by Holly Bargo
“You did the right thing, saving that girl,” Latasha praised him. She accepted the plate with her toast and thanked him.
He shook his head, but not in denial of her words. “Both sides committed atrocities and the populace hated us all with good reason.” He shrugged. “The Bratva is not good, but neither does it pretend to be. I found their honesty… refreshing.”
“And Mr. Maglione?” Latasha took a bite.
“I have only met him briefly two or three times,” Iosif said. “I am more familiar with Giovanni.”
“Giovanni’s hot.”
Iosif raised an eyebrow. Latasha took a sip of her coffee and giggled, a sound she never thought she’d make again.
“When Gia, Cecily, and I lived together, Giovanni would sometimes visit. He’d bring groceries for us, stuff we couldn’t afford, or he’d take us out to lunch or dinner. I always wondered why Gia lived in such poverty with us and asked him once. He said that if anyone in the family declined to join the family business, they were out. Mr. Maglione let them find their own way without the family’s money or influence behind them.”
“That’s probably a kindness,” Iosif commented.
She nodded. “Yes, it probably is. Anyway, we were grateful for Giovanni’s little gifts and going out under his escort was always entertaining. Women everywhere glared at us as if we’d stolen something of theirs. Or they drooled. There was lots of drool.” She smiled in fond remembrance. “He treated us like little sisters. A few of my classmates asked about him, but none of them would believe me when I said he never even made a pass at any of us. Well, of course, he wouldn’t make a pass at Gia. She’s his cousin.”
Iosif found it difficult to relate the brotherly description of Giovanni Maglione to the cool, calculating, and controlled man he knew. Perhaps, he thought, Giovanni saved his softer side for those whom he loved. Like Iosif himself did.
Latasha finished her toast and coffee. Iosif glanced at the clock on the wall.
“It’s time to go.”
She nodded and retreated to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Moments later, they were in his car. Just minutes before nine o’clock, they knocked on the door to Giuseppe Maglione’s office. A polished and coiffed receptionist buzzed them through.
“You must be Mr. Maglione’s nine o’clock appointment,” she said in greeting, offering them a meaningless, professional smile that showed no teeth.
“Yes.”
She gestured to a door to her right. “Go on in. He’s expecting you. Mr. Andrupov is already here.”
They followed her instructions and entered the mob boss’ plush office. Although appointed with a mahogany desk the size of an aircraft carrier, acres of thick carpet that deadened sound, state-of-the-art computer equipment, and a view overlooking Lake Erie, the room felt bare. A painting—an original by an artist Latasha did not recognize and probably never would—hung on a wall. A small wet bar was discreetly tucked into another wall. Bookshelves contained only a handful of actual books, plus a few expensive looking knickknacks.
Sitting in a leather chair, Maksim greeted them. Iosif replied with polite courtesy.
“You are unharmed?” the Bratva’s chief inquired.
“Yes, thank you. I am deeply grateful,” Latasha replied. “And please convey my thanks to Olivia for the lotion.”
“My Livvy is good woman,” Maksim declared with a nod and a small smile.
“Thank you for being punctual,” Giuseppe Maglione said, announcing his presence as he entered the office from a side door. He gestured to Iosif and Latasha. “Please, sit.”
They did so.
Without preamble, Gia’s grandfather sat in his chair behind the desk and got straight to business. “Maksim, you owe me for ensuring your man and his wife came home safely.”
Maksim’s eyes narrowed, but he could not deny it. “Da.”
Giuseppe folded his hands together, index fingers steepled. “I understand the value of loyalty and will not ask that you transfer Iosif’s service to me. Although he has an excellent reputation for what he does, I do not need another interrogator or enforcer.”
Maksim’s shoulders relaxed just the tiniest bit in relief. He nodded. The mafia don turned his icy gaze to Latasha and said, “I am in need of a nurse.”
Latasha’s jaw dropped. Iosif’s jaw dropped. Before he could protest, the older man raised his hand and commanded their silent attention.
“My health is not good. In fact, it is deteriorating rapidly,” he said, his voice calm and sure. Latasha did not think his was the voice of a man who feared death. “Giovanni will assume leadership shortly while I enjoy my remaining time.”
“What has that to do with me?” Maksim inquired.
“I require your assurance that you will adhere to our current cooperative relationship,” Giovanni replied. “Any transfer of power and authority makes an organization vulnerable. Both Giovanni and I would prefer to remain allies with the Bratva.”
Maksim raised an eyebrow. Latasha frowned and wished she had that small, but effective, talent.
“Latasha will resign from her employment at the hospital and serve as my nurse.”
“Mr. Maglione—” Latasha began, but a wave of his hand cut her off.
“I have discussed this with my physician. I have no desire to be hospitalized and treated just to prolong my life for another few months.” He directed his dark, cold gaze at Latasha who no longer knew how to respond or even if she should. “I have perhaps five or six months to live. You will deliver palliative care.”
“Cancer?” she finally asked, hating the way her voice squeaked.
He nodded. “Pancreatic.” He paused to let that sink in, then continued. “Once I have passed, Latasha will be free to find other employment. Giovanni will consider the debt to me paid.”
“And if my wife does not agree to do this?” Iosif asked.
“Then the invoice for my organization’s services will bankrupt you and your boss,” the mafia don replied. Latasha heard no glee, no greed, no hostility in the old man’s voice. For all the emotion displayed, he could have been discussing the weather.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Latasha, are you sure?” Iosif asked, his voice a faint whisper.
She nodded. “I—I don’t think I can go back to the emergency room just yet. And as Mr. Maglione’s nurse, I should have some protection.”
Giuseppe Maglione nodded. “My granddaughter thinks of you as a sister and so you shall be as a granddaughter to me, as well. You will be safe within my household.”
“Would I have to move in?” Latasha asked, knowing that the rapid advance of the aggressive cancer would soon necessitate ’round-the-clock care.
“Yes.”
“What about Iosif?”
“I cannot have a Bratva soldier living in my home. You understand that.”
“He’s my husband.”
“No.”
“What about hiring a second nurse when ’round-the-clock care becomes necessary? After all, I can’t be expected to stay awake twenty-four-seven.”
“No.”
Seeing that Gia’s grandfather wasn’t about to explain himself, she sighed. She thought about the timeline. Could she endure three months or longer parted from Iosif? Did she have a choice?
“Iosif will be permitted to visit overnight sometimes, stay for a day or an entire weekend,” she said in an effort to negotiate.
“No. But you may have a few hours off now and then to see him off-property. And he may visit you in the public rooms of the house for a few hours each week.”
“Latasha?” Iosif inquired.
“It’ll be like taking care of a baby,” she whispered back. “I’ll be on-call all day every day, but I’ll sleep when he sleeps. Just like caring for a baby.”
The irony did not escape her.
“I cannot bear to lose you.”
Her heart constricted. She took his hand in hers. “You won’t lose me. We’ll visit often.”
/> Iosif’s dark gaze penetrated hers for a long moment. Then he nodded, though he did not look happy.
Looking back at the mafia don, she said, “I’ll do it. But I won’t move in until you require ’round-the-clock care.”
Giuseppe Maglione nodded his acceptance of her terms. He placed his hands flat on the desktop and pushed himself upright. “Thank you for coming. I am pleased we could come to an agreement.”
Chapter 9
Summarily dismissed from the don’s presence, Latasha, Iosif, and Maksim allowed themselves to be escorted out by none other than Giovanni Maglione himself. As soon as the office door closed behind him, he said in a quiet voice, “I appreciate your willingness to agree to Grandfather’s terms, Latasha.”
She flashed her eyes at him and replied, “I’m not all that willing, Giovanni.”
He nodded, his dark chocolate gaze cool and assessing. “Regardless, you have my gratitude. He will not agree to moving to a hospital, and finding a nurse we can trust is not easy.” He glanced at Iosif and added, “I will do my best to see that you and Latasha have as much time together as possible.”
Iosif nodded in silent appreciation. Giovanni, he thought, was eerily like his grandfather, but the younger man had more compassion.
“I will see that Giancarla visits you, too,” the Italian mobster promised.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Giovanni,” Latasha retorted, though her voice did not scold. “She answers to Vitaly.”
“And Vitaly answers to me,” Maksim muttered.
“I’ll put in my two-week notice at the hospital,” Latasha said when they reached the building’s impressive lobby.
“You may not have two weeks,” Giovanni murmured. “The cancer is advanced.”
She nodded. “I’ll need to see his medical records and his physician’s orders for hospice care.”
“I’ll have them for you tomorrow morning.”
She shook hands with Gia’s cousin and led the two big Russians from the building.
“Well, that was unexpected,” she commented after huffing a breath of surprise.
“Latasha,” Maksim said, “if you do not wish to do this, then we will support your decision.”
Her eyebrows went skyward in astonishment. That was a change of attitude she hadn’t expected.
“I erred with Pyotr,” he admitted with a frown, referring to the consequences of his refusal to allow the former enforcer to retire from service. “I do not make the same mistake twice.”
Latasha held her jaw closed with effort. Maksim Andrupov never admitted an error. She cleared her throat and replied, “No, it’s okay. This won’t last forever and maybe Ochobella’s people will forget all about us.”
“Nyet,” Iosif contradicted her. “They will not forget, but they will not come after us, either.”
“Why don’t you think so? I’ve heard of La Eme. They’re everywhere.”
“La Eme is Mexican,” Iosif explained. “Ochobella’s organization is small. They know they cannot compare against the Bratva. Why do you think the boy gave his sister to Bogdan? He needs an alliance to strengthen his cartel.”
“Oh.” Feeling somewhat chastened, Latasha seized upon mention of Bogdan’s marriage to change the subject. “How are Bogdan and Valentina doing?”
Maksim shook his head, his mouth curling into an unwilling smile. “Affection is ruining all my best men.”
“What does that mean, Maksim?”
“Never you mind.”
“Humph.”
Gennady hopped from Maksim’s limousine and opened the door for his boss. He nodded to Iosif and asked Latasha, “You okay, girl?”
Yet another surprise. Latasha wondered if she were hallucinating. Gennady never asked after anyone. He made even taciturn Iosif seem loquacious. She decided it must have meant he cared in his own weird fashion.
“I’m okay,” she assured him and favored him with a small smile as Maksim took his seat.
“Good,” he said with curt nod.
“How’s Suzanne?” she inquired.
Gennady’s eyes took on a glittering, intense focus, and Latasha found herself taking a step backward to lean against Iosif’s solid strength. She took comfort in the burly arm that wrapped around her and held her safe.
“Perfect,” the whipcord lean man replied after a second’s thought.
Latasha wanted to whimper, wondering just what Gennady had done, was doing, would do to that poor woman. In the next moment she decided that perhaps she really did not want to know.
“Just tell me she’s consenting,” she whispered.
“Da.”
The car door closed and the conversation ended.
“You shouldn’t push him, Latasha,” Iosif warned her as they walked to his car and climbed in.
“What do you mean?” she demanded with a spark of her old feistiness. “I just want to make sure that Suzanne consents to what he does with her. She’s been victimized enough, don’t you think?”
Iosif pondered what to tell her. He did not want to divulge that Gennady did indeed hurt women when ordered to do so. He did not want to tell her that he rather thought Gennady enjoyed it. He hoped that Gennady’s apparent fascination with Suzanne translated into caring for her, rather than exploiting her. Instead, he simply replied, “I understand.”
Latasha flashed him a suspicious glance, but did not press for further explanation. She wasn’t at all sure that he would explain himself if she did demand it. He seldom did. Besides, she had enough problems of her own to worry about before fretting over someone else’s.
Without a word, Iosif swung by the hospital. When he parked the car, Latasha looked at him and took a deep breath.
“Shall I accompany you?” he asked.
She took another deep breath and shook her head. “No, I need to do this myself.”
Iosif nodded and then added, “You realize that by accepting this position with Giuseppe Maglione, you won’t be able to work in that hospital again.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve just agreed to work for the mob. They’re not going to release you all that readily.”
“But Giuseppe said—”
“Giovanni will call you back to patch up an enforcer who gets hurt, a wise guy who takes a bullet in the shoulder or leg, a family member who catches an illness.”
Latasha swallowed the lump of fear that rose in her throat. She leaned her head back and took a few calming breaths.
“It’s really just that easy, isn’t it?” she muttered. “They’ve hooked their tame nurse, and now I’m truly caught.”
Iosif took her cold hand in his warm one. “If it helps, I don’t think Giovanni will abuse your goodwill more than necessary.”
“Do you think maybe he’ll let me find a job elsewhere, like in a doctor’s office?”
Iosif nodded. “I do. But you’ll be at his beck and call. If he needs you, you will be obligated to go to him.”
She made the connection. “Like you are with Maksim.”
He nodded and repeated his offer to accompany her into the hospital to resign her position. She again refused the offer and almost giggled at the thought of her big, muscular, dour husband glaring down the arrogant, belligerent head nurse who would likely erupt into rapid-fire Spanish either extolling Iosif’s physical virtues or castigating one of her best emergency room nurses for quitting so abruptly.
Latasha straightened her shoulders and spine and walked inside to face the head nurse who certainly wouldn’t expect her to show up before her vacation officially ended. Iosif waited patiently in the car, his gaze lingering on the sway of her taut, rounded backside as she walked. The time passed slowly, but he did not turn on the radio or play games on his smartphone. He had more self-discipline than that. Instead, he kept a watchful eye on the comings and goings in the parking lot. His interest piqued when he spied a Hispanic man walk through the doors. He would not normally have locked his sight on the man, except for
the man’s sloppy dress and telltale tattoos.
Iosif eased from the car and followed the man into the hospital. He paused a discrete distance from the man, far enough away to preserve the illusion of privacy, but close enough to eavesdrop. The man addressed the receptionist in rapid Spanish of which Iosif caught one word: Drakoniv.
The bilingual receptionist responded in kind and directed the man to sit in the waiting room. The man nodded and glanced at Iosif as he strolled over to the waiting room to take a seat. His eyes widened a little upon seeing the other man, but the short sleeves and open collar of Iosif’s shirt revealed no tattoos inked on the pale skin. Seeing the lack of identifying ink, the man’s tense posture and wary expression relaxed into false complacency.
Iosif had no tattoos at all. He’d realized early that ink could identify him either to enemy combatants or to law enforcement as well or better than a photograph of his face.
“May I help you?” the receptionist inquired in a bored tone.
“No, thank you,” he replied and walked over to the waiting room where he took a seat next to the tattooed thug, whose muscles tensed, ready for action.
“I am Drakoniv. What do you want?” he addressed the man without preamble.
The thug’s eyes widened in surprise, but otherwise he showed no reaction. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, chico.”
“What’s your interest in my wife, malchik?” Iosif countered, trading slur for slur.
“This ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ you.”
Iosif shifted and unobtrusively brought his hand up behind the thug. He settled his fingers on top of the man’s shoulder and pinched the nerve. The thug gasped in pain.
“You and yours will leave my wife alone, or I will kill every last one of you,” Iosif murmured in a conversational tone as his strong grip delivered crushing pressure. “Unless you want Maksim Andrupov and Giuseppe Maglione both after you?”
The thug’s swarthy skin turned pale with dread. “No, I want no trouble.”
Iosif released the pressure and patted the man’s shoulder. “Good. We keep the peace and no one gets hurt or dies, hm?”
