by Holly Bargo
Cursing, he held her body close to his and tightened his arms and legs around the writhing, struggling body of his beloved wife as the delirium of withdrawal tortured her for the next several hours. When she finally lay panting and whimpering, he rasped, “Who did this to you?”
“Don’t know,” she replied, her voice hoarse and trembling. “Doctor, maybe.”
“There is a doctor here?”
She nodded, words beyond her.
He bent his head to her crown and pressed his lips into her hair, smelling the sour stink of sweat and fear and drugs. He wished he knew what drugs.
Knock. Knock.
Latasha flinched. Iosif wasn’t sure whether she reacted in fear or because the noise was too loud for her overly sensitive hearing.
“What is it?” Iosif called out in English.
“Bogdan,” came the answer. “Pablo has summoned us to breakfast.”
“We’ll be there shortly.”
“Da. There’s a box of clothing out here for you.”
Clothing? Iosif sat up and looked at his fatigues with distaste. They were sweaty and soiled, but they still held weapons and spare ammunition. He rose naked from the bed and eased the door open. The corridor was clear, except for a maid who caught side of him and turned her head away, giggling. His mouth pursed in a sour expression. Glad I could amuse you this morning. He looked down. Beside the door was a basket with neatly folded clothing, pale linen, bright silk. He doubted the boy and his staff had clothing that would fit him, but perhaps there was something Latasha could wear. He grabbed the basket and took it into the room, rummaging through it.
“Are you strong enough to take a shower?” he asked as Latasha struggled to sit upright.
She paused, mulling over the question, then nodded. Her eyes were dull with fatigue and pain.
“Let’s not take that chance,” Iosif murmured and walked over to the bed. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the en suite bathroom.
Latasha couldn’t find it in her to be embarrassed as she used the toilet. She limply acquiesced to his commands, silent and verbal, that propelled her into the tub. She let him wash her, understanding dimly that this time she was the patient and obligated to let others care for her.
She didn’t like it. She loathed that helpless, hopeless feeling. But she had no strength to protest or struggle any further. Iosif’s endless strength and stamina awed her. How could he have fought his way into her prison and rescued her and not be staggering with exhaustion?
When she was clean, Iosif wrapped a towel around her and set her on a wicker chair in the bedroom near an open window. A light breeze, fragrant with the scents of the surrounding jungle, wafted through.
“Just sit,” he said. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
She nodded and did not watch as he disappeared into the bathroom to take care of his own needs and use the shower. He emerged, a towel wrapped around his narrow hips. He rubbed at the thick, dark stubble on his jaw. After glancing at her to make sure she hadn’t fallen over in a dead faint or something, he drew out a pretty silk sundress. He found a pair of flat-soled sandals at the bottom of the basket.
Feeling utterly inadequate to service as a lady’s maid, Iosif took a comb from the dresser and approach his wife.
“Let’s take care of your hair first, vozlyublennaya,” he said.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice so faint he wouldn’t have been sure she’d spoken if he hadn’t seen her lips move.
He stood behind the chair and sectioned off a small lock of hair. Starting at the end, he painstakingly worked out the tangles, moving up the shafts until the comb’s teeth ran freely through that section. He repeated the process until her thick hair was practically dry.
“Arms up,” he coaxed as he lifted the dress over her head. Latasha obediently raised her arms, which allowed the towel wrapped around her body to fall. He slid the silk dress over her.
“Give me your hands,” he said. She held them out. He gently grasped them and said, “Stand up, vozlyublennaya.” She stood. The towel fell to the floor and the dress slid down her body. What was probably calf length on Pablo’s sister hit her just below the knees. But the bright coral color flattered her complexion, even if the cut was a little baggy, having been fashioned for a curvier figure than Latasha’s.
“Very pretty,” Iosif complimented, not caring that his towel, too, had fallen to the floor.
He walked around her and bade her sit again so he could put the sandals on her feet. Latasha’s eyes widened, for sitting put her face at an even height with his fully aroused cock. The tip wept with eagerness. She must have made a noise in her throat, because Iosif took her hand in his and brought it to his lips as he knelt in front of her.
“I will take nothing you are not ready to give, Latasha. I honored you before we married. I honor you still.”
Tears gathered in her cloudy jade eyes and dripped down her cheeks without sound. He wiped them away with his thumbs and, leaning forward, pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Don’t fear me, lyubimaya. Never fear me.”
She sniffled and nodded, then turned her gaze out the window. Iosif slid a sandal over her foot. The tips of her toes hung over the sole a little, but the footwear would suffice until she could wear her own clothing. He took care of the other foot, and then retrieved the male clothing from the basket. The trousers, although of fine quality, had no chance of fitting. He looked at the cream colored, linen shirt, shrugged, and tried it on. Nope, that wasn’t going to work, either. He put on his shirt and socks from the day before, wrinkling his nose as he did so, and realized just how spoiled he’d become. With brisk efficiency, he donned his boots and tied them securely.
“Come,” he said as he stood and extended his hand toward his wife. Latasha pulled her gaze away from whatever she stared at out the window and obeyed, settling her palm against his.
The door opened to an empty corridor. Iosif shrugged, reassuring himself that his weapons and ammunition were in place on his person. The American president Ronald Reagan had been wise when he advised, “Trust, but verify.” Iosif would trust, but be ready to shoot his way out of there if needed.
He followed his nose to a bright, airy room where Pablo, his mother, and his sisters gathered for breakfast. The women sat clustered at the far end of the table, conversing quietly among themselves. They glanced up at Iosif and Latasha, but did not greet them.
“You are nearly too late,” the boy commented, his voice cool and self-possessed.
“My wife was ill,” Iosif replied. “Where are Gennady and Bogdan?”
“Your Bogdan is meeting with the priest now,” Pablo said. He gestured with a languid wave toward the buffet. “Please, help yourselves. There is plenty.”
“Thank you,” Iosif said. He drew Latasha toward the buffet and put a plate in her hand. “Did your father keep a physician on the grounds?”
“Yes, he did. Why?”
“Because he drugged my wife. I need to know what he gave her.”
“I shall summon him for you.”
“Thank you.”
Iosif put bits of fresh fruit and pastries on Latasha’s plate, then escorted her to the table. A servant rushed forward to lay clean silverware and pour a cup of coffee into a dainty china cup.
“I will get my own breakfast, lyubimaya,” he said softly and gave her shoulder a light squeeze of reassurance. “I will not leave your sight.”
Iosif returned to the buffet, took a plate and filled it. Latasha never took her eyes off him, silently communicating her terror of being abandoned to Ochobella mercy. Only when he returned to sit beside Latasha did she begin eating.
“Tell me about Bogdan,” Pablo commanded and took a sip of the dark, fragrant coffee in his cup.
“He is one of our best men, a skilled tracker, an accurate shot,” Iosif replied.
“Ah, a good soldier then.”
“Of course. The Bratva is disciplined.”
Pablo’s cheeks reddened a little a
t the implied insult. He narrowed his eyes at Iosif who returned his stare with unruffled calm. At least twice the boy’s age, he’d had a lot more experience in this sort of game.
“I would like to make you an offer,” the boy said, taking another sip of his coffee. “Stay. Recruit and train my men. You would be their commander.”
“Your offer is kind, but I must refuse. I am already pledged to the Bratva.”
“I could insist.”
“That would be foolish.”
“Then leave one of your men. If they are as good as you imply, then they would be pleased to command their own army.”
“We are Bratva, señor. There is no leaving the brotherhood, even if we should wish to do so.”
“I would make you or one of them a very wealthy man.”
“No, thank you.”
The boy suddenly smiled and laughed, an eerie sound of empty amusement. “I like you, José. That is your name in Spanish: José. You are loyal to your jefe.”
Footsteps alerted them to the arrival of more people. Iosif looked toward the door to see a short, squat man wearing a clerical collar. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip.
“Ah, we must be ready then,” Pablo announced.
Iosif shoveled a final mouthful of food into his mouth and gulped some coffee. Chert, that was truly excellent coffee! He almost didn’t put the cup down. The ladies at the far end of the table rose from their chairs and followed Pablo. Iosif and Latasha brought up the rear. The priest waddled as fast as dignity would allow to the small chapel which bore a tiny shrine to the Virgin Mary, a small bank of votive candles, a narrow altar, and a magnificently carved and gilded crucifix hanging behind the altar. Two columns of four pews offered seating.
Bogdan and Valentina knelt at a prie-dieu for two off to the right of the small altar. Gennady and his tawny-haired woman already occupied a pew near the back of the chapel. Pablo bowed toward the altar and slid into the front pew. His mother accompanied him. His sisters occupied the pew behind him.
“Todos, por favor arrodillarse,” the priest bade them. Pablo and his family all knelt. Iosif and Latasha followed suit, as did Gennady and his woman.
The priest glanced nervously at young Señor Ochobella, who nodded gravely back. He cleared his throat and launched into the fastest Catholic wedding ceremony Iosif had ever witnessed.
Dressed in white lace with a look of what was either trepidation or resignation, Valentina murmured her responses in obedience to the priest’s prompts. Not once did she glance at the tall, tattooed brute who knelt beside her. When the priest asked for the rings, Pablo’s newly widowed mother sniffled and pulled her own wedding band off her finger to hand to Bogdan who slid the warm metal over his bride’s finger.
The intimidated priest pronounced them husband and wife and congratulated them. He looked back at the young sociopath who now ruled the Ochobella cartel and, upon receiving permission, took his hasty leave.
“Wonderful!” Pablo crowed and clapped his hands. “Valentina, the servants will have packed your things. We will go to the airfield and you will fly to your new home.”
Bogdan rose to his feet and extended his hand toward his frightened and shy bride. She looked at his hand and ignored it, lifting her chin in silent defiance and rising to her feet without his assistance. Pablo’s eyes narrowed and his expression twisted with sudden fury as he approached his sister.
“Do not shame me,” he hissed at her in Spanish, leaving the threat unvoiced.
Bogdan grasped her hand and tucked it over his arm. “I will care for her now,” he said, his deep voice rumbling.
Once again all smiles, the boy nodded and clapped his hands. “This is a momentous occasion when the Russian Bratva and the Costa Rican Ochobella are united!”
Thus far watching everything in silence, Latasha now leaned over to Iosif and whispered so that only he could hear, “That kid is really creepy.”
Iosif smiled. His beloved wife would be all right.
Chapter 7
Pablo escorted them to the airfield where a six-passenger Sikorsky Seahawk waited. A servant jumped from the car and began loading Valentina’s luggage into the whirly-bird’s small cargo hold. Another vehicle pulled up. Iosif felt Latasha’s hand tremble in his.
“Ah, José, you wished to speak with my father’s physician. Here he is.”
The doctor swiveled to face the large, glowering man whom El Jefe’s son addressed. His eyes widened when he saw the pretty whore whom he’d last attended. His swarthy complexion turned ashen with fear. His patron’s eldest son unnerved him, but the icy fury in the big, pale foreigner’s eyes made him clench his sphincter to avoid soiling his pants. He saw his death in the big man’s eyes.
“José is now allied with the Ochobella,” the boy said, his tone light and conversational and all the more disturbing for its lack of menace. “What did you do to his wife?”
“I did as El Jefe ordered,” the physician replied in a desperate attempt to save his skin.
“I am El Jefe now,” Pablo said, every syllable clipped and sharp. “Tell me what you did to her.”
“I removed her hair—laser removal. Your father liked his whores bare.”
“And?”
“I dosed her with heroin to keep her compliant.”
“And?”
The physician snapped his jaw shut.
“Oh, God, he raped me,” Latasha muttered and sagged against Iosif.
“No, no he would not have done that,” Pablo murmured. “Papá would not have allowed it until he had finished with you.” He turned his cold expression toward the cringing physician. “What else?”
“I performed an endometrial ablation on her,” the physician blurted. “The women’s menstrual cycles are less of an inconvenience that way.”
“Oh, God,” Latasha wailed and wrapped her arms around herself.
“What is that?” Iosif asked.
Tears running down her face, Latasha answered, “He made it so I can’t have children.”
Icy fury burned through Iosif’s veins. Without a second thought, he pulled a gun and shot the physician. The doctor’s eyes bugged as the gunshot echoed, then went blank as he toppled over.
Pablo looked at the carcass and shrugged, his face expressionless. “I suppose I shall have to find another physician. No matter.”
Iosif holstered his pistol and gathered Latasha in his arms, muttering soft apologies in Russian. Pablo shrugged and said, “I had two of my men retrieve your belongings from the hotel. They are loaded in the helicopter. I will allow Bogdan a week or two to settle in with Valentina, and then I shall visit. You will inform your jefe that I wish to speak business with him.”
“Yes, I will tell him. His name is Maksim Andrupov.”
“Good to know. Have a good flight.”
With that, the young psychopath hopped back into his car and ordered his driver to return home. The three Russians and their women boarded the helicopter and informed the pilot of their final destination. In minutes the aircraft had lifted from the ground, and they flew toward freedom.
“What do you think Maksim will make of his new ally?” Gennady asked, switching automatically to Russian to be reasonably certain the women would not understand their conversation.
“Maksim might just kill him,” Iosif said.
“He’s just a kid, though.”
Bogdan shook his head and commented, “That one was never just a kid. If he were Russian…” He repressed a shudder of distaste.
“I wonder what Gia’s grandfather would make of him?” Iosif speculated.
“He’d kill the little bastard without a second thought,” Gennady answered.
The men lapsed into thoughtful silence, knowing that with sufficient provocation Cleveland’s capo di tutt'i capi could make that adolescent Costa Rican psychopath look like Mother Teresa.
“I think we’re going to need his assistance getting back into the U.S.A.,” Bogdan commented, casting a glance at the helicopter’s ceil
ing.
Iosif nodded in agreement. “He has better connections than Maksim, much as I hate to admit it. I’ll call Vitaly.”
A few minutes and a terse discussion later, Vitaly put Gia on the phone.
“Are you all right? Latasha? Is she okay?” Gia asked in a rush of words while a child called out “Mama!” in the background.
Iosif heard the low murmur of Vitaly soothing their daughter while her mama spoke on the phone, and then he answered, “She’ll be okay. She’s shaken, still scared. We need a favor from your grandfather.”
After a thick pause, Gia said, “You do realize that Grandpa doesn’t really do favors?”
“Gia, we’re coming back into the United States without proper documentation, with an illegal foreigner, and with weaponry. Unless you want us thrown into prison, please convince your grandfather to find a way for us to cross the border without getting caught and arrested.”
She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. What are you prepared to give?”
Iosif was tempted to answer that he’d give his first-born son, knowing now that Latasha could never have children; however, if Giuseppe Maglione ever discovered what had been done to Latasha—and he would, no doubt about that—then Iosif knew nothing would save him from the Mafioso’s keen-edged fury. That would then leave Latasha vulnerable, unprotected. No, he would not risk that.
He considered what he had in his savings account and offered that. Gia chuckled, “Grandpa will think that’s chump change. He’ll want something of real value.”
“He can’t have Latasha.”
“He won’t want Latasha. What else?”
“I have nothing else but my loyalty to Maksim and the Bratva.”
“Can I promise your loyalty to him? I think Grandpa would like having a Bratva interrogator and enforcer at his beck and call.”
“Maksim would never stand for it. He’ll have me killed.”
“I’ll explain that to Grandpa.”
Iosif sighed and thanked her for doing her best to help.
* * *
“We’re home, Latasha,” Iosif whispered into his sleeping wife’s ear. She murmured incoherently and rubbed her cheek against his arm. He ran the back of his knuckle down her cheek and said, “It’s time to wake up, moya lyubov.”
