Russian Love: Books 1 - 3: Russian Lullaby, Russian Gold & Russian Dawn

by Holly Bargo

  She opened her eyes and blinked. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Not too long,” he assured her. “Come. Gia’s grandfather has sent people to meet us and make sure we cross the border undetected.”

  “Gia’s grand—oh, shit,” she muttered. “What did that cost you?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he answered honestly. “But whatever it is, it is worth the cost to get you back home where I can keep you safe.”

  She glanced around, gaze alighting on Bogdan who stood with his arm draped protectively around Valentina. “Poor girl,” she murmured.

  Iosif’s dark eyes followed the direction of her gaze. “He will treat her well.”

  “And what about the woman with Gennady? She tried to help me. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “He will give her her freedom when he is finished with her.”

  Latasha shuddered and thought that the poor girl might not be in any condition to enjoy her freedom when Gennady finished with her. She looked at them as Iosif escorted her from the aircraft and wondered. From the care and consideration he showed the southern blonde, that the ugly, wiry man appeared to offer protection to the woman. Or maybe his solicitation of her merely took into consideration her current broken state before he could heal her and then break her again. She hoped Gennady had found the woman who could ease his dark soul.

  Chill wind whipped around them as they stepped from the helicopter. Latasha looked around, but did not see any sign of civilization.

  “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere on the coast of Oregon or Washington, I’m not sure which. California’s too populated.”

  Latasha heard several thuds and turned around to see the pilot tossing luggage out of the helicopter’s tiny cargo hold onto the ground. There wasn’t much, so he finished the task quickly and returned to the controls. A moment later the helicopter’s blades whirred and the aircraft lifted into the sky. It hovered for a second, then veered off to disappear into the dark night.

  “He’s not flying with any lights,” Latasha murmured.

  “Of course, not. No lights makes it harder for the authorities to see him or catch him.”

  “That’s got to be dangerous.”

  “Fucking dangerous,” he agreed. “Which means either the pilot is extremely good, really desperate, or simply stupid.”

  “I’m voting for all three.”

  Bogdan approached on silent feet and nudged Iosif’s arm. Latasha stifled a gasp. Damn those big, spooky Russians who could move so silently and quickly! She got her breathing under control and looked around again, nervous and more than a little afraid. Valentina stood only a few feet away, her chocolate eyes wide and frightened in the faint light of a waning crescent moon. Latasha stepped toward her and extended a hand.

  In slow, simplistic Spanish, she said, “Bogdan’s a good man. He won’t hurt you.”

  Valentina gave her a small, tight smile. “I speak English.”

  Latasha repeated her reassurance in English. Valentina’s expression showed that she really didn’t believe the other woman’s words, but the young woman had no other option but to stick by her new husband’s side. Her fate did not surprise her. Valentina knew what her father had planned and would have lived the rest of her life making the best of a bad situation, regardless of whether he had married her off to another drug cartel’s prince or this hulking, pale brute who found no discomfort in what was, to her, freezing temperatures.

  Iosif’s phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket. “Da?”

  The others waited patiently while he received his instructions. When the call ended, he swiped his thumb over the screen to the GPS and maps application and said, “We have thirty minutes to reach our rendezvous point. Giuseppe Maglione’s men are keeping the authorities distracted. He will have a car meet us.”

  The men hoisted the heavier pieces of luggage, and the women shouldered the smaller cases. Everyone began walking, following Iosif over rough terrain for which they were not adequately dressed. Progress was slow. The women stumbled frequently, but no one complained. With barely a few minutes to spare, they crested a small rise to see a long limousine gleaming in the darkness.

  Somehow, Latasha could not find it within her to be surprised that Giuseppe Maglione would send a limousine. At least there would be sufficient room for everyone to sit.

  “Halt!” came an unfriendly order.

  Practically reeling with exhaustion, Latasha blinked, belatedly noticing the man who pointed an Uzi at them.

  “I am Iosif Drakoniv. You are expecting us.”

  The man with the Uzi nodded and lowered the firearm’s muzzle. “Had to make sure,” he said without apology. “Get in quickly.”

  Another man opened the trunk of the car and gestured at them to dump their luggage and other cargo in there. They complied without comment and clambered into the limo’s spacious interior.

  As soon as the doors closed, the driver said, “We’re driving overland to Cleveland. Mr. Maglione doesn’t want to risk the feds’ notice with a flight plan.”

  Iosif nodded his understanding and gestured with his hand for the man to continue speaking.

  “We’ll make a few short pit stops along the way, but we won’t stop for the night at any hotels. Meals will be fast food.”

  Iosif nodded again. He’d expected no less. The women might find the constant movement and poor rations difficult to endure, but they would have to accept it as the price for returning home unnoticed by federal, state, and local law enforcement.

  “How long will this take?” Latasha asked, her voice a weak whisper.

  “Four days,” he answered as the vehicle rolled forward, powerful engine purring.

  She heaved a sigh. “We won’t smell good by then.”

  He nuzzled her hair and murmured, “Moya lyubov, you always smell good to me. And you taste even better.”

  “I don’t know how you can still want me after… after…” Her voice died away.

  “I love you. I will always want you,” he reassured her.

  “But I can’t have babies.”

  “Then I will never have to share you.”

  He drew her in close, snuggled her against his side.

  “You always know what to say.”

  He heard the tears in her voice. Iosif grunted softly and replied, “I learned from Vitaly’s and Pyotr’s mistakes.”

  The group held their quiet, keeping their thoughts to themselves. After a few hours, the driver pulled into the drive-through lane of a burger chain. He relayed their orders. After the orders were delivered, he pulled the car toward the rear of the parking lot. Everyone took turns heading for the restrooms. Once their physical needs were taken care of, the limousine once again rolled down the highway. Their next stop took place at a fuel station. Cognizant of the CCTV cameras, no one but the driver exited the vehicle.

  Boredom quickly set in and conversation began in desultory fashion. Confined in such close quarters and losing her fear of the men, Valentina’s reserve dissipated. Latasha found herself charmed by the young woman’s dry wit and astute observations, as well as her awe of the vastness and varied geography of her new country. Bogdan frequently reminded himself that the back seat of a limousine with his colleagues and their women was no place to fuck his wife.

  She was his now and she deserved better.

  He noticed that Iosif also appeared to struggle with the desire to bury himself inside Latasha’s slender body. Gennady usually had no such restraint, but apparently decided to exercise self-control in respect to his comrades. Iosif and Bogdan watched him closely. Typically, they paid no attention to the women with whom the wiry, hawk-nosed man dallied, but they noticed his attentiveness and care toward this one.

  For his part, Gennady disliked Suzanne’s dull resignation and fear. He wanted to excite her, not grind what was left of her into dust. He set himself to a task he never before bothered to attempt: putting a woman at ease in his presence. First, he had to reassure her that
he would not harm her. Then he had to reassure her that she would like what he’d do to her.

  Her time as a prisoner of the Ochobella cartel did not make that easy.

  Three nights later, the limousine crossed the state line into Ohio.

  “Almost home,” the driver announced. “Just a few more hours.”

  “How did you get to the West Coast so quickly?” Latasha finally asked, puzzled. “We weren’t in the air nearly this long.”

  “Never been to Ohio,” the driver said. “But my capo owed Mr. Maglione a favor and was glad to pay it off.”

  Relief knowing the end of their long, long drive mixed with anticipation at finally arriving home. The other man who shared driving duties placed a call and spoke rapid Italian to whoever answered. When the call ended, he twisted around in the seat to address the passengers: “Mr. Maglione welcomes you back to Ohio. Mr. and Mrs. Drakoniv, you’re permitted to rest in the comfort of your own bed tonight. Mr. Maglione will see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning at his office.” The man took a breath and continued. “He says Mr. Andrupov will join you then.”

  Iosif nodded, not wasting any time wondering how Giuseppe Maglione dared command Maksim Andrupov.

  “Wow,” Latasha muttered under her breath. She hadn’t thought that anyone could command Maksim Andrupov. Apparently, she’d been wrong.

  Chapter 8

  Latasha stood in the bathroom, feeling awkward. Iosif had kindly offered to allow her to take a shower first and use up all the hot water. She appreciated that, especially since she felt grimy and knew that she’d never wear those clothes again. Hell, she’d probably never leave Ohio again. Cecily and Pyotr would just have to come north to visit.

  Her mind skittered away from what would happen after the shower. Forcing herself to face cold fact, she acknowledged that she had not been raped. She’d missed her appointment on El Jefe’s schedule and did not regret it. But she’d still been violated. Her skin burned with the lingering pain of laser hair removal which wasn’t supposed to be performed in one session. The unpleasant discharge from her vagina and the lingering discomfort there continually reminded her that, even though her periods would now be drastically reduced or even eliminated, pregnancy was no longer an option. Even if she did manage to conceive—highly unlikely now—then the risks of carrying the child to term lowered to almost nil.

  Latasha hadn’t been certain she wanted children, but she was certain she resented having the choice taken from her.

  She stepped under the nearly scalding water and washed her hair first, tenderly probing what remained of the lump on her head. It still hurt, but not as badly. Then she grabbed her shower puff. Squirting her favorite white tea-and-ginger scented shower gel on it, she scrubbed her body, rinsed, and scrubbed again. She ignored the pain induced by the nylon puff against already sensitive skin. She felt dirty, and, if necessary, she’d scrub until she bled to feel clean again.

  She didn’t realize the water had run cold until it shut off. She looked up, puzzled.

  “Come, lyubimaya,” he said, his voice quiet and gentle as he removed the shower puff from her hand and set it on the soap tray.

  Latasha’s green eyes darkened with tears even as Iosif took her hand in his and he led her from the shower. Belatedly, she noticed his hair was wet and his skin damp and pink from his own shower. Oh, that was right, his house had two full bathrooms.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks as Iosif carefully patted her dry with a soft towel and then smoothed a soothing, cooling lotion over her reddened, raw skin. She didn’t recognize its herbal scent. He must have heard her sniffing.

  “Olivia sent it over,” Iosif said, his voice quiet and carefully neutral. “She guessed you’d feel like this.”

  “Olivia,” Latasha repeated in a whisper.

  “Da. You know enough of her story to know she will understand what you feel.” He circled one delicate ankle with his hand and said, “Lift your foot.”

  She lifted her foot and leaned against the counter as he massaged Olivia’s lotion into the sole and between her toes. She glanced down and gulped audibly. His erection tented his boxers.

  Iosif correctly interpreted her fear. Redirecting his attention from her foot to her face, he said, “Nothing will happen that you do not want. Nothing.”

  “But… but you…” Her voice died away, lost in uncertainty.

  “I am no beast unable to control myself,” he reassured her with the steadiness of his gaze and voice. “If you will tolerate it, I will hold you in my arms tonight.”

  Latasha wasn’t sure whether she felt ashamed or relieved. She decided to focus on relief. Iosif would be gentle and patient. He would not hurt her. The man who wielded knives, guns, and fists with equal skill would never harm her.

  Her jerky nod of agreement triggered an upswell of relief. Until that moment, Iosif hadn’t realized how much he feared his wife’s rejection.

  He set down her foot and turned his attention to her other leg. She hissed when the cool lotion initially touched her raw skin, then sighed as Olivia’s herbal concoction worked its soothing magic. He didn’t know what was in that stuff, but he owed his boss’ wife a debt of gratitude.

  When he finished treating her skin, he took her hand and led her to their bed.

  “Sit,” he bade her.

  She sat, blinking slowly.

  Without discussion, Iosif pulled an old tee shirt from the dresser and a pair of her cotton panties—one of the pairs she preferred during certain times of the month when comfort took precedence over sexiness. “Arms up.”

  She raised her arms, and he slid the soft cotton garment over her.

  “I’m going to comb out your hair now.” The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled down behind her.

  She lowered her arms and sat still while he gently and patiently worked a comb through the damp tangles, taking extra care around the tender lump on her scalp. She hadn’t thought to use conditioner before scrubbing her skin raw.

  When he finished, he drew the covers back. She obediently moved, lying down and resting her head on the pillow. The dip of the mattress rolled her back against him as he climbed in behind her. Iosif wrapped his brawny arms around her and held her close against him. She listened to the slow draw of his breath and the steady beat of his heart, felt the solidity and heat of his flesh. His erection prodded her, but he made no move to take advantage.

  Iosif’s warm breath wafted over her cheek. It smelled of mint. “Sleep, Latasha. You are safe.”

  Obediently, she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, relaxing in the security of her husband’s embrace.

  The next morning, she awoke alone in the king-sized bed. She lay there a moment and pondered on that. Did Iosif not want her anymore because she couldn’t have children? Did he see her as soiled and damaged beyond redemption? Or had he simply done the considerate thing and removed any unwelcome pressure she might have felt to take care of his morning erection because she was his wife and that was her marital duty?

  She snorted at her own melodrama. Iosif, she told herself sternly, was merely being kind. She lay there a moment longer and realized her bladder needed relief. Now. After visiting the bathroom to take care of that biological necessity, she washed her face and hands, pulled her unruly hair into a bushy ponytail, and got dressed. In minutes, she joined Iosif in the kitchen, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved oxford shirt. The outfit was probably too casual for a meeting with Giuseppe Maglione, but Latasha couldn’t find it within herself to care. She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to wear anything flattering or sexy again.

  “Dobroye utro. I was just about to wake you up,” Iosif commented in a mild tone as he poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Eggs?”

  She shook her head and returned his greeting. “Good morning. Just toast, please.”

  He nodded and popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

  “Do you know what Mr. Maglione is going to want?” she asked.

  “N
o,” Iosif replied, although he could hazard a guess. Maksim, he knew might bluster and protest, but he was too wily to outright defy the Italian mob boss. Maksim claimed respect and held power, but next to Giuseppe Maglione, he resembled the prince of a small country compared to the emperor of a mighty empire.

  “Y—you wouldn’t leave Maksim, would you?”

  “That is for Maksim to decide, but I do not think he will relinquish me easily.”

  Latasha nodded. The Bratva chief, after all, had not released Vitaly after the Montoya thing. Although, she admitted to herself, Vitaly no longer tortured people for a living as Maksim prepared him to inherit his position in place of the son he never had. She looked at Iosif from beneath her eyelashes. Her husband had taken over that duty and it had changed him. In the past two years, she had seen Iosif grow colder, harder. It took a terrible toll on him even as he perfected his cruel skills.

  Come to think of it, she’d never seen Iosif so relaxed and at ease as he’d been during the first precious days of their honeymoon.

  “I know you were a soldier, but what did you do back in Russia?” she asked, wanting to know more about how he’d allowed himself to be drawn into the seedy, violent underworld.

  His expression turned bleak and hard, but he did not prevaricate or shy from the bald truth. “I killed the wrong man.”

  Latasha gasped and flinched beneath the big man’s flinty gaze. She knew him well enough, though, to understand that held himself hard and cold as stone in order to withstand pain. She reached across the table to settle her hand over his. “Tell me.”

  The toaster popped. Iosif rose from his chair to tend to his wife’s breakfast.

  “I was in Chechnya,” he began as he scraped butter over the toasted bread. “We took back a village that had fallen under Islamic rule. I was patrolling and heard a commotion, a scream. I investigated.” He paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “One of the commanding officers was raping a Muslim girl. She was hardly more than a child. I killed him. The Bratva saved me from court martial with my agreement to serve them after discharge.”