Chapter 13

A quiet, empty feeling permeated Iosif’s house when Cecily awoke from her nap. Her bleary eyes took a moment to focus on the alarm clock before she realized how long she’d slept. Long nap. Latasha had gone to work and Iosif was out doing whatever it was that Iosif did. Cecily didn’t particularly want to know the details.

She ran her hands through her curls, fingers snagging on tangles.

“I need a haircut,” she muttered as she padded toward the bathroom.

A little later, she made her way to the kitchen and found a handwritten note that Latasha had left for her. She smiled at the request that she make herself free with whatever she found in the kitchen. Iosif would be home sometime later in the evening and Latasha’s shift did not end until 11:00 that night.

Cecily put together a quick sandwich, ate it without tasting anything, and washed it down with a glass of water. She tidied up, then returned to the bathroom to wash her face, brush her teeth, brush her hair, and apply some basic cosmetics in a futile effort to disguise exhaustion and worry. She hoped Maksim hadn’t gotten wind of her presence in Cleveland; he might very well make trouble for her for deserting his restaurant.

She changed clothes, then called for a taxi. She filled the twenty-minute wait with fidgeting and held her silence during the drive to the hospital. A harried looking employee at the information desk gave her directions to Pyotr’s room and a map of the hospital. She only had to stop and ask directions three more times before finally finding her destination.

She paused at the open doorway to Pyotr’s room. The light inside was dim. Machines beeped and buzzed. Tubes and wires ran from the blanketed figure on the narrow bed to the machines. Vitaly sat in a chair next to the bed. Sensing her presence, he looked up. Cecily stifled a gasp. She hadn’t seen him look that drawn and worried since Gia had been shot.

“You came.”

She nodded. Finding her voice, she whispered, “How’s he doing?”

Vitaly shrugged and said, “He’s alive. We don’t really know any more than that.”

“I—I’ve taken some time off work. I’ll sit with him so you can go home and help Gia with the baby.”

Vitaly looked torn, but then answered with a weary nod and mumbled thanks. He rose from the chair and collected his jacket.

“I’m glad you came, Cecily,” he said, his baritone rumbling with unshed tears. A big hand patted her shoulder. She caught sight of the colorful tattoos that extended over the back of his hand and fingers from beneath the long sleeve. “Pyotr will be, too.”

She nodded, thinking that Pyotr had tattoos like that, too. She loved seeing his brightly inked skin stretched over bulging muscle. She took the chair that Vitaly vacated and reached over to wrap Pyotr’s big hand in both of hers. Carefully avoiding the taped-down IV inserted into a vein and some other sensor taped to one of his fingers, she massaged his hand with a light touch and began to talk to him. Perhaps the sound of her voice would help him fight to come back.

“Why haven’t you called me, Pyotr? I’ve missed you so much?” She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his palm. “Our apartment is ready for you to move in. I miss living with you, sleeping with you even if you do snore.”

Tears welled up and trickled down her cheeks. She exhaled a watery chuckle and began to tell him of her landlady’s latest eccentricities. She talked until her voice was hoarse, then simply sat in melancholy silence beside him, rubbing his limp hand and hoping that he felt her touch.

Hours passed. Every so often, medical personnel would enter the room to check the monitors and read over Pyotr’s medical chart. They glanced at her, occasionally offering a quick greeting, then paid her no further attention.

“I’m surprised you came,” a cold voice sneered from the doorway.

Cecily looked up and saw Olivia standing there, her expression pinched and disapproving.

“You deserted him once. Will you abandon him again when he wakes up?”

Cecily turned pale, then flushed with embarrassment.

“I suppose I deserved that,” she mumbled, averting her gaze to look at Pyotr’s ashen face.

“You deserve that and more.”

“Your ultimatums have killed my best enforcer,” another voice, deep and rough like gravel, accused. “Olivia, what is this faithless girl doing here?”

Stung, Cecily glared at the Russian mob boss who stood beside his petite, auburn-haired wife with his arm wrapped around her. “You have damned near killed your best enforcer,” she hissed.

“I did not leave him,” Maksim declared with heavy finality.

“You would not let him leave,” she shot back, knowing that angering Maksim Andrupovich was the height of foolishness. He could make her disappear with little more than a flick of his fingers. She was sure she’d not enjoy it, either.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “What does she mean by that, Maksim?”

“Pyotr knows the rules,” Maksim replied.

“Rules or no, Pyotr’s no good to you anymore and you’ll have to release him,” Olivia said, every syllable sharp like broken glass. She glared at Cecily and added, “And you’re no good for him.”

More tears ran down Cecily’s cheeks. “I love him,” she protested through her tears.

“A woman who loves a man stays by his side,” Olivia scoffed. “You left him.”

“And self-respect means nothing?” Cecily shot back. “I wanted him to leave with me.”

“That was no display of self-respect, you faithless little tramp. That was pride.”

“I’ve been faithful to Pyotr!”

Maksim pulled out his cell phone, thick fingers sliding across the small screen. He held up a picture that Cecily recognized. Under the light of street lamps, she saw herself enveloped in her boss’ embrace.

“Really?” Maksim taunted, his voice thick with contempt. “What do you call this?”

“It was just a hug!”

“You allow a man to hold you like this in public, who knows what you allow that man to do to you in private?” he sneered.

“He doesn’t do anything to me in private!” Cecily shouted, jumping to her feet. “He’s my boss. I wouldn’t have an affair with my boss!” She inhaled and asked, “Why are you spying on me anyway?”

Maksim gestured toward the unconscious man lying on the bed and replied, “For him. You broke his heart. I showed him you were faithless and did not deserve him.”

Cecily collapsed into the chair, tears now running freely. “I don’t deserve him, but not because I cheated on him. I would never do that.” She held up her left hand, the diamond catching the dim light in the room. “We’re supposed to get married.”

She buried her face in her hands and wept. Olivia’s expression softened and she eased herself from Maksim’s protective hold. Bending over Cecily, the older woman wrapped her arms around her and murmured soothing nonsense. Maksim looked at them, the woman he practically worshipped and the woman whom his best enforcer loved.

With a flick of his wrist, he muttered, “Fine. You get what you want. Pyotr Idaklyka will be released from the Bratva. He has been ruined anyway.”

With that, he stomped from the room.

Olivia straightened and patted Cecily on the shoulder. Looking at the blonde, she said, “He’ll probably need physical therapy.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Cecily vowed with stout loyalty. “But he’s leaving Cleveland.”

“Why move him away from his family?”

Cecily shook her head. “I understand that you and Maksim and Iosif and Vitaly and the others consider him family, but it’s a dysfunctional family.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed in offense.

Cecily tried to soften the insult. “It will be too easy for him to lapse into old, familiar ways. He needs a fresh start where he can reinvent himself without old habits dragging him back into crime.”

Olivia sighed and nodded, her expression melancholy. “I understand.” At Cecily’s surprised look, she emphasized, “Truly, I do.”

The younger woman still looked skeptical.

“I was once a sex slave,” Olivia explained.

Cecily gasped in horror.

Olivia continued: “I was brought over with a shipment of girls and sold into slavery. Maksim’s father bought me for his older son. But Maksim wanted me.” She shrugged, looking inward. “We fell in love, though I belonged to his brother. He fought his brother for possession and, when he won, he offered me freedom.”

She looked at Cecily, who gaped in sustained horror at the story.

“There is no true freedom after that,” Olivia said. “I found my freedom in Maksim.” She sighed before continuing. “Maksim is a hard man. He has made tough choices all his life. He grew up the son of a cruel and dangerous man, the younger brother of another cruel and dangerous man. Here in the United States he walks a fine line between what the Bratva would make of him and what I would prefer him to be. Often the Bratva must take precedence or he loses everything. I understand that.”

“I had no idea,” Cecily muttered.

“Of course not. Why would you?” Olivia directed a piercing glare at her. “You see a well-preserved wife of a wealthy man, not a frightened girl who was sold into prostitution.”

Cecily shook her head and murmured an apology, although she wasn’t quite sure why she was apologizing. Olivia patted her again.

“What Vitaly and Gia share is rare and special. What Pyotr feels for you is also rare and special.” The older woman’s expression hardened and sharpened. Looking at her, Cecily saw the steely edge of a mobster’s mate. “If you hurt him again, I’ll kill you myself.”

With those parting words, she left the room to join her husband. Cecily leaned back in the chair and mulled over that unsettling conversation. She wiped her sleeve across her face to dry her tears.

“Dear God, Pyotr, how did you get mixed up with these people?” she muttered under her breath.

With no answer forthcoming, Cecily once again took hold of Pyotr’s hand and gently stroked the skin not otherwise taped, bandaged, punctured, or covered by a medical device. The bruised, swollen state of his knuckles did not escape her notice.

“No more fighting, Pyotr. You can’t go back into the ring after this.”

“Cage, not ring,” a low voice rumbled softly behind her.

Cecily inhaled sharply, dropped Pyotr’s hand, and twisted around in the seat to face whoever spoke to her. Iosif stood in the doorway, his sharp features inscrutable as he focused his dark laser stare upon his unconscious comrade.

“Hello, Iosif,” Cecily greet him with automatic, polite manners. “Maksim released him from the Bratva.”

“Da,” Iosif said with a curt nod and without surprise. “He is no longer useful.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” she protested.

He gave her a one-shouldered shrug that she did not know how to interpret and asked, “You will take him to Texas with you, yes?”

“Yes, if he’ll come.”

Something glinted in Iosif’s eyes and his lips curled in a faint smile. “Da, he will come in you.”

“With me,” she corrected.

“Ya znayu, chto ya skazal.”

Cecily blushed and averted her gaze: yes, he did know what he said and he meant it, too. She turned around and again took Pyotr’s hand in hers. Looking at Pyotr, she asked, “Are you going to marry Latasha?”

“That’s between her and me, don’t you think?”

“She’s my best friend,” Cecily replied. “I don’t want her hurt.”

She did not see Iosif’s faintly amused expression. “You want to know if my intentions are honorable.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“She is mine. She doesn’t realize it yet.”

“But are you hers, Iosif?”

Since he had not forced the pretty, sharp-tongued woman living with him to share his bed, he rather thought that question superfluous. Of course, he was hers. He’d not tolerate such denial from any other woman. Her undisciplined, hoodlum brothers did not frighten him.

Cecily narrowed her eyes as another thought came to her in the absence of a verbal reply from Iosif. “You keep her away from Gennady, you hear? I’ve heard things, nasty things, about him.”

“Gennady would give his life for either Latasha or Gia, but he will not touch them.”

“Good.”

“Protecting my virtue, are you?” Latasha’s light voice quipped as she briskly walked into the room.

“Latasha!” Cecily cried.

Latasha stood back a few steps and gave her friend a critical once-over with her eyes. “You look better rested, but you’ve been crying.” She glared at Iosif. “Did you make Cece cry?”

Iosif turned just a little pale and shook his head, “Nyet.”

“Damn well better not have,” she muttered and picked up Pyotr’s chart. “I can only stay a minute—just wanted to check up on you and the big guy here.”

“What does his chart say?”

Latasha shook her head. “A lot of medical jargon that doctors think nurses won’t understand. Basically, it says that he’s in a coma and they don’t know what else to do besides wait.”

The hope in Cecily’s expression faded. “They don’t know how long?”

Latasha shook her head. “I’m sorry, Cece. There’s still more about and head injuries and the brain that we don’t know than what we do. He’ll come out of it when he’s ready.” Or he won’t, she added silently. But Cecily didn’t need to hear that depressing addition to the thought.

Cecily nodded, grateful for her friend’s plain speaking.

“How long have you been here, Cece?”

“I don’t know.”

Latasha nodded and figured she’d ask at the nurse’s station. She also figured that Cecily would continue to sit in that chair without budging unless someone forcibly budged her. She turned her attention to Iosif, who met her gaze with a quizzically raised eyebrow.

“You’ll make sure she gets home. Please?”

He nodded.

“Good. If we’re gonna have a chef visiting with us, we can at least have her cook for us once or twice.”

Iosif grinned at her. Neither Latasha nor he cooked with any enthusiasm and they both missed dining at Pyotr’s well-stocked table.

“You hear me, Cece?”

“Hm?”

“Focus, Cece. Iosif will make sure you don’t pine away in here.”

“You want me to cook for you?”

“You bet, girlfriend.”

Cecily gave her an indulgent smile. It was nice to know that some things never changed. “Sure. It’s the least I can do.”

Latasha nodded, stepped forward to give her best friend a quick hug, and then excused herself, saying, “My shift’s over at eleven. I’ll be home by half-past. Don’t worry about cooking tonight. I’ll be too tired to eat.”

Cecily nodded and agreed with her. “When do you work tomorrow?”

Latasha grinned. “Early shift tomorrow: seven to three.”

“Supper at five then?”

“Make it six o’clock. Iosif thinks eating supper earlier than that is barbaric.”

“Okay, six it is.”

“Great. I’ve got to get going or my shift supervisor will give me hell.”

With those parting words, Latasha departed as briskly as she had entered, a skinny, caramel-skinned force of nature whose genial bullying was applied to friend and patient alike.

Not bothering to look at Iosif, who had moved to lean against a wall, Cecily commented, “It’s amazing what she’s done. Her family is a joke, losers all of them. That Latasha hasn’t ended up some crack whore in the streets is incredible.”

Iosif grunted. He agreed. What he never revealed was that Latasha’s brother Billy hadn’t been shot by a rival gang member, as she thought. He knew exactly where that bullet had come from and regretted its inaccuracy. Only his word kept Gennady from finishing the job.

They remained in the dim, quiet room late into the evening until Iosif said, “Come. You are tired and will do Pyotr no good if you pine. I will bring you back tomorrow morning.”

She rose, grimaced as her stiff muscles protested. With a teary sniff, she brought Pyotr’s hand to her lips and kissed his palm. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Pyotr,” she whispered. “Wake up for me. Please.”

She allowed Iosif to guide her through the hospital’s rabbit warren of a floor plan. They did not see Latasha on their way out. Once they arrived at Iosif’s home, Cecily thanked him and retreated to the guest bedroom without thinking about eating. In all truth, she did not feel hungry.

Her appetite had not returned by morning, but she ate mechanically of eggs and toast. Iosif drove her back to the hospital where she told him she could find her way. He nodded, understanding her desire to be alone. His cell phone rang and he heeded his boss’ call. Work did not stop merely because Maksim’s enforcer lay in a coma. The Bratva merely assigned the task to another fighter.

Once again, Cecily spent hour after hour sitting beside Pyotr’s bed, holding his hand and talking to him. She even sang silly nursery rhymes her mother once sang to her infant children. Then she began to tell him stories of her rural childhood.

“One day my best friends—they were twins—spent the night. Early the next morning, Mama woke us up, calling ‘Girls!’ Rosebud, Charlie, and their eleven piglets had escaped their pen. Carrie, Connie and I all rushed out in our pajamas to chase them back to their pen.” She sighed and giggled. “Carrie and Connie were from the city, which seemed like a metropolis back then. Batesville’s hardly more than a village compared to Cleveland or San Antonio.”

She talked until her voice turned hoarse. Leaning over and resting her head on the mattress beside Pyotr’s body, she dozed off, which was how Latasha found her when she stopped by to let Cecily know her shift had ended.

Latasha shook her shoulder gently and softly called her name. With a start and a snort, Cecily woke and blinked in confusion.

“Hey, girlfriend, it’s me. Time to go home and fix supper.”

Cecily nodded dumbly and allowed Latasha to guide her upright and lead her away. Her actions mechanical and practiced despite a lack of attention, Cecily fixed a simple meal for her hosts that nonetheless had them wishing she would stay in Cleveland. She ate what she cooked and retreated to the guest room.

Latasha looked after her, expression worried. She turned to Iosif and whispered, “I’ve never seen Cece so depressed. She can’t keep on like this.”

Iosif wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to his body. She laid her head against his chest and listened to his response: “You will be there for her when she falls. That’s all you can do, vozlyublennaya.”

She sighed. “I love it when you call me that, even though I’m not really sure what it means.”

“Sweetheart.”

She raised her face toward his and he leaned down to kiss her, a long, tender kiss that both soothed and aroused. Latasha blinked, dazed, when the kiss ended. He looked down into her dreamy face and wished she were not so adamant about protecting her virtue.

“You are an anomaly,” he said.

“I’m not a virgin,” she admitted sheepishly and averted her gaze. She began telling a story she never told anyone. “When I was twelve, one of my oldest brother’s friends raped me. It was a gang initiation stunt for him—Da’Shawn did it to another girl. It almost wrecked my entire life.” She leaned her head against his chest again as Iosif’s arms tightened around her. “Mama found out what happened and told me to get an abortion if I were pregnant. I wasn’t, but I... I couldn’t deal with it. I was pretty wild for a few years. Defiant and reckless. Then one of the teachers at school took me aside and talked to me. She got me to admit what had happened and took me to see her priest.”

Latasha stopped for a moment, blinking back tears and gathering her composure to finish her story. She continued: “Mrs. Torelli and Father Ed made me realize that I wasn’t to blame for what happened and that no one had the right to take from me what I did not give.”

“They were right,” Iosif agreed and fought the burning fury that made him want to go out and kill something. With his bare hands.

“Leroy and Da’Shawn were killed in a gang fight when I was a freshman in college,” she said. After a pause, she added, “I didn’t go to their funerals.”

Iosif pressed a kiss to the top of her head and said nothing, could think of nothing to say that would help. Latasha looked up at him.

“It’s not that I don’t love you, Iosif. It’s just that I can’t give up control.”

“You need never to fear me,” he whispered.