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 his 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 weeks 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.”

“Keisha’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Latasha guessed.

“Da. Her boyfriend beat her when he found out.”

Latasha shook her head in dismay and asked, “Is she okay?”

“Da. I convinced her to enroll in classes at the community college. Perhaps she will develop some skills so she can support her child.”

Latasha noticed he made no further mention of Keisha’s boyfriend and assumed that the brutal idiot was dead or drooling in a bucket somewhere. Even if Iosif did not particularly like her family, they were her family and he looked out for them. “And Andre?”

Iosif shrugged. “He’s smart, too smart to run with a street gang, but he feels he needs their support and protection.”

Latasha muttered a curse under her breath at the futility of it all. “What else, Iosif?”

“They’ve got him hooked on heroin.”

“Fuck.”

Iosif threw her a disapproving glance at the profanity, but she ignored it. Her brother’s abject stupidity deserved that and more. Why, she wondered, did none of her siblings realize they were dooming themselves to short, miserable lives? How, she wondered, had she managed to escape?

Then she realized her childhood trauma had served as the catalyst for her ascendance above the poverty and poor decisions of her family. If Mrs. Tallimar had not extended a helping hand, she would likely have ended up worse off than Keisha.

They stopped at a fast food restaurant and picked up sandwiches, chips, and cookies to share and tied Latasha over until supper. The car purred through the city until it growled to a stop in front of the small, shabby house where Latasha had grown up. The house looked less shabby than the last time she’d visited, and she knew that was because Iosif had been working on it. Her mother accepted as her due the man’s hard labor in clearing the tiny yard, working the flowerbeds, painting the siding and shutters and all the other work he performed for her. Yet she seldom offered a word of thanks. Latasha wondered when Iosif would grow tired of being taken for granted. She wouldn’t blame him when that happened.

“Aren’t you worried about your car?” she asked as they walked toward the front door.

“No.”

Well, there was some benefit to being known as a dangerous badass.

They knocked and entered.

“Hey, ‘Tasha,” her mother greeted with a desultory wave and hardly a glance up from the soap opera playing on the television. “Lemonade’s in the fridge.”

“Good to see you, too, Mama,” Latasha replied and handed her mother a sandwich and bag of chips.

“Keisha’s in her room, you want to talk to her.” She unwrapped the sandwich and sniffed at it. “Ham.”

“Yeah, I’ll peek in on Keisha. Thanks. Where’s Andre?”

“Dunno. Out.”

“Okay.” Latasha sighed. She and Iosif walked to the kitchen to help themselves to some lemonade, put Andre’s sandwich in the refrigerator, and carried their glasses upstairs to the room Latasha used to share with Keisha. With a soft knock on the door, she announced herself and pushed the door open. “Hey, Keisha.”

When they walked in her sister looked up from the open textbook in her lap. She sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by spiral notebooks and an open book bag from which spilled binders and more textbooks. Latasha noticed her sister’s belly bulged with the gentle rounding of a first trimester baby bump, and couldn’t help biting her bottom lip when she saw the swollen remnants of a brutal beating still marring her sister’s pretty face.

“Oh, Keisha!”

Her sister responded with a lopsided smile. “Hey, it’s okay, ’Tasha. The big white bro here saved me.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that.” She moved to the bed and noticed Keisha had been reading a biology textbook. Handing her sister a sandwich from the bag Iosif carried, she asked, “What are you studying?”

“I thought I’d follow in your footsteps and go into healthcare. Medical assistant. I can get a degree in eighteen months and get the hell out of here.”

“What about the baby?”

“Mama will look after the baby while I go to school. She’s agreed to babysit when I get a job, too.”

Latasha held her tongue, not giving voice to the inadequate job her mother had done raising a family. At nineteen, Keisha was an adult and would make her own choices. “I’ll help, too,” she offered. “As much as I’m able.”

“I’m surprised you ain’t pregnant yet,” her sister observed. She slanted her chocolate gaze to Iosif who stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “He looks pretty damn virile. Strong swimmers, you know?”

Latasha shrugged, not wanting to explain that she couldn’t have children now. “Who’s the father?”

“Jamal Peterson.” Keisha looked down at her sandwich and unwrapped it. “This ain’t got no mayonnaise, does it?”

“You’re kidding me. Jamal? No, no mayonnaise. Just cheese, meat, and bread, like always.”

“He ain’t the fat little brat you remember,” Keisha replied and raised the sandwich to her mouth. “He’s in a band, plays guitar. He’s real good, you know.”

Latasha reached across the bed to gently run her fingertips over the discolored swelling around her sister’s left eye and cheek. “Did he do this to you?”

Keisha jerked her head back from her sister’s too-perceptive touch and muttered, “Yeah. But he didn’t mean it.”

“Sure.” She risked a glance at Iosif, who meet her gaze with impassive neutrality. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Nah. I think he skipped town. His buddies, De’Leon and Jojo, ain’t seen him neither.”

“Jojo? Letty’s brother?”

“Yeah, that Jojo.”

“Jojo’s a meth head. You stay away from him, Keisha. I mean it.”

Her sister shrugged and huffed an impatient breath. “I know Jojo’s a druggie. That don’t mean I am, too.”

“No, of course not,” Latasha soothed. Then, to change the painful subject, she said, “So, tell me about your class. I found anatomy interesting, but more difficult than expected.”

Glad to let her sister turn the subject, Keisha followed along. Iosif pulled out Latasha’s sandwich, chips, and the cookies and set them on the bed. The afternoon wore on as Latasha helped her sister with some of the more challenging homework, patiently explaining until her sister understood it and nothing remained of their lunch but the lingering scent of food and a sprinkling of crumbs.

Growing bored and satisfied that his wife was safe enough in her sister’s bedroom, Iosif wandered off to the front porch where he took a seat, drank a second glass of lemonade, ate his own lunch, and made a few phone calls. Whatever her faults, Latasha’s mother made excellent lemonade. Fresh with real lemons. He glanced at his watch and went back inside to fetch his wife. Latasha realized the time and hugged her sister. She excused herself and Iosif: “He’s got plans for us and we can’t be late.”

“Okay,” Keisha replied with a nod. She smiled at her sister’s smokin’ hot husband and said, “Thanks, Joe, for fixing my window the other day.”

“Pozhaluysta,” he replied with a nod.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re welcome,” Latasha translated. She leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek and then followed Iosif out of the house, calling a good-bye to her mother as they departed.

Back in the Mustang, which remained unmolested by neighborhood hoodlums, Latasha asked, “Where to now?”

“The Matryoshka,” he replied. “We are meeting Vitaly and Gia there. Maksim and Olivia and your friend Letty and her man will be there, too. They are eager to see you.”

Latasha raised an eyebrow, thinking that Maksim was probably eager to pry whatever information he could from her about the internal workings of the Maglione empire, information that he could put to use for the Bratva. Olivia’s motives were likely more innocent, but she often worked her wiles to succeed where Maksim’s prodding failed. They made a ruthless and effective team. She hoped Vitaly would maintain his neutrality. Gia, she was sure, wouldn’t pry. Gia had never cared for the less savory aspects of the family business or involved herself in it.

Latasha respected that, as did Giuseppe Maglione. She remembered the offer Gia and her siblings each received when they turned eighteen: join now or never. Gia, like her father, had elected freedom from the mafia, and Giuseppe had not attempted to convince her otherwise.

She wondered if Gia’s children would receive that same offer from Giovanni and Maksim and, if so, whether the mob bosses would accept that possible refusal to participate.

They arrived at the restaurant, stepping into a building redolent with the rich, hearty fragrances of Russian cooking. The aromas differed from the mouthwatering smells that came from the Italian kitchen at the Maglione mansion; however, different did not mean inferior. Her belly rumbled.

Letty and her boyfriend looked uncomfortable waiting for Latasha to show up. The young woman’s rounded face brightened with a big smile as she greeted her old friend. She rose from her seat and gave Latasha a relieved hug.

“Girl, these men are hotter than tamales, but they’re a little scary, too, you know?” she whispered into Latasha’s ear.

Latasha laughed and hugged her friend back. “Yeah. They’re good guys, once you get to know them.”

Letty chuckled, albeit a bit nervously.

“Now introduce me to your man,” Latasha demanded.

Letty extended her right hand toward the bald, thin man with dark skin, twinkling eyes behind black framed glasses, and a brilliant smile. “This is Tyrone.” She widened her eyes and waved her left hand in front of Latasha. It was adorned with a thin gold band topped with a tiny diamond. “And we’re getting married!”

“That’s wonderful!” Latasha cried out, thrilled to receive good news. She looked at Tyrone and added, “You’re a lucky man. Letty’s the best, just the absolute best.”

He smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, she is. I couldn’t be happier.”

“We are celebrating, yes?” Maksim’s voice boomed. His full beard did nothing to hide a big smile and a bright-eyed determination to celebrate the happy news in a manner that the engaged couple would never forget. “Vodka for everyone!”

“Oh, boy,” Latasha muttered.

“What?” Letty looked worried.

“You have no idea how hard these Russians party.”

Then Gia rose to greet her friend and claim her hug just long enough for Latasha to exclaim over her friend’s bulging pregnancy, followed by Olivia who pressed a maternal kiss to her cheek and offered a shoulder and sympathetic ear should she need it. Latasha smiled and realized that, there in the bosom of some of the toughest criminals in Cleveland, she felt safe and happy. She felt safe in the Maglione mansion, too, if not especially happy.

Happiness, it seemed, required Iosif by her side.

Or inside her.

Yeah, that was even better.

She shivered as a ripple of desire traveled through her and gave herself up to the impromptu festivities until it was time to pour vodka-soaked Letty and Tyrone into a taxi and go home with Iosif.

Go home and go to bed with Iosif.

Go home and go to bed and make love with Iosif.

If the vodka hadn’t melted her bones, Iosif’s passion certainly did. Three times that night and once again before she left for the mansion the next morning.

When they arrived and Iosif escorted Latasha to the front door, Bianca’s eyes twinkled knowingly. The old woman giggled like a girl.

“Come, cara, you must be hungry,” she said, taking the young woman’s arms and guiding her inside.

Giovanni emerged from an anteroom and grinned as he watched the housekeeper draw the nurse toward the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Iosif said, his gaze bleak as he, too, watched his wife walk away from him.

“I’m not a monster,” Giovanni said quietly. “But Nonno is dying, and he needs her care right now. I’ll arrange for as much time as I can for you and Latasha to have together before he dies.”

“Thank you,” Iosif said again.

Giovanni nodded and met the bigger man’s gaze with one that was both melancholy and fearless. “You know we can’t let her go completely. She knows too much.”

“I know,” he replied. “She knows that, too.”

“The best I can do is promise not to take advantage of her more than necessary.” He sighed. “I don’t like using women, especially honest women.”

For the third time, Iosif said, “Thank you.” He understood the gift that Giovanni offered, and he appreciated it.