way downstairs.
“What’s up with you two?” Mrs. Macdougal inquired, her eyes bright and sharp. “You’re giggling like naughty children.”
“We’re getting married,” Cecily announced.
“Of course, you are,” the old woman said with insincere severity. “I’ve hardly ever seen two people suit each other the way you do. I just hope you’ll be giving me honorary grandchildren soon.”
Cecily’s cheeks turned pink as she thought of the racket she and Pyotr had made. So did Pyotr’s. Mrs. Macdougal’s eyes twinkled. It had been far too long since the big, old house rang with the laughter of children.
RUSSIAN
DAWN
RUSSIAN DAWN
© 2017 Karen M. Chirico
HEN HOUSE PUBLISHING
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and events are fictitious or used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or copies without written permission from the author.
Acknowledgments
As always, no book goes public without the assistance of some gracious and helpful people who read, review, and edit the content to catch all my many mistakes. Special thanks go to Cindra Phillips, Ashley Gregory, and Meg Harding for their generous donation of time and insight as beta readers. Additional gratitude goes to editor Cindy Draughon, who combed through the manuscript with a keen eye and great insight. Your assistance in polishing the story is invaluable.
Further thanks go to my husband David for his ongoing support—at least once he realized that this wasn’t just his wife’s strange little hobby.
I also want to express my gratitude to the readers who purchase my books. Thank you for allowing my story to entertain you. I hope you enjoy this one.
Chapter 1
Latasha clasped her new husband’s hand and looked out over the unusual collection of faces that watched as she and Iosif walked hand-in-hand down the white runner that led through double doors into bright sunshine. She looked up at Iosif, who favored her with one of his rare smiles.
“Happy?” she whispered, unable to repress her own brilliant smile.
“Da, now you are truly mine,” he replied, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling in his chest. Still holding her hand, he raised it and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. Her answering smile confirmed that he’d made the right decision: this sassy woman’s love and trust would redeem his cold, hard soul.
They took their places in the receiving line, followed by Cecily and Pyotr, maid of honor and best man.
“Pyotr looks good, don’t you think?” she asked, glancing at the handsome, blond giant who had married her best friend.
“He recovered well,” Iosif said, darting a sour glance at Cecily who looked like a modern-day Marilyn Monroe in the elegant dress Latasha had picked out for her. Latasha understood his attitude. Cecily’s abrupt departure and abandonment to pursue her own dreams had hurt all of them, none more than Pytor. Pyotr, however, had forgiven her. She wished Iosif could do the same.
Further down the line stood her other best friend Giancarla and her husband Vitaly, who was also a former comrade—no pun intended—of Pyotr’s. She liked the dour man and heartily approved of the tender care he lavished upon Gia. Latasha’s mother and her oldest living brother also stood in the receiving line, accepting congratulations and handshakes from the small crowd of friends of family who had gathered to witness this odd marriage.
Latasha nearly wept when she spied a guest who was as dear, if not dearer, than her own mother.
“Mrs. Tallimar! I’m so glad you could make it,” she cried and wrapped her arms around her former high school algebra teacher, a woman who had done much more than teach math.
Faded blue eyes twinkled, and the old woman’s wrinkles deepened with her smile as she returned Latasha’s hug. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” she said, pressing a kiss to the bride’s cheek. She looked up at Iosif, who maintained a close watch over everything having to do with his bride.
“You take good care of her, you hear me?” the retired teacher demanded. Her eyes glinted with martial force despite the smile.
“Da,” he replied and gave her a curt nod of approval. So, this was the woman who had saved his Latasha.
“Good,” the indomitable little woman said and moved on to let others offer their congratulations to the newlyweds.
Latasha chuckled and looked up at him again. “Mrs. Tallimar is practically a force of nature. Even the biggest, baddest thugs in school cringed when she called them out for not doing their homework.”
“Is good woman,” he praised.
“The best.”
And then their conversation was postponed by the next guest.
Iosif endured the hours that followed: pictures taken by a snooty photographer, a heavy meal and overly loud music, cheesy games and goading by the false cheer of the deejay.
“These Americans,” Maksim murmured with an air of bemusement.
He didn’t finish the sentence, but Iosif understood
the thought and the sentiment behind it. Music struck up again, and he watched Vitaly and Gia take to the floor with their daughter, Emilia. Gia’s growing belly strained the fabric of her gown. She looked ready to pop, but her face glowed with joy and laughter. Iosif’s eagle eye noticed the small clutch of thugs in a corner. They tried to be discreet, but he knew they were conducting business.
“Watch over Latasha,” he murmured to Gennady, whose gaze followed his.
The whipcord lean man nodded and replied, “You want me to take care of this?”
“Nyet. I may yet keep this from becoming a scene.”
Gennady nodded again. Iosif trusted the man to ensure his bride came to no harm as he walked the perimeter of the room, coming to stand behind Leroy. He settled a heavy hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and squeezed. Hard. Leroy’s full lips thinned, the only sign he gave that Iosif’s grip hurt.
“No business today, hm?” he said. “Today we celebrate in peace.”
The sullen faces of the other two men whom Latasha most certainly had not invited to the festivities darkened with menace. One eased his hand toward his pocket.
“Don’t be stupid,” Iosif whispered, enunciating each word perfectly in English. “You pull a stunt in here and what happened to the Culebras will look like a child’s party compared to what will happen to you.”
One of the two hoodlums swallowed audibly, eyes widening in fear. The other, whose pinpoint pupils indicated he was already high on something, shrugged and said, “Fuckers won’t take me alive.”
Iosif’s knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on Leroy’s shoulder.
“Your sister doesn’t need this, Leroy. Please take your business elsewhere.”
The young man gave a one-shouldered shrug—the other shoulder—and said, “C’mon, guys. Let’s get out of here.”
“Thank you,” the big Russian murmured and released Leroy. He watched the three men, one of them a little too twitchy for his comfort, exit through a back door. He disdained their arrogant swaggers, knowing them for the punks they were: dangerous, but undisciplined. If they spoiled Latasha’s wedding day, he’d murder them all and count it his good deed for the day.
A sometime assassin and current interrogator and enforcer for the Russian Bratva, Iosif didn’t joke when he thought of killing.
He rolled his shoulders to ease the tight muscles and walked back to Latasha’s side. He murmured a thank-you to Gennady, who nodded and meandered off to find a woman who liked her romance mixed with pain. He didn’t particularly understand his colleague’s preferences or share those dark proclivities, but as long as the women with whom Gennady consorted were of legal age and consented to what he did with and to them, then Iosif figured he had no business saying anything about it.
“Leroy conducting gang business?” Latasha murmured as she reached for his hand.
Iosif’s warm hand enveloped her cold one and he looked into her impassive face. Smart woman, my wife. She could not hide the disappointment and sadness that lurked behind the blank expression she assumed when she lost a patient as occasionally happened in the emergency room. “Da. I persuaded them to leave.”
She nodded. “Thanks for avoiding a scene.”
“This is your day,” he said. “I will not tolerate anything or anybody ruining it.”
She gifted him with her brilliant smile, white teeth gleaming against her cafe au lait skin. He thought that smile rivaled the sun the way it illuminated his life. “It’s our day.”
Tenderness welled up in Iosif’s heart and he cupped her face with both hands. Leaning down, he brushed his mouth against her pouty lips. “And it will be our night.”
She blushed. He found it delightful, so he kissed her again.
Finally, the appointed hour came and the newlyweds bade their good-byes. Maksim, leader of the Midwestern branch of the Bratva, thumped Iosif’s back and coughed to hide his emotion. Olivia, his petite wife and quite possibly the only person whom Maksim feared, hugged both of them. Vitaly nodded at him, approval shining in his eyes even as Gia hugged Latasha and wished her a wonderful honeymoon.
“Pyotr, you are well?” Iosif asked, concerned for his friend.
The blond giant nodded and settled a hand around his wife’s thick waist. The loose, flowing dress did not hide the baby bump perhaps as well as Cecily might have wished. In Russian, he murmured, “Do not despise her. She was conflicted. Confused. And it all turned out well.”
Iosif nodded and clasped his friend’s other hand and replied in their native language, “You are a forgiving man. I do not have your large heart. And congratulations, Papa.”
Pyotr gave him a proud smile and wished him well.
“You need anything—anything at all—and you call. Vitaly and I begrudge you nothing.”
“You have already done too much for us.”
“For you. We are brothers, are we not?”
“Always.”
Just like that, any tension between them dissolved. Iosif took comfort in knowing that Pyotr understood his release from the Bratva didn’t translate into abandonment. He drew Latasha aside with a light touch, and they walked to where her mother sat.
“We’re headed off, Mama,” Latasha announced.
Her mother glanced at the table practically groaning with the weight of wedding gifts. Iosif did not miss the spark of avarice in the older woman’s beady eyes. “You got someone to take care of that for you, girl? Iffin you don’t, I will.”
Latasha smiled and replied, “Maksim and Olivia will make sure everything’s taken care of, Mama. I wouldn’t want you to worry.”
The woman laughed a little too loudly. Iosif wondered how much she’d had to drink. Her head rolled back on her fat neck, and she pursed her lips before adding, “Fuck her good tonight, Joe. Uptight girl needs it.”
Latasha felt Iosif stiffen beside her and felt his outrage on her behalf. Laying a hand lightly on his sleeve, she felt the hard muscles tensing beneath the layers of fabric.
“Mama, there’s no need to be rude,” she said. “Just wish us happiness. Please.”
Her mother waved a hand at them—more like flicking her fingers, but Latasha refused to let that ruin her wedding day—and ordered her to find Leroy and send him on in.
“I’m ready to go home,” the woman said, looking around the room where Caucasians mixed with African-Americans, Russian mafia members mingled with gang hoodlums, and middle class workers conversed with welfare recipients.
Latasha thought wryly that it was just as well this eclectic combination of wedding guests didn’t include Gia’s relatives. Grandpa Maglione might have exhibited phenomenal Old World elegance and sophistication, but the capo di capi wasn’t known for his tolerance. And her friend’s cousin, Giovanni, was a lot like him. They would not appreciate some of Latasha’s old neighborhood friends and acquaintances.
She moved off to exchange hugs with old Mr. Jackson who had kindly taken care of the single mother next door by fixing her broken plumbing and replacing roof shingles, because that’s what good neighbors did for one another. He belonged to a less self-absorbed generation, she thought. She bade good-bye to Ms. Calico, the retired baker’s wife who kept the ’hood’s youngsters in cookies and brownies, and to Mr. Battleby, who had turned his tiny yard into a productive garden from which the neighborhood kids were permitted to take in exchange for their assistance in planting, weeding, and other maintenance. The old neighborhood was filled with good people who cared for their community; but, Latasha noticed, they were old, older than Mama.
As Iosif walked her toward the doors, she reflected on how long it had been since she’d outgrown the old neighborhood. She waved at the handful of young women with whom she’d grown up and realized that, of them all, she and Leticia were the only ones who had a career… hell, who even had a job. Two of them lived with their gang boyfriends whom they’d brought as their plus-one guests, much to Maksim and Iosif’s silent disapproval. Two more sponged off their mothers and the government
dole and were single mothers themselves. Shi-bobbie couldn’t even identify the fathers of her three kids. Of the old clique, only Leticia Conroy had managed to graduate from high school, although Leticia hadn’t gone on to college. She did, however, hold down a job as a receptionist at some community organization in downtown Cleveland.
Leticia waved back and bustled up to the departing newlyweds. She hugged Latasha one last time.
“You look so happy,” she said, her bright smile illuminating her face. Her dark brown eyes flickered upward, then back to Latasha. “I’m glad you got out of the old neighborhood. This guy looks like he can take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, but it’s nicer when you share the burden.”
Latasha gestured with her chin toward the skinny bald man Leticia had brought as her plus-one. “And him?”
Leticia looked back at him. He waved and smiled, eyes brightening behind black-rimmed glasses. She explained, “He manages the Kohl’s store at the mall. He ain’t rich or nothin’, but he treats me like I matter.”
“Sounds like a winner to me,” Latasha encouraged.
“Jojo don’t like him.”
“Jojo’s a meth head.”
Leticia sighed and her plump shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Looks like most of us didn’t do so well for ourselves.”
“Letty,” Latasha said, patting the other woman’s thick arm, “you did just fine. You worry about you and don’t let the losers drag you down to their level.”
Leticia leaned forward and hugged her again. “I’m gonna miss you, ’Tasha.”
“Nyet,” the deep timbre of Iosif’s baritone voice interrupted. “You will visit.”
Leticia shivered and grinned. “God, that accent’s sexy.”
Latasha giggled as Iosif drew her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. Raising his lips from her skin, he rumbled, “We go. Now.”
She giggled again and let the tall Russian lead her to the limousine that had brought them to the banquet room of The Matryoshka, the restaurant Iosif’s boss owned and where their reception was being held. The driver ushered them into the vehicle’s plush interior.
