by Holly Bargo
“In the women’s quarters,” Pablo replied, swallowing in the first indication of emotion that Iosif noticed. “This woman, this negra, is yours?”
“She is mine and I protect what is mine.”
“Ah, so you are a man of honor,” the boy mused, a little half-smile curving his lips. “You will stand by your word.”
Iosif nodded, a single, curt dip of his chin. “Take us to the women’s quarters. We will not harm your mother and sisters. You have my word on it.”
The young sociopath searched the hard soldier’s eyes and seemed to find what he sought. With a nod, he said in his cultured, educated, toneless voice, “You must kill my father.”
Not for a moment did Iosif think this calculating boy viewed his father as a monster. That would have required emotion. He thought, perhaps, the boy considered his father nothing more than an obstacle. But he asked anyway, “Why do you want to see your father dead?”
With a shrug of his slender shoulders, the boy waved at the three intruders to follow him and he answered, “One of my sisters defied him, so he threw her to the soldiers to use. I have affection for my mama and sisters.” He paused and saw that the very dangerous man who’d mowed down his father’s soldiers did not look convinced by his mild display of concern. If he wanted their help, he’d have to be honest and deal with them honorably. He added to his explanation, “And he disregards my advice. This is my inheritance, my empire, and it has come time for me to take it. You are my best opportunity.”
“And will you toss your sisters out like so much garbage if they defy you?” Bogdan asked, breaking his listening silence.
“Of course, not. They’re much too valuable. I have promised my older sister to Enrique Águilagris. He will ally his family to mine, and we shall be as powerful as kings. Papá does not agree because Enrique is Colombian.”
Gennady raised an eyebrow. The calculating boy had made an advantageous alliance. The Águilagris cartel’s power and reach rivaled the biggest cartels in Central and South America—they were just less flagrant about it.”
They heard more booted feet coming toward them.
The three Bratva men flanked the boy. Gennady aimed his gun at the boy’s back, while Iosif and Bogdan held their weapons at the ready.
“¡No disparen!” Pablo shouted as his father’s men advanced. “¡Papá!”
The thugs skidded to a stop and lowered their weapons. A deep male voice, cultured and commanding, demanded, “¿Qué está pasando?”
The six men stepped aside to make way for the dapper gentleman who owned them. His eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed with suspicion. In rapid Spanish, he asked, “Pablo, why are you not with your mother and sisters, protecting them?”
“Why should I protect them when you do not?” the boy shot back, a half-smile gracing his expression and his tone light and conversational.
Watching the boy closely, Iosif thought he saw a flicker of emotion cross the boy’s face. He supposed that this strange, creepy boy genius loved perhaps one person. He hoped that aberration of emotion would work in his favor.
Darting a coldly furious glance at the three foreigners who’d left destruction in their wake, the older man frowned. “Are you still upset about Marisola?”
“She only wanted to go to school.”
“Bah!” El Jefe dismissed the boy’s words with a wave of his hand. “What use have women for education? Their duty is to spread their legs and give us sons.”
“Luís Roblesagrado’s sister went to university, and she now uses her knowledge to breed better, more powerful strains of coca for his family. Marisola could have done likewise. Or perhaps you could have used her to ally with another powerful family. She was pretty enough.”
“You do not think like a businessman, Pablo.” El Jefe looked at the men who held his son at gunpoint. They obviously weren’t Costa Rican. In thickly accented English he said, “What do you want? I will give you whatever you want if you return the boy to me. Now.”
“The boy has already promised me what I want,” Iosif answered. “And he did not take what belonged to me first.”
“The negra,” El Jefe muttered in realization. Full lips thinned as they stretched in a wide, cruel smile. He said, “She is deliciosa.”
“Svin'ya,” Iosif growled and shot him.
El Jefe gaped in surprise that this pale foreigner had dared shoot him. He looked down at the red blossoming on his chest and sank to his knees. A second later, his last breath gurgled from his open mouth and he fell over.
“¡Sostener!” Pablo barked as his father’s best men tightened their fingers on the triggers of their automatic weapons. They glared at him, but obeyed and held their fire.
“Debes tu lealtad a mí ahora,” the boy said, commanding their loyalty and obedience like a feudal lord.
One by one, each of his father’s best guards bowed their heads and murmured, “Sí.”
“Bien.” Pablo looked to Iosif and said, “They are mine. They will lead you to the women’s quarters.”
“They will lead us to the women’s quarters,” Iosif corrected him. “You will come with us.”
The boy’s nose wrinkled in distaste, but he understood these warriors’ distrust. He nodded and said in a quiet voice, “You speak English, but not like Americans.”
“We are Bratva,” Gennady said, hoping the mention would garner some respect.
The boy’s eyes glinted with realization and the possibility of a profitable alliance. The skill and command that imbued these three men impressed him. He could use men like this. He looked at Gennady and considered the man. The man met his gaze with dispassion chilled by contempt. No, that one would not do. He looked toward Iosif. No, that one was stiff with honor; he would not take a mistress. But the third, whose dark eyes held the glint of passion, was a possibility.
“Come with me,” Pablo ordered and began walking. In Spanish, he ordered the men who just a moment ago guarded his father, “Fetch my mother and sisters. Have them meet us in the women’s quarters.”
The men nodded and turned around to obey their young master’s orders.
Iosif, Gennady, and Bogdan accompanied the boy.
“The boy’s up to no good,” Gennady muttered, making sure to speak in Russian.
“He’s a cold one,” Bogdan agreed.
Pablo led them through long corridors in the huge, sprawling mansion until they came to a set of locked doors. The boy stopped and pounded on the door. A muttered inquiry filtered through the heavy wood. The young master replied, his voice ringing with authority. The door opened to show a heavyset, middle-aged woman. The boy spoke again, a terse command. The woman nodded and muttered, keeping her eyes averted. She turned on her heel and walked away.
The men followed her into a large room scattered with sofas and low tables, floor pillows and thick rugs. None of them sat.
The high-toned murmur of feminine voices tinged with fear soon carried into the room. The four males watched without expression as women in various states of undress entered the room.
“My wife is not among them,” Iosif said.
“You are certain we have her?” the boy asked, his tone almost flippant.
Gennady pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Pablo’s head.
“I will search for her myself,” Iosif said. “If I do not return in ten minutes, kill him.”
Gennady nodded and smiled. The expression made the madam flinch with terror.
“¡No! La chica está aquí. Ella está durmiendo. No puedo despertarla,” she babbled.
Pablo frowned and gestured with his hand. He barked an order at the woman, who turned gray with terror, and then said to Iosif, “She says your wife is sleeping and will not wake. Go with her. She will lead you to your woman.”
Iosif nodded and gestured with the muzzle of his gun for the woman to go ahead of him. She nodded and fairly scampered. Iosif followed her down a long, bare corridor. He peaked through each open door, seeing small rooms filled w
ith narrow, rumpled beds. Handcuffs dangled from the headboards. Some of the beds were occupied with some of the occupants showing signs of recent… use. The woman stopped in front of a closed door and opened it. Iosif approached with caution. He gestured for the woman to enter the room. She blinked and obeyed without protest. He followed her inside.
A low growl erupted from his throat. Head lolling, mouth slack, eyes closed, and one hand anchored above by the wrist cuffed to the iron headboard, Latasha lay. The flimsy cotton robe she wore had gone askew, revealing taupe skin, the dusky tip of one breast, and a newly bared mound. After vowing never, never to undergo another waxing again, she’d let the pubic hair begin to regrow. In truth, Iosif didn’t mind a grown woman’s hair. Smooth, hairless bodies reminded him of very young children, which real men nurtured and protected, not abused. Growling wordlessly again, Iosif grabbed the woman’s arm as she attempted to sidle back out of the room. She squawked and he squeezed the plump limb with punishing cruelty. The squawk turned into a whimper of pain.
Uncaring of the madam’s discomfort, he dragged her to the bedside and pointed the muzzle of his gun at the cuffs, then turned it toward the woman.
“Uncuff her,” he ordered.
Although the madam appeared to speak no English, she did understand what he meant. With her free hand, she dug into a pocket and pulled out the key to the cuffs. Iosif released her arm and glared at her, the gun’s muzzle never wavering direction. The madam’s hands trembled as she unfastened the cuffs. Once released, Latasha’s arm flopped down. The flesh where her limb had hung from the cuff was red and raw. His fingertip lightly traced the bruising and swelling on her face and the goose egg on the side of her head. His eyes scanned the rest of her exposed skin and a low growl rumbled in his chest at the sight of the beating she had endured. He turned to the older woman who averted her eyes and trembled in terror. The pungent smell of urine drew his gaze to the wet stream that trickled down her leg and puddled at her feet.
Iosif knew that this awful woman had contributed to his wife’s current miserable state; however, he could not specify how. Until he could, he would not kill her. However, the woman looked up and must have seen the murderous intent in his eyes, because her own watered and she began to babble at him, pleading for mercy most likely.
“Go!” Iosif barked at the madam.
Terrified, the woman turned on her heel and ran. Her departure gave him the seconds needed to draw the robe more securely around Latasha’s body before hoisting her in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder. Doing so required the use of both hands, so he was forced to set down the gun for those precious seconds. As soon as Latasha’s body had settled into place and he could hold her securely with one arm, Iosif retrieved his gun and headed back to the lounge where Gennady, Bogdan, and Pablo waited.
When he returned, the former kingpin’s guards had joined the other three. The half to mostly naked whores clustered on one side of the room. Three well-dressed and frightened women, who were obviously the sheltered mother and sisters to the new chief, stood in a small group flanked by the guards. Iosif took it all in with a sweeping glance, even noticing Bogdan’s apparent fascination with one of the boy’s sisters.
“Valentina,” Pablo called. He’d noticed, too.
A young woman who appeared to be eighteen or nineteen years old looked at him, eyes wide and startled.
“Step forward.”
Trembling, the girl did as ordered. Pablo turned his attention to Bogdan and asked, “Do you have a wife?”
“No,” the man answered as he stared at the caramel-skinned, doe-eyed beauty whose soft, luscious curves made his hands itch. Urges to protect, savor, and cherish her ignited like tinder.
“She is beautiful, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Your Bratva is well-disciplined, strong. I would ally with such. Take her for your wife and ally your Bratva with the Ochobella.”
The young woman flashed frightened eyes to her brother and pleaded in Spanish, “Pablo, no. This man is a brute. Please do not do this to me.”
Replying to his sister in their native language, the young man said, “He will treat you with honor and the alliance with this Bratva will make our family even more powerful. You will do as I say.”
“Papá?”
“I am El Jefe now.”
The young woman turned pale and she swayed on her feet. The guard closest to her reached out to steady her. Pablo leveled his cold, emotionless gaze at Bogdan and said, “You will treat her kindly and hold to your honor with me.”
Bogdan nodded.
“Bueno,” the boy said with a nod of his own. “My pilot will take you back to America as soon as you and Valentina are married.” He looked at Iosif and added, “You are my guests tonight. I vouch for your safety.”
He glanced at Gennady, who still held his gun close to his head in an unwavering grip.
“You may have one of them if you want,” he said, gesturing toward the whores.
Gennady glanced at the women. None of them met his dark gaze. Most of them cowered, all appearing too broken even for him, until a woman with tawny hair met his gaze. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in what was definitely not a smile. That one, he thought, might do. She might not be too defeated for pleasure. Then he looked back at Pablo and asked. “Which is your favorite?”
A red tinge stained the young man’s swarthy cheeks, and he just shook his head. Gennady blinked once, understanding the boy’s dilemma. In a culture that placed tremendous emphasis on heterosexual machismo, this young man was grossly out of place.
“Set them all free,” Iosif said.
“Why? They are whores,” Pablo retorted, his upper lip curled in a sneer.
“None of them asked to live this life your father imposed upon them. They were not whores until he had them brought here,” Iosif reasoned. “Let them go, and they need not be whores any longer.”
The boy thought it over and shrugged. “I have no use for them.” To Gennady, he said, “Pick one. She is yours.” He turned to face his men and asked which were married. Of the six, four indicated they had wives. “You two,” he said with a flick of his fingers. “You may each pick a favorite to keep. The rest will be taken into town and released.”
Gennady approached the tawny-haired woman and asked in a low, quiet tone so as not to be overheard, “Do you speak English?”
She gulped and nodded, light brown eyes wide with both fear and loathing. The flesh around her right eye and cheek was swollen and bruised. He could see other dark bruises on her body revealed by the thin, tattered robe she wore.
“Do as I say and you will have your freedom.”
She nodded and averted her eyes.
“I require obedience. Always.”
She nodded.
“I will not harm you,” he said, meaning that he would not cause any permanent damage to her body. His eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling, and he smiled, becoming almost charismatic. “You will enjoy what I do to you, and perhaps you may not want your freedom.”
Eyes still averted, she nodded again. Satisfied that he’d found a submissive who would keep him entertained for a good long while, Gennady gently took her by the arm and walked her back over to where Iosif, Pablo, and Bogdan stood.
The two unmarried guards looked uncertain, but approached the cluster of frightened women and looked them over. After a long moment, both had picked one for each of them. The other four guards then herded the women out of the room.
“Are you satisfied?” Pablo inquired with an arrogant lift of one eyebrow.
“Yes,” Iosif replied.
“Bueno. We will adjourn to the family quarters. I will summon the priest tomorrow. We will celebrate my sister’s advantageous marriage, and then you may return home.”
They followed Pablo, his mother, and his three sisters through the mansion to the elegant and comfortably furnished family quarters.
“Bogdan, stay with him to ensure his honor,” Iosif ordered after Pablo dir
ected him to an empty, luxuriously appointed guest room.
“You don’t trust me,” the patricidal boy observed aloud, not needing to understand Russian to know why the fierce looking Bratva man to whom he’d promised his own sister refused to leave his side.
“We are cautious,” Iosif replied.
Pablo nodded and said, “Of course. You shall see that my word is good and then we shall all be allies.”
Iosif nodded once and silently wondered what Maksim would make of this strange turn of events.
Chapter 6
Latasha awoke slowly, fighting grogginess. She became dimly aware of the solid body pressed against her back and, recalling recent events, began to panic. Heavy arms wrapped around her, forcibly restraining her. Eerie, wordless wails spewed from her lips. Her upper body restrained, she lashed out with her legs. A muscled, hairy leg twined around hers and ended that struggle, too. Like a rabbit faced with certain death, Latasha went still. Only then above the thudding beat of her heart did she hear the soft, raspy murmur of Russian in her ear.
“Iosif?” she whimpered.
“Da. I am here. I have you.”
Latasha promptly burst into tears. Iosif turned her around and cuddled her close. He held her face against his chest and felt her hot tears trickle through the mat of hair on his pecs. He stroked her back and murmured soft reassurances in Russian, eventually easing her back to sleep.
The terror in her unseeing eyes made him want to rip El Jefe’s head from his neck. But one couldn’t torture a dead man, so he stuffed the vengeance deep inside until he could release it on a deserving subject.
Latasha woke twice more before dawn. Both times Iosif soothed her back to sleep. As the sun rose, however, she began to shiver uncontrollably. Sweat poured off her body. Pain lanced through her belly and cramped her limbs. And she began to whimper, biting her lip and drawing blood to stem the screams that battered at her defenses. Her eyes, wide and frightened, did not see beyond the hallucinations that drew horrors her mind feared.
