by Holly Bargo
“Hell must be freezing over,” Bogdan joked, deadpan.
“Hah,” Gennady sneered, but did not deny the accusation. Sweet, blonde Suzanne had given him her trust and held nothing back. He wanted to be worthy of that trust, which meant that he took responsibility for her care. She took pleasure in his dark nature, and he wanted to do nothing to destroy that. He’d never felt protective of a woman before, never wanted to keep a particular woman before. So, he’d endure the ribbing and keep his treasure to himself.
The men each climbed into their vehicles and drove to their homes. Iosif’s eyebrows went skyward again when he saw Latasha’s car parked in the garage. Worried, he entered with caution.
“Latasha?” he called as he entered. Seeing a bowl of mandarin oranges on the coffee table, he realized that she’d gone grocery shopping before coming home.
“In the kitchen,” she responded.
“Are you all right, vozlyublennaya?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Iosif watched his wife’s face as she dredged chicken pieces through an egg-and-milk mixture and then patted them into a mound of seasoned flour before turning them over to coat the other side. During the past two years, he’d learned that Latasha only made her grandmother’s fried chicken when she was upset or stressed. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“Talk to me.”
“Mr. Maglione is a complicated man,” she admitted after a long, pensive moment. “I heard and saw things that make me uneasy because of what could happen. Mr. Maglione’s housekeeper fed me enough food for a week which makes me wonder why I’m even cooking when I can’t bear the thought of eating without wanting to hurl.”
“So, tell me about Giuseppe Maglione,” Iosif said, knowing from the tone of her voice that something about her patient deeply troubled her.
“He’s complicated,” she repeated. “He allows his housekeeper—who’s also a childhood friend and maybe an old lover—to browbeat him. He finds it amusing. He loves his family and indulges his grandchildren. And he terrifies me.”
“Did he do anything to you?” Iosif struggled to maintain the loose embrace when he wanted to clutch his wife to his body and obliterate anyone who dared threatened her.
She shook her head, her soft hair tickling his chin. “No, he didn’t hurt me. He threatened to hurt someone else, and he did it without blinking an eye. He sounded practically conversational, like it was no big deal.”
Iosif had no words to offer. Likely to Giuseppe Maglione, the threat to whomever probably wasn’t a big deal. He couldn’t reassure her. She’d agreed to work for the capo, and there’d be no release because she turned squeamish.
“What else?” he asked.
Latasha sighed as she turned the chicken pieces in the shallow oil. Her husband knew her well. “He’s smart, you know. Scary smart. And charming. I can’t help but like him when I’m not terrified of him.”
“A complicated man, as you said,” Iosif murmured.
“Yes. He’s not got as long as he thought. The doctor misled him, probably scared Mr. Maglione would have him killed if he delivered a bad prognosis.”
“You dislike the doctor.”
Latasha paused. How did he do that? How could Iosif know she disliked the doctor? She felt his lips press a kiss to the top of her head.
“He’s… smarmy.”
“Who is this doctor? I’ll take care of him.”
She huffed a small laugh that held no humor whatsoever. “Giuseppe Maglione already warned him off. ‘She is under my protection,” she repeated her employer’s words, mimicking his precise pronunciation and light Italian accent. Another puff of cynical laughter escaped her lips. “If I become any more protected…”
“Giuseppe Maglione’s protection is not to be regarded lightly,” Iosif said. “No one in the city will touch you.”
“That didn’t help Gia,” she retorted.
“The Culebras didn’t realize she was his granddaughter,” he pointed out. “After what happened to them, even the rudest street thug will think twice before interfering with anything that might even have the faintest ties to a Maglione.”
“How would anyone even know I’m under his protection?”
“Trust me, they’ll know.”
Latasha nodded and asked him to fetch a can of green beans. She picked up a pair of tongs and turned the pieces of sizzling chicken. “What do you know of Giovanni?”
“Little. Why?” he responded and opened the can, dumping its contents into glass bowl.
“Seeing as I seem to be in cahoots with the mafia now, I wondered whether he’d be reasonable and let me out when my… er… assignment’s finished.”
Iosif shook his head and put the lid on the bowl. Setting it in the microwave, he said, “Ask him when you see him next.”
“I’ll do that.” She watched the chicken sizzle in the oil for a while longer, then said, “Tell me about your day.”
“We liberated a neighborhood from the protection of an uncivilized street gang,” he answered carefully.
“Leroy’s gang?” she inquired with a frown and did not ask about the price of that liberation. She glanced at his knuckles. The skin was broken, the flesh swollen. Some things the sister of a gangster and the wife of a mobster knew better than to ask.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I hope not.” She sighed. “I wish Leroy would quit hanging around those guys.”
“You said it yourself, moya lyubov. He’s a grown man for all that he acts like an irresponsible teenager. He’s responsible for his choices.”
With delicate precision, she plucked the chicken pieces from the oil and set them on a pile of paper towels to drain. Then she returned to the task of battering and dredging the rest of the chicken parts and placing them in the hot oil.
“How long?” Iosif asked.
“About twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”
“I’ll make a salad.”
“That would be good. Thanks.”
They worked in quiet domesticity, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Iosif put on some music to play while they ate. The haunting music pulsed with an alluring beat that stirred her blood. The music did not make her want to dance, it made her want to writhe her body in rolling rhythm against Iosif’s. She swallowed and focused her gaze on her plate, aware that her nipples had hardened to obvious little points poking the fabric of her shirt. She knew that her husband would notice, saw the muscles in his forearms tighten with control.
“Where did you come across this?” she finally asked.
Iosif watched his wife, how her body sat taut as a violin string and aching to play beautiful music for him. His voice thickened and dropped several notes with his answer as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “Last of the Mohicans.”
“Never saw it.”
“It’s a good movie.”
Her body relaxed a little. She looked up at him with a small smile. “I never realized you were into show tunes.”
Iosif’s eyes crinkled at the corners with appreciation of her humor. Then he gave into the moment and gifted her with one of his rare, brilliant smiles, an expression of humor that illuminated the room and sent sparks of warmth through her body.
Latasha rose from her chair and extended her hand toward him. “Take me to bed, Iosif.”
She didn’t have to ask twice.
Chapter 12
Latasha’s days quickly fell into a new pattern. She arrived at the Maglione mansion early for work—early enough to allow sufficient time for Bianca and the cook, Luigi, to feed her. Concentrating on not succumbing to a food coma, she’d climb the stairs to Giuseppe’s suite. The first few weeks he met her, awake and alert and impeccably dressed in one of his many fine suits. He obediently swallowed the medicines she measured out for him and double-checked her records to ensure that she made no mistakes in the dosage. Then she would read to him, learning more about hi
s many businesses than she wanted and knowing that such knowledge made her retirement from the Maglione’s employ impossible. As always, his nearly perfect recall and phenomenal analytic capabilities left her in awe.
Then came the inevitable day when Giuseppe did not meet her, when he slept late and woke disoriented and recalcitrant. Latasha drew on her patience and cheer, honed to a sharp perfection by her family and the experiences she’d had in her nursing career. Latasha brought him back to a semblance of his usual self. That afternoon, after she prepared his medicines for Bianca to administer, he said, “Tomorrow you will move in.”
Latasha nodded. She’d seen it coming. That evening, she and Iosif packed her clothes and toiletries and a few other mementos she wanted to keep with her. They came together that night in bed, an intense and slow melding of flesh that left both of them shaking and near to weeping. She fell asleep in Iosif’s embrace.
Bianca muttered dark imprecations the next morning about the foolishness and cruelty of keeping a husband and wife apart as one of the ever-present security personnel carried Latasha’s luggage to the room set aside for the nurse’s use.
“You will invite that young man of yours to supper. Here,” the housekeeper ordered.
“But Mr. Maglione—”
“No buts. That man does not rule my kitchen.”
“I’ll bet Luigi thinks it’s his kitchen,” Latasha teased in an effort to lighten the mood.
“Bah! Stupid men,” Bianca muttered. “We will see that you have time off to spend with your husband. Giuseppe should not have ordered you to live here.”
Latasha wondered who that “we” was. Perhaps Bianca used it in the royal manner. However, she protested no more and opened a suitcase to begin putting clothes away.
“Go, I will do this for you. Giuseppe waits for you,” Bianca commanded.
Not particularly thrilled to have the old woman go through her belongings, Latasha nonetheless acquiesced and did as she was ordered.
Thus, her days fell into a new pattern that revolved around Giuseppe Maglione and his rapidly failing health. With Dr. Brown’s cautious approval, she increased her boss’ dosage of painkillers as the cancer ate at his body. Giovanni visited every day, if only for a few minutes. Paolo, too, became a frequent visitor, trying to flirt with her in the clumsy manner of teenage boys who have only recently decided girls didn’t harbor cooties. Although Latasha never became more than a merely competent chess player, she enjoyed teaching Giuseppe’s handsome young grandson how to play euchre and pinochle almost as much as she took pleasure in shifting the mounds of food Bianca served her to Paolo and his younger brothers. She left the chess matches with Giuseppe to Giovanni, who carefully orchestrated only the occasional victory over his grandfather.
“Take the rest of the day off,” Giovanni ordered one particularly fine afternoon. Latasha and Giuseppe sat outside on the back patio while she read to him.
She took a sip of water to ease her hoarsening voice and glanced at her boss, whose head had rolled forward. Appalled that she had not noticed he’d dozed off, she set the book aside and quickly checked his breathing.
“You’re exhausted,” Giovanni said, his expression kind. “I’ve already called Iosif. He’ll be here in an hour, so you’ve a little time to freshen up and put on your party dress. He’s taking you out to dinner.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Go. Enjoy yourself. Nonno can have no complaints. You have cared for him most diligently.”
Almost unable to believe her good fortune in having more than a spare hour of free time, Latasha quit stalling. She thanked Giovanni and practically raced to her room. Granted, it was a very nice room, large and well-appointed with a big bed, luxury linens, and lovely view of the back acreage. There was also an en suite bathroom and closets that any princess would envy, but it wasn’t her room. It wasn’t the room she shared with Iosif.
She jumped into the shower and, afterward, applied only the bare minimum of cosmetics: mascara and lip gloss. She took care in dressing her hair so that it fell in shining caramel waves just past her shoulders. She pulled out one of the three dresses she’d brought with her and frowned. All three of her dresses were suitable for attending Mass—a spiritual demand that neither Giuseppe nor Giovanni protested—but none of them gave off a party vibe in the least. With a sigh, she decided on the grass green sheath that ended just above the knee and gently hugged her figure. She paired it with gold stud earrings fashioned into Maltese crosses and a thin gold herringbone chain necklace.
Looking at her reflection, Latasha shrugged. She looked respectable, not sexy. But then, she thought, never in her adult life had she dressed for sex appeal. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled sandals and made her way downstairs to wait for her husband.
“Ah, bella,” Bianca complimented her with a broad smile. “You have fun tonight, eh?”
“Sì,” she replied, having grown accustomed to sprinkling her conversation with Italian or Russian words.
The housekeeper patted her shoulder and left her in peace to wait on a bench in front of the house.
An unfamiliar black Ford Mustang purred up the long drive and rolled to a stop. Latasha rose to her feet with a frown of confusion. That frown morphed into a smile when Iosif emerged from the driver’s seat. He rushed toward her and crushed her against him. Before she could say anything, he slanted his mouth over hers, igniting a white-hot passion that had been denied too long.
Reluctantly ending the kiss, he lifted his head and said, “I’ve missed you so much, lyubimaya.”
Latasha pressed her face into his chest and inhaled deeply of his scent. The warm, male fragrance of his body never failed to make heat pool low in her abdomen and moisture gather between her thighs. “I missed you, too. So much.”
He kissed her again, rendering her dizzy and speechless for a moment. Then he said, “Home first or supper?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but her belly answered for her. She blushed and Iosif chuckled, assuming his usual half-smile that he wore when amused. However, his gaze remained heated and intense.
“Let’s feed you first. Then we go home. I will return you in the morning.”
“I didn’t bring anything for overnight.”
“What makes you think you’ll need clothes tonight?”
Well, there was that.
Iosif escorted her to the Mustang and opened the door.
“This is new,” she commented, running a fingertip over the gleaming black metal. She got a whiff of that new car smell and added, “Really new.”
“My car was destroyed,” he informed her, then favored her with a grin. “I’ve always wanted one of these, the quintessential American sports car.”
“That would be a Corvette,” she drawled, noticing not for the first time that his English was perfect when he wanted it to be.
Iosif threw his head back and laughed, a sound she’d so desperately missed. He climbed into the driver’s seat and did not peel out of the driveway. Instead he drove sedately, which Latasha privately thought a waste of all that horsepower and speed.
“What happened to the old car?” she asked as he drove, not really caring where he took her as long as he kept her with him.
“Oppressors protesting the liberation of a neighborhood they controlled.”
“Which neighborhood?”
“Rose and Columbine Streets.”
“Damn,” she muttered. “Leroy’s gang controls that territory.”
“Controlled. Past tense.”
“They knew you were involved?”
“Yes.” He did not elaborate and she did not need him to do so. Those urban barbarians knew well who killed the gang leader and several of the high-ranking thugs in his vicious group. For all their viciousness and low cunning, they’d been easy prey for the Bratva’s capable assassin.
“Leroy?”
“In jail on a drug possession charge.”
“When?” she asked sharply.
“Two wee
ks ago. The judge denied bail. Your mother hired a lawyer.”
“Mama doesn’t have the money for an attorney.”
Iosif shrugged and she realized that he was paying the legal fees.
“You can’t do that, Iosif.”
“The lawyer won’t keep him out of jail. No lawyer could do that. But he might be able to get Leroy into a place where he can get clean and be rehabilitated, maybe get his G.E.D.”
Latasha blinked back tears of gratitude. Despite her husband’s contempt for her loser of a brother, he tried to help Leroy because Leroy was her brother. And she knew he expected no repayment. She reached across the console and lightly squeezed the top of his muscled thigh.
“You’re a good man, Iosif.”
Iosif knew that only Latasha would ever think so and he would do whatever it took to keep her good opinion of him. He covered her hand with his and returned the squeeze.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked, changing the subject.
“To visit your mother first,” he replied.
She nodded, acknowledging the duty if not particularly enjoying it.
“Hey, I’ve got a joke,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “Bianca told it to me.”
“Oh?”
“What’s the difference between your Jewish mama and your Italian mama?”
Playing along, he answered, “I don’t know. Tell me.”
Latasha grinned. “You call your Jewish mama and she complains, ‘How come you never call?’ You tell her, ‘Ma, I got problems.’ She says, ‘You got problems, I’ve got problems.’ And then she tells you all her problems.”
Iosif’s lips twitched in a small smile and he nodded. She continued.
“You call your Italian mama and she complains, ‘How come you never call?’ You tell her, ‘Ma, I got problems.’ She says back, ‘You got problems? I tell you what your problems are!’”
Iosif obliged her with a chuckle. Although he really didn’t see the humor in the joke, he did appreciate the attempt.
“You need to be prepared, vozlyublennaya.”
“What’s up?”
“Your sister has moved back in with your mother. And your younger brother is there, too.”
