Chapter 8

Latasha stood in the bathroom, feeling awkward. Iosif had kindly offered to allow her to take a shower first and use up all the hot water. She appreciated that, especially since she felt grimy and knew that she’d never wear those clothes again. Hell, she’d probably never leave Ohio again. Cecily and Pyotr would just have to come north to visit.

Her mind skittered away from what would happen after the shower. Forcing herself to face cold fact, she acknowledged that she had not been raped. She’d missed her appointment on El Jefe’s schedule and did not regret it. But she’d still been violated. Her skin burned with the lingering pain of laser hair removal which wasn’t supposed to be performed in one session. The unpleasant discharge from her vagina and the lingering discomfort there continually reminded her that, even though her periods would now be drastically reduced or even eliminated, pregnancy was no longer an option. Even if she did manage to conceive—highly unlikely now—then the risks of carrying the child to term lowered to almost nil.

Latasha hadn’t been certain she wanted children, but she was certain she resented having the choice taken from her.

She stepped under the nearly scalding water and washed her hair first, tenderly probing what remained of the lump on her head. It still hurt, but not as badly. Then she grabbed her shower puff. Squirting her favorite white tea-and-ginger scented shower gel on it, she scrubbed her body, rinsed, and scrubbed again. She ignored the pain induced by the nylon puff against already sensitive skin. She felt dirty, and, if necessary, she’d scrub until she bled to feel clean again.

She didn’t realize the water had run cold until it shut off. She looked up, puzzled.

“Come, lyubimaya,” he said, his voice quiet and gentle as he removed the shower puff from her hand and set it on the soap tray.

Latasha’s green eyes darkened with tears even as Iosif took her hand in his and he led her from the shower. Belatedly, she noticed his hair was wet and his skin damp and pink from his own shower. Oh, that was right, his house had two full bathrooms.

Tears slipped down her cheeks as Iosif carefully patted her dry with a soft towel and then smoothed a soothing, cooling lotion over her reddened, raw skin. She didn’t recognize its herbal scent. He must have heard her sniffing.

“Olivia sent it over,” Iosif said, his voice quiet and carefully neutral. “She guessed you’d feel like this.”

“Olivia,” Latasha repeated in a whisper.

“Da. You know enough of her story to know she will understand what you feel.” He circled one delicate ankle with his hand and said, “Lift your foot.”

She lifted her foot and leaned against the counter as he massaged Olivia’s lotion into the sole and between her toes. She glanced down and gulped audibly. His erection tented his boxers.

Iosif correctly interpreted her fear. Redirecting his attention from her foot to her face, he said, “Nothing will happen that you do not want. Nothing.”

“But… but you…” Her voice died away, lost in uncertainty.

“I am no beast unable to control myself,” he reassured her with the steadiness of his gaze and voice. “If you will tolerate it, I will hold you in my arms tonight.”

Latasha wasn’t sure whether she felt ashamed or relieved. She decided to focus on relief. Iosif would be gentle and patient. He would not hurt her. The man who wielded knives, guns, and fists with equal skill would never harm her.

Her jerky nod of agreement triggered an upswell of relief. Until that moment, Iosif hadn’t realized how much he feared his wife’s rejection.

He set down her foot and turned his attention to her other leg. She hissed when the cool lotion initially touched her raw skin, then sighed as Olivia’s herbal concoction worked its soothing magic. He didn’t know what was in that stuff, but he owed his boss’ wife a debt of gratitude.

When he finished treating her skin, he took her hand and led her to their bed.

“Sit,” he bade her.

She sat, blinking slowly.

Without discussion, Iosif pulled an old tee shirt from the dresser and a pair of her cotton panties—one of the pairs she preferred during certain times of the month when comfort took precedence over sexiness. “Arms up.”

She raised her arms, and he slid the soft cotton garment over her.

“I’m going to comb out your hair now.” The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled down behind her.

She lowered her arms and sat still while he gently and patiently worked a comb through the damp tangles, taking extra care around the tender lump on her scalp. She hadn’t thought to use conditioner before scrubbing her skin raw.

When he finished, he drew the covers back. She obediently moved, lying down and resting her head on the pillow. The dip of the mattress rolled her back against him as he climbed in behind her. Iosif wrapped his brawny arms around her and held her close against him. She listened to the slow draw of his breath and the steady beat of his heart, felt the solidity and heat of his flesh. His erection prodded her, but he made no move to take advantage.

Iosif’s warm breath wafted over her cheek. It smelled of mint. “Sleep, Latasha. You are safe.”

Obediently, she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, relaxing in the security of her husband’s embrace.

The next morning, she awoke alone in the king-sized bed. She lay there a moment and pondered on that. Did Iosif not want her anymore because she couldn’t have children? Did he see her as soiled and damaged beyond redemption? Or had he simply done the considerate thing and removed any unwelcome pressure she might have felt to take care of his morning erection because she was his wife and that was her marital duty?

She snorted at her own melodrama. Iosif, she told herself sternly, was merely being kind. She lay there a moment longer and realized her bladder needed relief. Now. After visiting the bathroom to take care of that biological necessity, she washed her face and hands, pulled her unruly hair into a bushy ponytail, and got dressed. In minutes, she joined Iosif in the kitchen, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved oxford shirt. The outfit was probably too casual for a meeting with Giuseppe Maglione, but Latasha couldn’t find it within herself to care. She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to wear anything flattering or sexy again.

“Dobroye utro. I was just about to wake you up,” Iosif commented in a mild tone as he poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Eggs?”

She shook her head and returned his greeting. “Good morning. Just toast, please.”

He nodded and popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

“Do you know what Mr. Maglione is going to want?” she asked.

“No,” Iosif replied, although he could hazard a guess. Maksim, he knew might bluster and protest, but he was too wily to outright defy the Italian mob boss. Maksim claimed respect and held power, but next to Giuseppe Maglione, he resembled the prince of a small country compared to the emperor of a mighty empire.

“Y—you wouldn’t leave Maksim, would you?”

“That is for Maksim to decide, but I do not think he will relinquish me easily.”

Latasha nodded. The Bratva chief, after all, had not released Vitaly after the Montoya thing. Although, she admitted to herself, Vitaly no longer tortured people for a living as Maksim prepared him to inherit his position in place of the son he never had. She looked at Iosif from beneath her eyelashes. Her husband had taken over that duty and it had changed him. In the past two years, she had seen Iosif grow colder, harder. It took a terrible toll on him even as he perfected his cruel skills.

Come to think of it, she’d never seen Iosif so relaxed and at ease as he’d been during the first precious days of their honeymoon.

“I know you were a soldier, but what did you do back in Russia?” she asked, wanting to know more about how he’d allowed himself to be drawn into the seedy, violent underworld.

His expression turned bleak and hard, but he did not prevaricate or shy from the bald truth. “I killed the wrong man.”

Latasha gasped and flinched beneath the big man’s flinty gaze. She knew him well enough, though, to understand that held himself hard and cold as stone in order to withstand pain. She reached across the table to settle her hand over his. “Tell me.”

The toaster popped. Iosif rose from his chair to tend to his wife’s breakfast.

“I was in Chechnya,” he began as he scraped butter over the toasted bread. “We took back a village that had fallen under Islamic rule. I was patrolling and heard a commotion, a scream. I investigated.” He paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “One of the commanding officers was raping a Muslim girl. She was hardly more than a child. I killed him. The Bratva saved me from court martial with my agreement to serve them after discharge.”

“You did the right thing, saving that girl,” Latasha praised him. She accepted the plate with her toast and thanked him.

He shook his head, but not in denial of her words. “Both sides committed atrocities and the populace hated us all with good reason.” He shrugged. “The Bratva is not good, but neither does it pretend to be. I found their honesty… refreshing.”

“And Mr. Maglione?” Latasha took a bite.

“I have only met him briefly two or three times,” Iosif said. “I am more familiar with Giovanni.”

“Giovanni’s hot.”

Iosif raised an eyebrow. Latasha took a sip of her coffee and giggled, a sound she never thought she’d make again.

“When Gia, Cecily, and I lived together, Giovanni would sometimes visit. He’d bring groceries for us, stuff we couldn’t afford, or he’d take us out to lunch or dinner. I always wondered why Gia lived in such poverty with us and asked him once. He said that if anyone in the family declined to join the family business, they were out. Mr. Maglione let them find their own way without the family’s money or influence behind them.”

“That’s probably a kindness,” Iosif commented.

She nodded. “Yes, it probably is. Anyway, we were grateful for Giovanni’s little gifts and going out under his escort was always entertaining. Women everywhere glared at us as if we’d stolen something of theirs. Or they drooled. There was lots of drool.” She smiled in fond remembrance. “He treated us like little sisters. A few of my classmates asked about him, but none of them would believe me when I said he never even made a pass at any of us. Well, of course, he wouldn’t make a pass at Gia. She’s his cousin.”

Iosif found it difficult to relate the brotherly description of Giovanni Maglione to the cool, calculating, and controlled man he knew. Perhaps, he thought, Giovanni saved his softer side for those whom he loved. Like Iosif himself did.

Latasha finished her toast and coffee. Iosif glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s time to go.”

She nodded and retreated to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Moments later, they were in his car. Just minutes before nine o’clock, they knocked on the door to Giuseppe Maglione’s office. A polished and coiffed receptionist buzzed them through.

“You must be Mr. Maglione’s nine o’clock appointment,” she said in greeting, offering them a meaningless, professional smile that showed no teeth.

“Yes.”

She gestured to a door to her right. “Go on in. He’s expecting you. Mr. Andrupov is already here.”

They followed her instructions and entered the mob boss’ plush office. Although appointed with a mahogany desk the size of an aircraft carrier, acres of thick carpet that deadened sound, state-of-the-art computer equipment, and a view overlooking Lake Erie, the room felt bare. A painting—an original by an artist Latasha did not recognize and probably never would—hung on a wall. A small wet bar was discreetly tucked into another wall. Bookshelves contained only a handful of actual books, plus a few expensive looking knickknacks.

Sitting in a leather chair, Maksim greeted them. Iosif replied with polite courtesy.

“You are unharmed?” the Bratva’s chief inquired.

“Yes, thank you. I am deeply grateful,” Latasha replied. “And please convey my thanks to Olivia for the lotion.”

“My Livvy is good woman,” Maksim declared with a nod and a small smile.

“Thank you for being punctual,” Giuseppe Maglione said, announcing his presence as he entered the office from a side door. He gestured to Iosif and Latasha. “Please, sit.”

They did so.

Without preamble, Gia’s grandfather sat in his chair behind the desk and got straight to business. “Maksim, you owe me for ensuring your man and his wife came home safely.”

Maksim’s eyes narrowed, but he could not deny it. “Da.”

Giuseppe folded his hands together, index fingers steepled. “I understand the value of loyalty and will not ask that you transfer Iosif’s service to me. Although he has an excellent reputation for what he does, I do not need another interrogator or enforcer.”

Maksim’s shoulders relaxed just the tiniest bit in relief. He nodded. The mafia don turned his icy gaze to Latasha and said, “I am in need of a nurse.”

Latasha’s jaw dropped. Iosif’s jaw dropped. Before he could protest, the older man raised his hand and commanded their silent attention.

“My health is not good. In fact, it is deteriorating rapidly,” he said, his voice calm and sure. Latasha did not think his was the voice of a man who feared death. “Giovanni will assume leadership shortly while I enjoy my remaining time.”

“What has that to do with me?” Maksim inquired.

“I require your assurance that you will adhere to our current cooperative relationship,” Giovanni replied. “Any transfer of power and authority makes an organization vulnerable. Both Giovanni and I would prefer to remain allies with the Bratva.”

Maksim raised an eyebrow. Latasha frowned and wished she had that small, but effective, talent.

“Latasha will resign from her employment at the hospital and serve as my nurse.”

“Mr. Maglione—” Latasha began, but a wave of his hand cut her off.

“I have discussed this with my physician. I have no desire to be hospitalized and treated just to prolong my life for another few months.” He directed his dark, cold gaze at Latasha who no longer knew how to respond or even if she should. “I have perhaps five or six months to live. You will deliver palliative care.”

“Cancer?” she finally asked, hating the way her voice squeaked.

He nodded. “Pancreatic.” He paused to let that sink in, then continued. “Once I have passed, Latasha will be free to find other employment. Giovanni will consider the debt to me paid.”

“And if my wife does not agree to do this?” Iosif asked.

“Then the invoice for my organization’s services will bankrupt you and your boss,” the mafia don replied. Latasha heard no glee, no greed, no hostility in the old man’s voice. For all the emotion displayed, he could have been discussing the weather.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Latasha, are you sure?” Iosif asked, his voice a faint whisper.

She nodded. “I—I don’t think I can go back to the emergency room just yet. And as Mr. Maglione’s nurse, I should have some protection.”

Giuseppe Maglione nodded. “My granddaughter thinks of you as a sister and so you shall be as a granddaughter to me, as well. You will be safe within my household.”

“Would I have to move in?” Latasha asked, knowing that the rapid advance of the aggressive cancer would soon necessitate ’round-the-clock care.

“Yes.”

“What about Iosif?”

“I cannot have a Bratva soldier living in my home. You understand that.”

“He’s my husband.”

“No.”

“What about hiring a second nurse when ’round-the-clock care becomes necessary? After all, I can’t be expected to stay awake twenty-four-seven.”

“No.”

Seeing that Gia’s grandfather wasn’t about to explain himself, she sighed. She thought about the timeline. Could she endure three months or longer parted from Iosif? Did she have a choice?

“Iosif will be permitted to visit overnight sometimes, stay for a day or an entire weekend,” she said in an effort to negotiate.

“No. But you may have a few hours off now and then to see him off-property. And he may visit you in the public rooms of the house for a few hours each week.”

“Latasha?” Iosif inquired.

“It’ll be like taking care of a baby,” she whispered back. “I’ll be on-call all day every day, but I’ll sleep when he sleeps. Just like caring for a baby.”

The irony did not escape her.

“I cannot bear to lose you.”

Her heart constricted. She took his hand in hers. “You won’t lose me. We’ll visit often.”

Iosif’s dark gaze penetrated hers for a long moment. Then he nodded, though he did not look happy.

Looking back at the mafia don, she said, “I’ll do it. But I won’t move in until you require ’round-the-clock care.”

Giuseppe Maglione nodded his acceptance of her terms. He placed his hands flat on the desktop and pushed himself upright. “Thank you for coming. I am pleased we could come to an agreement.”