Chapter 7

Pablo escorted them to the airfield where a six-passenger Sikorsky Seahawk waited. A servant jumped from the car and began loading Valentina’s luggage into the whirly-bird’s small cargo hold. Another vehicle pulled up. Iosif felt Latasha’s hand tremble in his.

“Ah, José, you wished to speak with my father’s physician. Here he is.”

The doctor swiveled to face the large, glowering man whom El Jefe’s son addressed. His eyes widened when he saw the pretty whore whom he’d last attended. His swarthy complexion turned ashen with fear. His patron’s eldest son unnerved him, but the icy fury in the big, pale foreigner’s eyes made him clench his sphincter to avoid soiling his pants. He saw his death in the big man’s eyes.

“José is now allied with the Ochobella,” the boy said, his tone light and conversational and all the more disturbing for its lack of menace. “What did you do to his wife?”

“I did as El Jefe ordered,” the physician replied in a desperate attempt to save his skin.

“I am El Jefe now,” Pablo said, every syllable clipped and sharp. “Tell me what you did to her.”

“I removed her hair—laser removal. Your father liked his whores bare.”

“And?”

“I dosed her with heroin to keep her compliant.”

“And?”

The physician snapped his jaw shut.

“Oh, God, he raped me,” Latasha muttered and sagged against Iosif.

“No, no he would not have done that,” Pablo murmured. “Papá would not have allowed it until he had finished with you.” He turned his cold expression toward the cringing physician. “What else?”

“I performed an endometrial ablation on her,” the physician blurted. “The women’s menstrual cycles are less of an inconvenience that way.”

“Oh, God,” Latasha wailed and wrapped her arms around herself.

“What is that?” Iosif asked.

Tears running down her face, Latasha answered, “He made it so I can’t have children.”

Icy fury burned through Iosif’s veins. Without a second thought, he pulled a gun and shot the physician. The doctor’s eyes bugged as the gunshot echoed, then went blank as he toppled over.

Pablo looked at the carcass and shrugged, his face expressionless. “I suppose I shall have to find another physician. No matter.”

Iosif holstered his pistol and gathered Latasha in his arms, muttering soft apologies in Russian. Pablo shrugged and said, “I had two of my men retrieve your belongings from the hotel. They are loaded in the helicopter. I will allow Bogdan a week or two to settle in with Valentina, and then I shall visit. You will inform your jefe that I wish to speak business with him.”

“Yes, I will tell him. His name is Maksim Andrupov.”

“Good to know. Have a good flight.”

With that, the young psychopath hopped back into his car and ordered his driver to return home. The three Russians and their women boarded the helicopter and informed the pilot of their final destination. In minutes the aircraft had lifted from the ground, and they flew toward freedom.

“What do you think Maksim will make of his new ally?” Gennady asked, switching automatically to Russian to be reasonably certain the women would not understand their conversation.

“Maksim might just kill him,” Iosif said.

“He’s just a kid, though.”

Bogdan shook his head and commented, “That one was never just a kid. If he were Russian…” He repressed a shudder of distaste.

“I wonder what Gia’s grandfather would make of him?” Iosif speculated.

“He’d kill the little bastard without a second thought,” Gennady answered.

The men lapsed into thoughtful silence, knowing that with sufficient provocation Cleveland’s capo di tutt'i capi could make that adolescent Costa Rican psychopath look like Mother Teresa.

“I think we’re going to need his assistance getting back into the U.S.A.,” Bogdan commented, casting a glance at the helicopter’s ceiling.

Iosif nodded in agreement. “He has better connections than Maksim, much as I hate to admit it. I’ll call Vitaly.”

A few minutes and a terse discussion later, Vitaly put Gia on the phone.

“Are you all right? Latasha? Is she okay?” Gia asked in a rush of words while a child called out “Mama!” in the background.

Iosif heard the low murmur of Vitaly soothing their daughter while her mama spoke on the phone, and then he answered, “She’ll be okay. She’s shaken, still scared. We need a favor from your grandfather.”

After a thick pause, Gia said, “You do realize that Grandpa doesn’t really do favors?”

“Gia, we’re coming back into the United States without proper documentation, with an illegal foreigner, and with weaponry. Unless you want us thrown into prison, please convince your grandfather to find a way for us to cross the border without getting caught and arrested.”

She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. What are you prepared to give?”

Iosif was tempted to answer that he’d give his first-born son, knowing now that Latasha could never have children; however, if Giuseppe Maglione ever discovered what had been done to Latasha—and he would, no doubt about that—then Iosif knew nothing would save him from the Mafioso’s keen-edged fury. That would then leave Latasha vulnerable, unprotected. No, he would not risk that.

He considered what he had in his savings account and offered that. Gia chuckled, “Grandpa will think that’s chump change. He’ll want something of real value.”

“He can’t have Latasha.”

“He won’t want Latasha. What else?”

“I have nothing else but my loyalty to Maksim and the Bratva.”

“Can I promise your loyalty to him? I think Grandpa would like having a Bratva interrogator and enforcer at his beck and call.”

“Maksim would never stand for it. He’ll have me killed.”

“I’ll explain that to Grandpa.”

Iosif sighed and thanked her for doing her best to help.

 

 

* * *

 

“We’re home, Latasha,” Iosif whispered into his sleeping wife’s ear. She murmured incoherently and rubbed her cheek against his arm. He ran the back of his knuckle down her cheek and said, “It’s time to wake up, moya lyubov.”

She opened her eyes and blinked. “How long did I sleep?”

“Not too long,” he assured her. “Come. Gia’s grandfather has sent people to meet us and make sure we cross the border undetected.”

“Gia’s grand—oh, shit,” she muttered. “What did that cost you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he answered honestly. “But whatever it is, it is worth the cost to get you back home where I can keep you safe.”

She glanced around, gaze alighting on Bogdan who stood with his arm draped protectively around Valentina. “Poor girl,” she murmured.

Iosif’s dark eyes followed the direction of her gaze. “He will treat her well.”

“And what about the woman with Gennady? She tried to help me. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

“He will give her her freedom when he is finished with her.”

Latasha shuddered and thought that the poor girl might not be in any condition to enjoy her freedom when Gennady finished with her. She looked at them as Iosif escorted her from the aircraft and wondered. From the care and consideration he showed the southern blonde, that the ugly, wiry man appeared to offer protection to the woman. Or maybe his solicitation of her merely took into consideration her current broken state before he could heal her and then break her again. She hoped Gennady had found the woman who could ease his dark soul.

Chill wind whipped around them as they stepped from the helicopter. Latasha looked around, but did not see any sign of civilization.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere on the coast of Oregon or Washington, I’m not sure which. California’s too populated.”

Latasha heard several thuds and turned around to see the pilot tossing luggage out of the helicopter’s tiny cargo hold onto the ground. There wasn’t much, so he finished the task quickly and returned to the controls. A moment later the helicopter’s blades whirred and the aircraft lifted into the sky. It hovered for a second, then veered off to disappear into the dark night.

“He’s not flying with any lights,” Latasha murmured.

“Of course, not. No lights makes it harder for the authorities to see him or catch him.”

“That’s got to be dangerous.”

“Fucking dangerous,” he agreed. “Which means either the pilot is extremely good, really desperate, or simply stupid.”

“I’m voting for all three.”

Bogdan approached on silent feet and nudged Iosif’s arm. Latasha stifled a gasp. Damn those big, spooky Russians who could move so silently and quickly! She got her breathing under control and looked around again, nervous and more than a little afraid. Valentina stood only a few feet away, her chocolate eyes wide and frightened in the faint light of a waning crescent moon. Latasha stepped toward her and extended a hand.

In slow, simplistic Spanish, she said, “Bogdan’s a good man. He won’t hurt you.”

Valentina gave her a small, tight smile. “I speak English.”

Latasha repeated her reassurance in English. Valentina’s expression showed that she really didn’t believe the other woman’s words, but the young woman had no other option but to stick by her new husband’s side. Her fate did not surprise her. Valentina knew what her father had planned and would have lived the rest of her life making the best of a bad situation, regardless of whether he had married her off to another drug cartel’s prince or this hulking, pale brute who found no discomfort in what was, to her, freezing temperatures.

Iosif’s phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket. “Da?”

The others waited patiently while he received his instructions. When the call ended, he swiped his thumb over the screen to the GPS and maps application and said, “We have thirty minutes to reach our rendezvous point. Giuseppe Maglione’s men are keeping the authorities distracted. He will have a car meet us.”

The men hoisted the heavier pieces of luggage, and the women shouldered the smaller cases. Everyone began walking, following Iosif over rough terrain for which they were not adequately dressed. Progress was slow. The women stumbled frequently, but no one complained. With barely a few minutes to spare, they crested a small rise to see a long limousine gleaming in the darkness.

Somehow, Latasha could not find it within her to be surprised that Giuseppe Maglione would send a limousine. At least there would be sufficient room for everyone to sit.

“Halt!” came an unfriendly order.

Practically reeling with exhaustion, Latasha blinked, belatedly noticing the man who pointed an Uzi at them.

“I am Iosif Drakoniv. You are expecting us.”

The man with the Uzi nodded and lowered the firearm’s muzzle. “Had to make sure,” he said without apology. “Get in quickly.”

Another man opened the trunk of the car and gestured at them to dump their luggage and other cargo in there. They complied without comment and clambered into the limo’s spacious interior.

As soon as the doors closed, the driver said, “We’re driving overland to Cleveland. Mr. Maglione doesn’t want to risk the feds’ notice with a flight plan.”

Iosif nodded his understanding and gestured with his hand for the man to continue speaking.

“We’ll make a few short pit stops along the way, but we won’t stop for the night at any hotels. Meals will be fast food.”

Iosif nodded again. He’d expected no less. The women might find the constant movement and poor rations difficult to endure, but they would have to accept it as the price for returning home unnoticed by federal, state, and local law enforcement.

“How long will this take?” Latasha asked, her voice a weak whisper.

“Four days,” he answered as the vehicle rolled forward, powerful engine purring.

She heaved a sigh. “We won’t smell good by then.”

He nuzzled her hair and murmured, “Moya lyubov, you always smell good to me. And you taste even better.”

“I don’t know how you can still want me after… after…” Her voice died away.

“I love you. I will always want you,” he reassured her.

“But I can’t have babies.”

“Then I will never have to share you.”

He drew her in close, snuggled her against his side.

“You always know what to say.”

He heard the tears in her voice. Iosif grunted softly and replied, “I learned from Vitaly’s and Pyotr’s mistakes.”

The group held their quiet, keeping their thoughts to themselves. After a few hours, the driver pulled into the drive-through lane of a burger chain. He relayed their orders. After the orders were delivered, he pulled the car toward the rear of the parking lot. Everyone took turns heading for the restrooms. Once their physical needs were taken care of, the limousine once again rolled down the highway. Their next stop took place at a fuel station. Cognizant of the CCTV cameras, no one but the driver exited the vehicle.

Boredom quickly set in and conversation began in desultory fashion. Confined in such close quarters and losing her fear of the men, Valentina’s reserve dissipated. Latasha found herself charmed by the young woman’s dry wit and astute observations, as well as her awe of the vastness and varied geography of her new country. Bogdan frequently reminded himself that the back seat of a limousine with his colleagues and their women was no place to fuck his wife.

She was his now and she deserved better.

He noticed that Iosif also appeared to struggle with the desire to bury himself inside Latasha’s slender body. Gennady usually had no such restraint, but apparently decided to exercise self-control in respect to his comrades. Iosif and Bogdan watched him closely. Typically, they paid no attention to the women with whom the wiry, hawk-nosed man dallied, but they noticed his attentiveness and care toward this one.

For his part, Gennady disliked Suzanne’s dull resignation and fear. He wanted to excite her, not grind what was left of her into dust. He set himself to a task he never before bothered to attempt: putting a woman at ease in his presence. First, he had to reassure her that he would not harm her. Then he had to reassure her that she would like what he’d do to her.

Her time as a prisoner of the Ochobella cartel did not make that easy.

Three nights later, the limousine crossed the state line into Ohio.

“Almost home,” the driver announced. “Just a few more hours.”

“How did you get to the West Coast so quickly?” Latasha finally asked, puzzled. “We weren’t in the air nearly this long.”

“Never been to Ohio,” the driver said. “But my capo owed Mr. Maglione a favor and was glad to pay it off.”

Relief knowing the end of their long, long drive mixed with anticipation at finally arriving home. The other man who shared driving duties placed a call and spoke rapid Italian to whoever answered. When the call ended, he twisted around in the seat to address the passengers: “Mr. Maglione welcomes you back to Ohio. Mr. and Mrs. Drakoniv, you’re permitted to rest in the comfort of your own bed tonight. Mr. Maglione will see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning at his office.” The man took a breath and continued. “He says Mr. Andrupov will join you then.”

Iosif nodded, not wasting any time wondering how Giuseppe Maglione dared command Maksim Andrupov.

“Wow,” Latasha muttered under her breath. She hadn’t thought that anyone could command Maksim Andrupov. Apparently, she’d been wrong.