by Holly Bargo
Besides, the food was amazing.
Latasha ate until she could eat no more, which wasn’t quite enough to satisfy the housekeeper. Or the cook.
“I send Mario to fetch you for lunch,” the housekeeper said as she led Latasha to Giuseppe’s luxurious suite of chambers. With a knock, she opened the door, not bothering to wait for the capo’s response.
“You are tardy,” Giuseppe said by way of greeting. Dressed impeccably in a fine business suit, he sat in a sturdy leather armchair with an open binder on his lap.
The housekeeper fisted her hands on her hips and broke into a voluble and angry-sounding explanation that his nurse was not tardy, only underfed and in obvious danger of wasting away, and how dared he expect the poor girl to work when she was clearly in danger of starving to death? Of course, she would not tolerate the poor, skinny girl being worked to death. No one in her household would go hungry, and this girl was surely going hungry, and Signor Maglione would not gainsay her.
Although Latasha understood not a single word of the housekeeper’s rant, she nonetheless got the gist and—wonder of wonders—shared a glance of amusement with her patient at the housekeeper’s new mission of feeding this chick placed under her care.
“Of course, you are correct,” Giuseppe murmured to soothe his formidable housekeeper. “I trust you to make sure my nurse is sufficiently nourished.”
“Bene,” the woman huffed with a nod of satisfaction. “I bring your tea in one hour. You will drink it all, Giuseppe.”
“Of course,” he murmured with a meek nod.
Thus mollified, the housekeeper turned on her heel. She gave Latasha a smile and a pat on the cheek and murmured, “Bella.”
“As you can see, Latasha, there are others more fearsome than I,” the don commented with a small chuckle.
“She’s a force of nature,” Latasha agreed, glancing at the door and then back at her employer. “But she means well, I’m sure.”
He nodded. “She thinks you’re pretty. If you were Italian, she’d be pushing you at Giovanni.”
“I’m perfectly happy with my Russian, Mr. Maglione.”
Giuseppe nodded. “Iosif is a good man: strong, loyal, smart.”
“The best,” she agreed in a mild tone. “Now, I need to see your medical chart to make sure I take proper care of you.”
He waved a languid hand toward a side table. Latasha walked over to the table and picked up the thick manila folder. She opened it and began reading, assimilating the medical terminology that basically meant Giuseppe would probably die sooner than he expected.
“Is your doctor expected today?” she asked, setting the folder down.
“This afternoon,” he answered.
She glanced at him and noted the lines of pain that bracketed his mouth and radiated from the corners of his eyes. “I cannot administer any drugs to you until your doctor approves it.”
He nodded and gestured to the book on his lap. “I dislike television. Will you read to me? I find my vision is not what it used to be.”
Latasha nodded and picked up the book. She sat down and, after verifying where to begin, read aloud. After about an hour, as promised, the housekeeper entered with a tray. She set the tray, laden with a silver teapot, two china cups, and delectable morsels for snacking on another small table. With deft efficiency, she poured, adding a splash of milk and a dollop of honey. Handing the cup into Giuseppe’s hand, she filled a small plate with tiny, crustless sandwiches and other delicacies to tempt his appetite and set it on his lap.
“Grazie,” he murmured and took a sip of his tea, politely waiting while the housekeeper fixed Latasha a cup of tea and plate of snacks. The nurse thanked the old woman, mimicking Giuseppe’s precisely enunciated diction.
The old woman patted her cheek and smiled, then took her leave.
“We’ll never eat all this,” Latasha moaned as she looked at the heaping tray.
“No, but Bianca won’t know that,” Giuseppe agreed with a small smile. He called out, “Paolo.”
A teenaged boy who looked like a much younger and innocent version of Giovanni answered the summons. “Sì, Nonno?”
Giuseppe smiled at the boy and waved his hand at the tray. “Bianca brought snacks, if you and your brothers are hungry.”
“Oh, we’re always hungry, Nonno,” the boy enthused, eyes lighting up. He glanced at Latasha, nodded, and murmured a polite hello. Returning his attention to the more important matter of filling a perpetually empty belly, he asked, “How much may we have, Nonno?”
“Take it all, boy. I know how much boys like you eat.”
“Thanks, Nonno!” the boy replied with a brilliant smile as he lifted the tray.
“Bring the tray back within twenty minutes.”
“Sì, Nonno,” Paolo replied and carried his loot from the room before such generosity could be rescinded.
“He’s a handsome boy,” Latasha complimented her employer. She did not lie. The boy exemplified the masculine beauty that young Italian males seemed to exhibit with careless flair.
“Paolo has a straight gut and a hollow leg,” the old man quipped, his expression fond. With a small wave of his hand, he added, “That one is an artist. He will not join the family business, but his skill will take him far. I have already secured an apprenticeship for him with Ferrari when he comes of age. He wishes to design cars.”
Latasha managed not to gape.
In between bites of her snacks, which she really was too full to have even contemplated eating even though they were so incredibly delicious, she resumed reading to her employer. He listened intently, occasionally interrupting her to request she repeat a sentence or to ask her to go back to a certain page to verify an assertion. She found herself impressed by the old man’s nearly perfect recall and frightening perception as he jotted down notes in Italian.
He directed Latasha to press a button, which turned on an intercom. His voice crisp with authority, Giuseppe Maglione summoned one of his vice presidents to present himself immediately. Latasha could hear the anxiety in the man’s voice as he responded obediently.
A short time later, she opened the door to admit the poor schmuck who’d been summoned to face down Giuseppe and explain why certain aspects of the family business did not net the expected profits. Although perspiration misted his upper lip and he held himself stiffly, the man explained the report.
“What do you intend to do about it?” the old man asked, his tone deceptively mild.
The man audibly gulped and hesitantly offered a few ideas while Giuseppe listened attentively. When he finished speaking, the don nodded and asked, “Have you discussed this with Giovanni?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied.
“Bene. You will follow his direction and keep me informed. I shall expect an update in five days.”
The man’s shoulders sagged with relief.
“If you do not turn this around quickly, there will be consequences,” Giuseppe added, his tone still mild.
The man nodded and fled. Latasha caught the terror in the man’s eyes as he walked toward the door. She wondered just what those consequences would be if Giuseppe did not find the next report satisfactory. Then she decided she did not wish to know.
The less she knew, the better.
“I need not tell you that nothing you learn here must be spoken of to anyone,” the old man commented, his voice retaining that frighteningly mild, conversational tone.
She glanced at him and met his icy, implacable gaze. She swallowed the lump of fear that filled her throat and replied, “Of course not. I don’t divulge my patients’ private affairs.”
“Bene.”
The rattle of cutlery heralded the arrival of Giuseppe’s lunch, rolled in on a cart. Latasha stifled a groan. More food. So much more food.
“I will take Latasha to the kitchen. She must not spend all her time with an old man. She needs young people,” Bianca declared.
Giuseppe’s expression warmed with amusement. He glanc
ed toward Latasha and said, “Go with her. She needs a new chick to coddle. Return in an hour.”
Latasha nodded and thanked him, grateful to escape even if she had to force herself to stuff her belly overfull with yet more food.
“Did he give his snacks to those boys?” Bianca asked her when the door closed behind them.
“You know about that?” Latasha blurted.
“I know everything that goes on in my house,” the old woman replied with a snort. “It amuses Giuseppe to think he fools me. And I like to make sure that all my boys are well fed. Young boys should eat well and often.”
“You’re a brave woman, standing up to him,” Latasha murmured, shaking her head.
“I’ve known Giuseppe Maglione since we were children,” the housekeeper said. “I know all his weaknesses, as he knows mine. We are old friends. Our families are old friends and ancient allies.”
Latasha wondered why he’d not married this old friend of the family, but kept her mouth shut.
“His was an arranged marriage,” the old woman said with a haughty sniff of disapproval, as though she read Latasha’s mind. “Giancarla was beautiful, but cold. I was more mother to their children than she was.”
Latasha maintained her silence.
“Now Giovanni must marry soon. He needs a wife to love, children to settle him.”
“I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot pole,” Latasha muttered.
“Of course, not. You’re already married. I saw that big Russian who claimed you.” The housekeeper waggled her eyebrows and grinned. “Big man like that must have a big cock, eh? He keeps you well satisfied in bed, no?”
Latasha choked on a gasp and blushed.
Bianca led her to the kitchen table where several other household staff sat. The cook slapped a plate down on the table in front of her and ordered, “Mangia.”
Latasha murmured a polite thank-you and forced herself to eat, letting the lively conversation of the other staff flow over and around her. Since most of it was conducted in Italian, she felt no need to contribute and relief that the household staff did not seem to expect her to participate.
After lunch she waddled back to Giuseppe’s suite. A chess board was set up in front of him on a TV tray that, beyond its size and mobility, bore little resemblance to the cheap aluminum trays her mother used.
“Good, you are prompt,” he commented. “Do you play chess?”
“Er, sorry, no.”
“Then I shall teach you. Sit.”
Latasha obeyed and learned that the coldblooded capo was a patient and demanding instructor. He concluded their session when they were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Enter,” he commanded.
Latasha leapt up to open the door.
“Mr. Maglione,” a portly older man greeted with a nod as he walked into the room, carrying a leather bag.
“Doctor,” the old man replied with a nod of his head. He gestured toward Latasha and introduced her. “This is the nurse I’ve hired.”
“What are your qualifications?” the doctor inquired, his beady eyes sparking with interest. He licked his thick lips.
“I have already satisfied myself as to her qualifications, Doctor,” the capo said before she could reply. “She is under my protection.”
The physician’s heavy jowls quivered as he nodded. “Of course, Mr. Maglione.”
“Latasha has reviewed my medical file. Please direct her as to the care she is to administer.”
“Of course. Come over here, my dear,” Dr. Brown beckoned with a gesture of his plump hand, hairy-knuckled hand.
“No, come over here and sit beside me. I wish to hear what you have to say so that I understand, too,” Giuseppe ordered.
Huffing his disappointment, the physician obeyed and eased himself into a chair beside his patient. He picked up the file in his pudgy hands and opened it. Assuming a pompous air of importance, he began to explain his patient’s condition, glossing over the more serious aspects that Latasha had already noted. He rattled off instructions for Giuseppe’s care and, taking out his prescription pad, scribbled out prescriptions for drugs, which he then instructed her to administer beginning the next day. Latasha pressed her lips together in a thin line of disapproval, but held her silence. The doctor checked his patient’s vital signs, asked a few probing questions, and then scribbled out another prescription.
“Have these filled and administer them as I have directed,” he said.
“Yes, Doctor.”
The doctor wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, rose, and excused himself.
“What is he lying about?” Giuseppe inquired when the door closed behind the portly physician.
“He… he offered a more hopeful prognosis than your records would indicate,” Latasha said and hoped she’d survive being the bearer of bad news.
Giuseppe nodded and leaned his head against the chair’s firmly cushioned back. He closed his eyes and sighed and said, “I feared it.” He opened his eyes and added, “I do not punish truth, Latasha.”
She nodded, not knowing what to say.
“You may leave now. Be sure to stop at the pharmacy to fill the prescriptions. I will send someone to pick them up tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you arrive early tomorrow. Bianca will surely insist on feeding you breakfast again.”
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured and made her escape.
As she drove home, she made plans to move into the Maglione mansion sooner rather than later. Iosif would not be pleased.
Chapter 11
Iosif washed his hands, not really seeing the red-tinged water swirl down the drain. His knuckles hurt. Sitting on the toilet seat beside him, Bogdan grunted as Gennady wrapped a wide bandage around his ribs.
“Valentina’s going to be upset when she sees this,” Bogdan griped.
“You shouldn’t have challenged that guy,” Gennady muttered. “It would have been easier just to shoot him.”
“Too many people around for guns,” Iosif commented as he dried his hands. “It was too likely that a stray bullet would have caught an innocent.”
“No innocents in that neighborhood,” Gennady scoffed.
“Really?” Bogdan sneered. “Apparently, you didn’t see that woman and her three little kids. The oldest couldn’t have been more than ten.”
“Do you think they saw us?” Gennady asked, ignoring the possibility that they could have risked the life of children.
Bogdan grunted as Gennady tied off the bandage then answered, “No, I don’t think they saw us. And if they did, they wouldn’t say anything. Folks in that part of town generally don’t run to the cops without very good reason.”
“We weren’t threatening them, just the hoodlums who’d been terrorizing the neighborhood,” Iosif added. “They’d probably thank us if they knew who we were.”
“They will soon,” Gennady said as he carefully put away the medical supplies. “They’ll be paying Maksim for protection, and we’ll be collecting and protecting.”
“Ugh,” Bogdan grunted. “Doing work like that makes me feel like a common thug.”
“No, we’re just uncommon thugs,” Gennady quipped.
“I don’t suppose Maksim’s hiring?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” Iosif replied with a shrug and handed Bogdan his shirt.
Bogdan wrinkled his nose as he accepted the soiled garment. “Valentina won’t be pleased.”
“Damn, you’re pussy-whipped,” Gennady jeered.
“Valentina’s surprisingly sheltered,” Bogdan explained. “She’s incredibly innocent, and it’s sweet. I like her that way.”
“Please don’t tell us you haven’t fucked her.”
“Of course, I have. She’s my wife, you asshole. But she’s… I can’t think of any better word than innocent. She’s all that is good in my life, soft and sweet. I don’t want to ruin that.”
Iosif nodded. “I feel the same way about Latasha.” He shook his head. “Her druggie brother crashed at our place l
ast night. He expected her to steal drugs from the hospital for him.”
Bogdan muttered an imprecation about weak-natured men who expected women to do their dirty work. Gennady nodded his agreement.
The men tidied up the bathroom and meandered toward the small gravel parking lot behind Maksim’s house. They’d finished for the day, securing an entire neighborhood under the Bratva’s protection by practically shredding the greedy, undisciplined street gang who’d ruled the area. The gang leaders who ruled through sheer intimidation and brutality did not understand that shopkeepers had to earn money in order to pay for protection and their customers had to feel safe in order to patronize the shops. The neighborhood now had a chance to prosper, because Maksim understood that only a business with good customers could pay.
Anyone who thought to disturb the safety of the neighborhood would meet with severe consequences.
Iosif wondered where the street gang would move and vaguely hoped they’d stay away from the neighborhood where Latasha grew up. Her mother wouldn’t win any prizes for maternal caring; however, there were a lot of good people who still lived in that neighborhood. Iosif had gotten to know them as “Latasha’s young man.” He liked them, didn’t mind lending the old folks a helping hand when their gutters needed cleaning, their siding needed painting, or their roofs needed patching. The old ladies liked to feed him in exchange for his labor, and he never turned down their delicious cooking.
Anyone who thought to harass the good people of Latasha’s childhood neighborhood would meet with severe consequences.
“How is Suzanne doing?” Bogdan inquired, breaking Iosif’s musing.
Gennady’s expression took on an unexpectedly sheepish look, which made the other two men raise their eyebrows in surprise.
“I really like that woman,” he admitted, a bit of color flagging his cheeks. “I care for her.”
“You care for her?”
“She’s more than just a good fuck.”
Iosif and Bogdan exchanged telling glances.
“I think Gennady’s in love,” Iosif murmured.
