Distilled Duplicity

by Louise Furley

  Glancing slyly slit eyes up at her once more, he said, “Watch your back,” and then strode out of the room.

  Kiri let out the breath she’d held since first catching sight of him coming in.

  Smiling weakly at customers who waved and called out greetings to her, she made her way over to the windows that spread the length of the room showcasing the view out back. Lush, softly rolling hills of green satin spreading to a backdrop of autumn’s vivid colors, a feast of nature’s bounty spanned as far as the eye could see.

  She was even thinking of adding more enticements like horseback riding as the land was so beautiful. Autumn this year had seemed to go on forever but was now starting to wane.

  She’d had gardens put in, rosebushes fought the fall coolness, and trees still littered their crimson and orange leaves. Sloping up a gentle hill they’d started a vineyard. A crochet of green and purple vines wavered in even lines up the hill.

  It had been Kiri’s idea to branch out to start their own winery. They had even held a wedding in the rose garden with promises of more to come.

  Chapter Seven

  The week passed slowly, Kiri had spent her time at the tasting room, working on her displays and ads, and ducking Rueford. The tasting room was currently empty, it was Monday and they sometimes closed on Mondays as business tended to be slow then.

  The meeting between the Delduccis and the Adranokovs was pushed from Friday to Monday. Kiri hadn’t planned on being present.

  She stayed in her room at the house, and locked her door. Pushed a chair under the knob as an added precaution. Now that Duce wasn’t around lurking by her door, Piero, and sometimes Rueford prowled the halls near her room.

  Before returning home she had set up the tasting room ready to receive the men for the meeting. Males only. Both families were sexist and old fashioned. The only female present would be Melonie, and that was because she would be serving the dessert rum.

  Melonie Delducci glanced around the room. She made an excuse to be there every time the Adranokovs and the Delduccis met. Even though he was in a wheelchair, she harbored a crush on Naithon Adranokov. Melonie’s brown eyes grew all glassy and dreamy whenever the Apollo god was there.

  Normally she wasn’t partial to blonds, but his pretty face and hair were offset by harsh masculinity that sharpened the would-be pretty features, and scars that also roughed up the prettiness, along with the perpetually fierce grit to his strong jaw.

  Melonie had heard the rumors of his escapades in and out of bed. The paralysis and wheelchair did not slow him down. He was one of the most feared men in Louisiana, and according to the women, one of the most cruel and punishing, and breathlessly superlative, lovers.

  But, he was very particular whom he bedded. The ones he did bang complained he never learned their names, didn’t look at their faces while he screwed them, and was cold and rough, right on the edge of damaging violence. But the ride was wild and not to be missed. Somehow, even though paralyzed, they said he could maneuver his hips on his knees, and he was quite creative.

  There was some story about how he’d hang a woman with a chain from the ceiling, bind her hands so she was helpless, her legs pulled up, spread, and tied wide open, and he had a specially made swinging chair so he could-

  “Ooh,” an erotic shiver raced goosebumps up her arms, Melonie clamped her thighs together. She had thrown herself at Naithon time and time again, but he rebuffed her. She knew she wasn’t his type. He seemed to prefer tall, bawdy blondes with big fake tits.

  She ran her hands down her plump sides and sighed. Maybe she should die her brown locks, get a boob job. She looked down at her drooping chest. Maybe just get a lift. Her pudginess helped fill out what little she had.

  One of Naithon’s brothers had told her she was a troll compared to the women Naithon dated. Well, not dated, he was a confirmed bachelor, he had sex, he didn’t date. He also did not have sleepovers. He didn’t even bring the women to his bed, he either went to theirs or used a playroom designed to accommodate his handicap.

  Melonie gossiped relentlessly about Naithon, she knew his house, no, they called it a compound, had a serious amount of rooms where many of his soldiers resided. Naithon’s brother, Vitalik, Melonie’s nose wrinkled in resentment, had said even her shy, closed off, matronly dressed little sister Kiri shone like a bright star next to Melonie’s round, brown, dull stump of a body.

  Piqued at the recalled insult, Melonie picked up a bottle of rum on display and hurled it at the wall. The glass crashed and splintered, tinkled to the floor. Amber liquid streamed down the wall. “Great,” she groused, “now I have to clean that up. Kiri should be here to do that, she’s the one that does the servant work.”

  Sighing, she grabbed a rag to clean the wall and a broom and dustpan. Knowing she had no chance with Naithon, she turned her horny thoughts to his brothers. They’d do in a pinch.

  Sweeping up the glass, she pictured his brothers, all older than Naithon. Vitalik was second oldest, then Novikav, and Misolav was eldest. Misolav was married to that shrew, Fiereza. Melonie had heard that didn’t matter, he still got around.

  They were all good looking men, but none held the restrained brutality that hovered around Naithon like a rampant haze of fury, he seemed to barely keep it under control. Apparently he didn’t always keep a leash on it though, she’d heard he could be quite cruelly lethal and pitiless when riled. Still, she’d chance one night with that Apollo!

  Even his friends were hot, Melonie thought as she wiped down the wall. Yashin, Mazonn, Teodor, Vlad, Blok, they’d all come from the old country, Romania. She would do any of them in a heartbeat.

  “Oh!” Melonie grinned. She could hear the approaching ruckus of cannonading engines heralding the men’s arrival. Hurrying to the window, she peered out.

  Top-of-the-line vehicles were pulling into the curved drive. Doors slammed and male voices rumbled as they approached the distillery, pinpricks of excitement, and lust needled her pudgy body as they grew near.

  The door thrust open and Melonie’s father, Ignacio Delducci swaggered in, Piero and Janero came in next, then dozens of men trooped in behind them. The only female, a smug Fiereza Adranokov sauntered through the door, her hand clinging to her husband Misolav’s arm. She wore a skin-tight bandage dress in pale yellow that molded over her curves. What she had of them, that was.

  Melonie’s eyes narrowed at Fiereza’s chest, not even a B-cup she judged. Her hips were narrow, almost boyish. Melonie could not see what Misolav, or Naithon for that matter saw in the tramp. The whole world knew Naithon had once been enamored of her, of course Fiereza was seven or so years older than him. He had been young, a teenager, but she had gone all out gangbusters on him pouring on the charm, and constant sex, she had hooked him before he could blink.

  According the servants that heard the ensuing fight, Naithon had planned on asking Fiereza to marry him when he caught her and his brother in bed, well, in the parlor, on all fours screwing their brains out.

  He’d disappeared for a long time after that. Misolav and Fiereza married, and Naithon came back a cripple. There had been rumors that somehow Misolav caused the accident, whatever it was, that broke Naithon’s back. But, no one was talking. Naithon built up his businesses apart from his father and brothers’, he seldom saw them if he could avoid it. He’d built his distillery in the country, in the rural town of Marécage.

  Marécage means swamp, but it was no where’s near a swamp. It was spacious bountiful land with winding roads that were dappled by shade trees. The serpentine roads curled through a countryside of green fields laced with wildflowers. It was an enjoyable Sunday drive to get to the distillery.

  Melonie craned her neck to look for- there he was. Encircled by his men, Naithon rolled his own wheelchair inside. Her pulse raced and bumped. Damn he was hot in an aggressive warrior yet damaged but still strapping kind of way. Naithon wore his requisite suit and tie, plaid afghan over his lap. Blond hair cut shorter on the sides and longer on to
p.

  He removed his shades and exposed those demon’s eyes. They flicked to her, then wandered the room as the men settled in. Only a brief glance from him and she felt tingles spark in her lady parts.

  The majority of the men wore suits, a few of the enforcers just tailored shirts and black slacks, weapons glaringly visible in shoulder holsters. Some sat on chairs, others leaned against the counter or perched on stools. All of Naithon’s men remained standing.

  Piero and Janero, Melonie’s brothers, headed straight for the food. Earlier, Kiri had set up a brunch style buffet.

  Piero lifted an aluminum lid, steam poured out, he inhaled, smiled. “Yeah, Kiri always makes my favorite corned beef and cabbage. Go on, Janero.” He motioned to the next heating plate. “I bet she made your lasagna stuffed with meatballs and sausage the way you like it.” The brothers grabbed plates and started opening all the warming containers.

  Frowning at his sons’ discourteous manners, Ignacio announced, “Ah, please, gentlemen, help yourselves. My daughter Kiritina is an exquisite cook.”

  Rueford Montoblanco strolled in, smiling. “What are you saying about my betrothed?”

  Ignacio shrugged. “You know what a stupendous cook she is. Soon you will enjoy all of her…attributes, eh?” The men chuckled obscenely together.

  Off to the side, Naithon lifted a brow at their banter. His expression indicated that the picture of the stocky, lecherous, redheaded much older man humping the young, delicate, innocent girl struck him as grotesque.

  Rueford moved to the full bar Kiri had set up. Along with the help-yourself bar, she’d stashed bottles of beer in big bowls of crushed ice in the center of the tables. The meeting was private, they didn’t want servers overhearing their conversations.

  “Come on, Nait.” Mazonn nudged his arm. “Smells incredible, let’s see what this chickie can rustle up.”

  Naithon’s friends, Mazonn and Yashin flanked him as he rolled to the buffet. Teodor and Vlad stayed back, their eyes constantly roaming the room for any danger to their boss and friend. Outside, more men patrolled under Blok’s direction. Naithon’s familial blood brothers blew him off and hurried ahead of him to the food, but his friends stayed with him, guarding him.

  Ignacio had his own crew armed and on alert. There had been too many killings on both sides for either man to let their guard down.

  Ignacio waited until Naithon settled at a table then strolled over. Peering at him through round glasses, he said, “Well, young man, you look like you’re doing fine. Where’s your father, Zhilov? This is about his business, no one has attacked your vodka distillery or your other enterprises have they?”

  Chewing on a succulent barbecued rib, Naithon swallowed then replied, “He’s in Romania. He grew…concerned,” scared, old and ill, too weak to fight, “about the murders. He’s checking on his businesses there. My brothers asked me to assist in ending this…war?” A half empty beer pooled a wet spot near his plate. Since his brother Misolav sought his help, Naithon had brought in more men to buff up their territory, watch over the businesses.

  “Oh, no, no,” Ignacio chuckled nervously. “Let’s not say war, let’s say, uh, misunderstanding?”

  “Huh,” Mazonn grunted, stuffing a cheesy noodle in his mouth. “A half a dozen of our men slaughtered is hardly a misunderstanding.”

  Scowling to hide his fear, adjusting his glasses with a scrunch of his nose, Ignacio countered, “We have lost more men than you. Our kin have been butchered, left in pieces in cruddy alleys, the- the wood chipper. You-”

  “We are not responsible, Delducci,” Naithon said flatly, showing his disrespect by calling the elder man by his last name, “for any of the deaths of your people. We have told you that ad nauseam.”

  Ignacio huffed a grunt. “Get real, Adranokov, our men aren’t killing our own people, or yours, dammit.”

  “And neither are ours,” Naithon replied. He slathered butter on a bun and shoved it in his mouth whole.

  “Listen, you can’t-” Ignacio backed off. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt, red flushed his flaccid face. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “We have a new rum, you must try it. Melonie,” he gestured to his daughter who hung on the fringes, peeved that not one man looked over at her.

  She sighed in annoyance and trudged over to the bar area and to the tray her sister Kiri had prepared.

  The silver tray held several bottles of different kinds of rum. Kiri had placed stacks of shot glasses at each table. As the men chowed, they held up a glass for Melonie to serve them the rum.

  Another laborious sigh, damn, Melonie hated being the servant. That was Kiri’s job. The little witch should be here doing the slave work. Not that she’d lifted a finger to help Kiri with all the cooking and preparation.

  Melonie served her father last. He raised his glass and toasted, “To peace between our factions, let us call a truce.”

  All of his men raised their glasses and saluted in agreement voicing, “To a truce.” They downed their shots then grabbed bottles for refills. Ignacio noticed Naithon’s brothers saluted, but Naithon and his friends did not.

  Naithon nudged his elbow in Mazonn’s side. Mazonn set his fork down. “Ignacio,” he called out, “we desire to thank the cook. Please present her so we can do so.”

  Rueford grinned, Melonie scowled, Ignacio shrugged. Again, ignoring the second slight, this one coming from Naithon’s second in command in calling him by his first name, an insult as Mazonn was half Ignacio’s age, he said, “Of course. Janero, call your sister to come over. Have Jeffries drive her.” His pleasant smile didn’t disguise the churning of his stomach.

  Concerned about the outcome of the meeting, he tossed his rum back and poured another. A short smile tipped his nervous lips up hearing the men vocally admiring the prettiness of the rum bottles from the crystals and gold Kiri had the distilleries infuse into them.

  Off to the side of the room, Janero frowned at his cell.

  Kiri argued with him. “No, I don’t want to go there. There is no reason for me to,” she protested.

  “Pa orders it, Kirs. What’re ya gonna do? Pa’s afraid to disrespect the crippled gypsy bastard, he has to honor Adranokov’s request. It’ll only be a minute. They thank you, you smile, and leave. That’s it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Everyone looked to the doorway when Kiri appeared in it. Her gaze shyly roved the room not making eye contact with any of the occupants, except her sister. Melonie’s hateful scowl at her could scorch sand.

  The girls had never been close, besides Melonie’s insane jealousy of her little sister, Kiri had been away to boarding school most of their lives. On the good side, it had kept Kiri out of her dangerous, perverted brother Duce’s clutches, but also kept her shielded from her hostile sister.

  Ignacio waved her over. “Come, my flower, the gentlemen would like to proffer their appreciation for such a lavish, and delicious spread.”

  Hating to be the center of attention, she didn’t move. Ignacio’s brows lowered, he lifted his chin, an order.

  Folding her hands demurely in front of her, with her head down, Kiri walked slowly to where her father stood. Her heart dropped. Her future intended, Rueford Montoblanco was positioned beside him, his rapacious piggy eyes drinking her in.

  Why he was so interested in her, she couldn’t fathom. She had dressed in her plainest clothes, a flowered skirt that touched her knees, a plain, not in the least sexy, white button-down blouse, small heels, her hair in a tight bun.

  “Ah, my beautiful fiancée,” Rueford enthused; going right to her and set a heavy arm around her shoulders and squeezed, hard. Hard enough she winced.

  She stood as a statue while the males in the room plied her with compliments for her cooking. Her sister and Fiereza Adranokov didn’t bother hiding their glowers of loathing.

  Rueford grabbed Kiri’s hand, jerked it up. Blue eyes suddenly angry, he asked with ire, “Where is my ring? You took it off again? Didn’t I tell you I would beat
your ass if I caught you again without it?”

  Kiri tugged her hand from his grasp. “I was cooking and washing dishes, Rueford, did you want it to go down the drain?”

  Somewhat mollified, he blustered, “See to it you have it on whenever you leave your house. I insist everyone knows you are claimed.” Bending his head, he spoke harshly in her ear, “You don’t want to defy me, honey, you will pay for it.”

  “Okay,” Ignacio announced, “please continue enjoying yourselves, gentlemen. My girls will be serving my new dessert rum. It’s called ‘Maestá’s Dolci Fine Pizzico di Caffè’, Kiri named it.”

  Sitting beside Naithon, Mazonn smiled warmly at Kiri, but her eyes were downcast, she didn’t see him, he asked her, “Sounds elegant, what is it in English?”

  Naithon didn’t speak, just stared blankly at Rueford Montoblanco. Rueford didn’t dare look back at him, he tried to ignore the demon-eyed glare icing through him but his body twitched under the perusal.

  Janero answered for his sister, “It means ‘Majesty’s sweet endings with a hint of coffee.’ The rum has just the faintest trace of coffee flavor. It was all Kiri’s idea. She decided on sweet endings as a double entendre, it is an after dinner dessert wine, and also the hope of this…issue being settled between us. She suggested the coffee flavor because she likes adding unique twists to things.”

  “Very clever,” Mazonn praised, trying to catch Kiri’s eye, but she kept her head down.

  “Please enjoy,” Ignacio declared with nervous courtesy.

  After everyone settled down again, Ignacio instructed his daughters to keep their glasses full. He had to tell Rueford two times to release Kiri before he grudgingly let her go.

  Rueford whispered loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear, “I will get with you later, my pet, we will have an assignation. No more avoiding me.” He sounded more threatening than lover-like.

  As she turned, the aggressive pat on her behind with his huge meaty fist was not gentle, neither was the disrespectful squeeze, she swung around, a furious retort on her tongue. He grinned, he liked it when she was angry or scared, it fed the pathological sadism in him. Provoking her was his new pastime. He wanted her to exhibit her anger and then he’d have his first excuse to punish her. Show her who was boss.