Chapter 13

Deliciously aching with a lingering tenderness in exactly the right places, Latasha fell back into her routine. She spent early mornings exercising in the on-site fitness room that Giovanni had installed years ago and jogging on the well-groomed track that circled the Maglione family’s back acreage. After a shower, she dressed in scrubs and headed for the kitchen where Luigi and Bianca would ply her with more food than she could eat in one sitting. From there, she’d head back upstairs to Giuseppe’s suite. When awake, the old man remained lucid and sharp of mind. However, he fell asleep quickly and often those days.

Dr. Brown visited every week, taking his patient’s vital signs and conferring with Giovanni. He made no secret of his resentment and distrust of the private nurse who tended his wealthiest and most powerful patient.

“He needs an increase in his pain meds,” Latasha informed the physician as their patient lay sleeping nearby.

“Is Mr. Maglione complaining?”

“Not much, but then he never does. He doesn’t refuse his scheduled doses though, even though they don’t ease his pain like they used to.”

The doctor looked at her, lip slightly curled, and said, “Are you trying to get him addicted? Or are you just wanting to stock up on drugs to sell?”

Latasha gasped at the accusation. With stiff pride, she said, “That was uncalled for. I’ve done my very best to care for Mr. Maglione, and I’ve given no one any reason to doubt my honesty and integrity.”

From the bed, Giuseppe said in a thin voice that nonetheless carried authority, “I’m dying, Doctor. Who cares if I become addicted? And do not impugn my nurse again.”

Dr. Brown gaped, then frowned, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line of disapproval.

Giovanni chose that moment to enter the room. “What’s going on?” he asked, immediately sensing the tension in the room.

“Dr. Brown does not wish to prescribe additional pain relief for me,” the old don replied.

Dr. Brown turned pale and began to sweat. Giovanni looked at him and said nothing, his expression icy and hard.

“Er… perhaps an increase in dosage and frequency would not be amiss,” the doctor hastened to say as he whipped out his prescription pad and a pen. He opened his mouth to say something else, then thought better of it and closed his jaws with a snap of molars.

“You were going to say, Doctor?” Giovanni prompted, one eyebrow raised in a deceptively mild inquiry.

“N-nothing, Mr. Maglione,” the doctor stammered. He ripped off the new prescription and handed the paper to Latasha. She carefully controlled her expression to maintain an air of neutrality, not wanting the doctor’s embarrassment and resentment to blackball her from future employment. Neither did she want to incur the ire of her employer or his grandson and successor.

Giovanni glanced at Latasha and asked, “Does the prescription look correct to you?”

The physician gasped at the insult of a nurse’s opinion being valued more highly than his. However, Latasha nodded and said, “Yes, it looks good.”

“Bene,” Giovanni said. Extending his arm, he added, “Doctor, allow me to escort you to your car.”

Having no graceful way to decline the offer, the physician nodded and departed.

“Officious, pompous asino,” Giuseppe muttered.

“Despite that,” Latasha muttered, even though she grinned, “Dr. Horatio Brown is an excellent doctor. Or, at least, he has a stellar reputation.”

“Bah. What good is a doctor who cannot cure what ails me?” Giuseppe’s tone turned querulous.

Latasha patted his shoulder and said, “Tell you what, it’s an absolutely gorgeous day outside. Why don’t we head out to the back patio and you can beat me at backgammon again?”

“You needn’t humor me, girl.”

“I’m not humoring you, Mr. Maglione. I wouldn’t dare. But I’ve no reports to read to you today and we both know I’ve no head for chess. At least at backgammon I’ve got a fair chance at beating you.”

The old man’s weak chuckle rattled in his chest. “I like you, Latasha. Too bad you’re married, or I’d throw you at Giovanni’s head.”

“I’m too mean and ornery for Giovanni,” she objected without rancor as she wrapped him in a warm sweater and moved him to a wheelchair with a steely strength that belied her slender, fragile appearance. “He needs someone soft and easygoing.”

Giuseppe chuckled again. “That’s where you’re wrong, cara. He needs a strong woman who will stand up to him. All strong men do.”

Latasha draped a blanket over his legs, released the brake, and rolled her patient toward the door.

As the weather turned and her patient’s health quickly declined, Latasha spent less and less time in conversation with Giuseppe and more time waiting for the inevitable. She knew she’d weep when the old man finally breathed his last; she’d grown surprisingly fond of him. With clear-eyed insight, she recognized his cruelty and his iron core of unyielding determination as much as she understood the abiding love he had for his family and unflinching generosity he showed to those who served him well. Latasha thought of him as a feudal king presiding over his own fiefdom, his will obeyed without question. She witnessed Giuseppe’s effective transfer of power and authority to the hard-eyed successor whose tough, insightful mind and fearsome intelligence bore an uncanny resemblance to his. Latasha rather thought it was like watching a crown prince rising to power. In her more irreverent moments, she wondered if there would be a coronation ceremony.

Giovanni would look regal wearing a crown and ermine cape.

She wondered if he would prefer the term emperor to king, then chuckled at her silliness.

Three times a week, Iosif joined her for supper in the Maglione’s warm kitchen. Sitting with Bianca, Giovanni, Luigi, Paolo, and his younger brothers, they interacted like one big, rowdy family. Latasha had long since relinquished the battle for portion control and learned to eat until she was satisfied, and then to refuse all other offers of extra helpings. She sought and received the occasional afternoon off to spend time with Iosif, Gia and her children, and, occasionally Letty, who asked her to serve as her matron of honor. Tyrone, she said, wanted a church wedding.

“I think a church wedding is just what you need,” Latasha said, thinking how even the macho men of the Maglione family attended Mass with faithful regularity. Their faith, she thought, kept them grounded and their humanity intact.

“He’s Baptist,” Letty whispered, as though imparting a dirty secret.

“So?”

Letty laughed, shook her head at her friend’s ignorance, and said, “You really don’t get it. This ain’t like the church services you used to drag me to on Sundays. It takes twenty minutes just for the reverend to clear his throat. This wedding will take half the day.”

Latasha smiled and said, “It’ll be an interesting experience then. At least we won’t get all gussied-up for a 15-minute service. That always seems like a waste of effort, especially since it takes me at least twice that to do my hair.”

Letty laughed.

Latasha did not visit her mother, although she remained in contact with her sister who visited once a week to join the staff for supper. Keisha quickly found herself a favorite with two of the Maglione guards, whom the older sister warned to treat the young woman with respect or she’d gut them with rusty spoons.

“Why a rusty spoon?” Keisha asked after overhearing Latasha threaten one of her two smitten swains.

Quoting from a favorite movie—Iosif owned the soundtrack to that one, too—Latasha replied with a vicious smile, “Because it’ll hurt more.”

The inevitable happened and Giuseppe Maglione died. Giovanni notified an undertaker and the family’s vast network of colleagues, relatives, and friends. He authorized Bianca to hire additional housekeeping and kitchen staff to accommodate the influx of guests who would begin arriving shortly. He did not grant Latasha leave to return home to her husband.

“Why not?” she asked.

He leveled a cool glance of authority at her and said, “I’ll debrief you after the funeral. Then you may return home.”

When she informed Iosif of the delay, he shrugged his shoulders with stoic resignation. Her news did not surprise him.

Latasha found her place within the household altered. Since she no longer really worked in the household, she no longer counted as staff. However, neither was she acknowledged as family. Visiting friends and family members engaged her in conversation and questioned her about “dear Giuseppe’s” last weeks. They probed—sometimes not so delicately—for information related to the family business that Giuseppe may have imparted to his pretty nurse. Latasha kept her comments general and personal, repeating how she’d thought her patient brave and charming and sharp of mind to the very end. The more sensitive guests offered handkerchiefs and tissues so she could wipe her tears, for Latasha had grown inordinately fond of the formidable old man to whom she’d grown so close.

“You’d think the mayor died,” Latasha commented sotto voce as she sat with Iosif in the pew during the funeral Mass and looked over the nave crowded with foreign and domestic dignitaries from the political arena as well as representatives from both legitimate businesses and criminal organizations. Maksim and Olivia also stood with Iosif in a gesture of respect from one crime boss to another. Across the aisle near the back of the church, Pablo Ochobella sat with his family, several trusted guards, Valentina, and Bogdan.

“Hush,” Iosif whispered under his breath. House of God notwithstanding, tension ran high and the concealed weaponry in the building could equip an army. Giuseppe had done what he could to ensure the peaceful transfer of power and authority to Giovanni, but he did not doubt some ambitious fool would challenge the new capo di capi. He hoped, but doubted, that the sanctity of church and family would be respected.

On the drive back to the Maglione mansion, Iosif whispered his concern.

Latasha nodded. “Giovanni already warned me, as have Bianca, Luigi, and Paolo. Believe me, I’ve no desire to get caught in a coup as collateral damage.”

“I will stay with you tonight.”

“You’ve spoken to Giovanni about this?”

“Da. He has accepted Maksim’s offer of a few extra guards. Doing so shows his trust in Maksim and strengthens the relationship with the Bratva.”

“That’s… unprecedented.”

“Da.” Iosif nodded. “Giovanni is a good leader, though a little different than his grandfather.”

Latasha nodded to show she understood what her husband did not say. She murmured quiet greetings to Bogdan, Gennady, and Vitaly. They returned her greetings with cool, curt nods and the icy, sharp eyes of professional killers. The Russians and a handful of Costa Ricans followed Maksim and Pablo Ochobella into the office where they joined Giovanni and several of the top-ranking capos. No women allowed.

Latasha tried not to feel excluded, reminding herself that she did not want to be involved in whatever discussions were going on. She did not resent the blatant chauvinism these criminals displayed under the pretense of protecting the fairer sex. She, Olivia, and Giancarla exchanged speaking glances, but made no comment. Joined by Suzanne and Valentina, they confined their chitchat to domestic concerns, giving the remaining guards and aspiring capos the impression that nothing more important than recipes, fashion trends, and changing diapers ever crossed their minds.

The subterfuge must have worked. They remained unmolested, despite Gia’s frequent visits to the bathroom. “Damned baby’s bouncing on my bladder,” she muttered every time she rejoined them.

Guests gradually finished eating, drinking, and visiting and finally took their leave. Latasha noticed that Gia’s parents, who had declined to join the family business, stayed at the reception only long enough to fulfill the dictum of polite behavior. She also noticed they remained somewhat cool toward Gia, who had married into the Russian mafia. She watched Valentina bid a reserved good-bye to her psychopathic younger brother and depart with Suzanne.

“She’s changed,” Latasha said to Olivia as she stared at Suzanne’s retreating back.

Olivia nodded. “Gennady has given her a place where she feels wanted and secure. She blooms now.”

Latasha tried to repress a shudder of distaste. Olivia noticed it and said nothing. She could be discreet. She also understood Suzanne more than the young nurse imagined.

Sooner, rather than later, Gia and Olivia also departed. Pablo Ochobella, flattered by the new capo di capi’s attention, made no protest when dismissed to return to his overnight accommodations at the hotel. Giovanni sent his young cousins to their quarters, admonishing them to behave and not do anything stupid that might get them killed. Bogdan and Gennady and Keisha’s swains followed after them to ensure their safety. With a yawn and an apology for deserting them, Giovanni retreated to the master suite formerly occupied by his grandfather. A half dozen guards accompanied him.

Latasha and Iosif retired to her room.

“Very nice,” Iosif commented as he checked to ensure the windows were locked and the door was secure.

She looked at him, her expression uncertain. “Are you coming to bed with me?”

He gave her a faint smile and replied, “Not tonight.”

At her crestfallen expression, he explained, “Is best I remain alert and armed to protect you, vozlyublennaya.”

She nodded, understanding that she knew too much. “Giovanni promised to ‘debrief’ me tomorrow. Then I’ll be able to go home.”

“Eto khorosho.” Iosif ran his hand up and down her back as he expressed his approval for his wife’s return to his home and his bed. “Go to sleep. I will be here when you wake.”

Latasha sighed and did not succumb to the temptation to titillate her husband with a strip tease. She changed into an old tee shirt—one of Iosif’s stolen from his bureau—and climbed between the sheets.

He walked to the bed, pressed a kiss to her forehead. Cupping her face in his palm, he whispered, “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered back and let sheer weariness pull her into deep slumber.

The crack of bullets, muffled screams, and angry shouts woke her long after the moon had disappeared beneath heavy clouds. Iosif stood near the door, gun held ready as he listened with intense concentration. After a few minutes, there was a quiet knock on the bedroom door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Bianca. Will you open the door?”

“Is anyone with you?”

“Ovviamente,” she replied in a tired and testy tone, heeding instructions for her coded reply to show that she had not been coerced into treachery.

Iosif opened the door and asked, “What happened?”

“Giovanni is fine,” she replied. “So are Paolo and the children.”