Chapter 11

Iosif washed his hands, not really seeing the red-tinged water swirl down the drain. His knuckles hurt. Sitting on the toilet seat beside him, Bogdan grunted as Gennady wrapped a wide bandage around his ribs.

“Valentina’s going to be upset when she sees this,” Bogdan griped.

“You shouldn’t have challenged that guy,” Gennady muttered. “It would have been easier just to shoot him.”

“Too many people around for guns,” Iosif commented as he dried his hands. “It was too likely that a stray bullet would have caught an innocent.”

“No innocents in that neighborhood,” Gennady scoffed.

“Really?” Bogdan sneered. “Apparently, you didn’t see that woman and her three little kids. The oldest couldn’t have been more than ten.”

“Do you think they saw us?” Gennady asked, ignoring the possibility that they could have risked the life of children.

Bogdan grunted as Gennady tied off the bandage then answered, “No, I don’t think they saw us. And if they did, they wouldn’t say anything. Folks in that part of town generally don’t run to the cops without very good reason.”

“We weren’t threatening them, just the hoodlums who’d been terrorizing the neighborhood,” Iosif added. “They’d probably thank us if they knew who we were.”

“They will soon,” Gennady said as he carefully put away the medical supplies. “They’ll be paying Maksim for protection, and we’ll be collecting and protecting.”

“Ugh,” Bogdan grunted. “Doing work like that makes me feel like a common thug.”

“No, we’re just uncommon thugs,” Gennady quipped.

“I don’t suppose Maksim’s hiring?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Iosif replied with a shrug and handed Bogdan his shirt.

Bogdan wrinkled his nose as he accepted the soiled garment. “Valentina won’t be pleased.”

“Damn, you’re pussy-whipped,” Gennady jeered.

“Valentina’s surprisingly sheltered,” Bogdan explained. “She’s incredibly innocent, and it’s sweet. I like her that way.”

“Please don’t tell us you haven’t fucked her.”

“Of course, I have. She’s my wife, you asshole. But she’s… I can’t think of any better word than innocent. She’s all that is good in my life, soft and sweet. I don’t want to ruin that.”

Iosif nodded. “I feel the same way about Latasha.” He shook his head. “Her druggie brother crashed at our place last night. He expected her to steal drugs from the hospital for him.”

Bogdan muttered an imprecation about weak-natured men who expected women to do their dirty work. Gennady nodded his agreement.

The men tidied up the bathroom and meandered toward the small gravel parking lot behind Maksim’s house. They’d finished for the day, securing an entire neighborhood under the Bratva’s protection by practically shredding the greedy, undisciplined street gang who’d ruled the area. The gang leaders who ruled through sheer intimidation and brutality did not understand that shopkeepers had to earn money in order to pay for protection and their customers had to feel safe in order to patronize the shops. The neighborhood now had a chance to prosper, because Maksim understood that only a business with good customers could pay.

Anyone who thought to disturb the safety of the neighborhood would meet with severe consequences.

Iosif wondered where the street gang would move and vaguely hoped they’d stay away from the neighborhood where Latasha grew up. Her mother wouldn’t win any prizes for maternal caring; however, there were a lot of good people who still lived in that neighborhood. Iosif had gotten to know them as “Latasha’s young man.” He liked them, didn’t mind lending the old folks a helping hand when their gutters needed cleaning, their siding needed painting, or their roofs needed patching. The old ladies liked to feed him in exchange for his labor, and he never turned down their delicious cooking.

Anyone who thought to harass the good people of Latasha’s childhood neighborhood would meet with severe consequences.

“How is Suzanne doing?” Bogdan inquired, breaking Iosif’s musing.

Gennady’s expression took on an unexpectedly sheepish look, which made the other two men raise their eyebrows in surprise.

“I really like that woman,” he admitted, a bit of color flagging his cheeks. “I care for her.”

“You care for her?”

“She’s more than just a good fuck.”

Iosif and Bogdan exchanged telling glances.

“I think Gennady’s in love,” Iosif murmured.

“Hell must be freezing over,” Bogdan joked, deadpan.

“Hah,” Gennady sneered, but did not deny the accusation. Sweet, blonde Suzanne had given him her trust and held nothing back. He wanted to be worthy of that trust, which meant that he took responsibility for her care. She took pleasure in his dark nature, and he wanted to do nothing to destroy that. He’d never felt protective of a woman before, never wanted to keep a particular woman before. So, he’d endure the ribbing and keep his treasure to himself.

The men each climbed into their vehicles and drove to their homes. Iosif’s eyebrows went skyward again when he saw Latasha’s car parked in the garage. Worried, he entered with caution.

“Latasha?” he called as he entered. Seeing a bowl of mandarin oranges on the coffee table, he realized that she’d gone grocery shopping before coming home.

“In the kitchen,” she responded.

“Are you all right, vozlyublennaya?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Iosif watched his wife’s face as she dredged chicken pieces through an egg-and-milk mixture and then patted them into a mound of seasoned flour before turning them over to coat the other side. During the past two years, he’d learned that Latasha only made her grandmother’s fried chicken when she was upset or stressed. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Talk to me.”

“Mr. Maglione is a complicated man,” she admitted after a long, pensive moment. “I heard and saw things that make me uneasy because of what could happen. Mr. Maglione’s housekeeper fed me enough food for a week which makes me wonder why I’m even cooking when I can’t bear the thought of eating without wanting to hurl.”

“So, tell me about Giuseppe Maglione,” Iosif said, knowing from the tone of her voice that something about her patient deeply troubled her.

“He’s complicated,” she repeated. “He allows his housekeeper—who’s also a childhood friend and maybe an old lover—to browbeat him. He finds it amusing. He loves his family and indulges his grandchildren. And he terrifies me.”

“Did he do anything to you?” Iosif struggled to maintain the loose embrace when he wanted to clutch his wife to his body and obliterate anyone who dared threatened her.

She shook her head, her soft hair tickling his chin. “No, he didn’t hurt me. He threatened to hurt someone else, and he did it without blinking an eye. He sounded practically conversational, like it was no big deal.”

Iosif had no words to offer. Likely to Giuseppe Maglione, the threat to whomever probably wasn’t a big deal. He couldn’t reassure her. She’d agreed to work for the capo, and there’d be no release because she turned squeamish.

“What else?” he asked.

Latasha sighed as she turned the chicken pieces in the shallow oil. Her husband knew her well. “He’s smart, you know. Scary smart. And charming. I can’t help but like him when I’m not terrified of him.”

“A complicated man, as you said,” Iosif murmured.

“Yes. He’s not got as long as he thought. The doctor misled him, probably scared Mr. Maglione would have him killed if he delivered a bad prognosis.”

“You dislike the doctor.”

Latasha paused. How did he do that? How could Iosif know she disliked the doctor? She felt his lips press a kiss to the top of her head.

“He’s… smarmy.”

“Who is this doctor? I’ll take care of him.”

She huffed a small laugh that held no humor whatsoever. “Giuseppe Maglione already warned him off. ‘She is under my protection,” she repeated her employer’s words, mimicking his precise pronunciation and light Italian accent. Another puff of cynical laughter escaped her lips. “If I become any more protected…”

“Giuseppe Maglione’s protection is not to be regarded lightly,” Iosif said. “No one in the city will touch you.”

“That didn’t help Gia,” she retorted.

“The Culebras didn’t realize she was his granddaughter,” he pointed out. “After what happened to them, even the rudest street thug will think twice before interfering with anything that might even have the faintest ties to a Maglione.”

“How would anyone even know I’m under his protection?”

“Trust me, they’ll know.”

Latasha nodded and asked him to fetch a can of green beans. She picked up a pair of tongs and turned the pieces of sizzling chicken. “What do you know of Giovanni?”

“Little. Why?” he responded and opened the can, dumping its contents into glass bowl.

“Seeing as I seem to be in cahoots with the mafia now, I wondered whether he’d be reasonable and let me out when my… er… assignment’s finished.”

Iosif shook his head and put the lid on the bowl. Setting it in the microwave, he said, “Ask him when you see him next.”

“I’ll do that.” She watched the chicken sizzle in the oil for a while longer, then said, “Tell me about your day.”

“We liberated a neighborhood from the protection of an uncivilized street gang,” he answered carefully.

“Leroy’s gang?” she inquired with a frown and did not ask about the price of that liberation. She glanced at his knuckles. The skin was broken, the flesh swollen. Some things the sister of a gangster and the wife of a mobster knew better than to ask.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I hope not.” She sighed. “I wish Leroy would quit hanging around those guys.”

“You said it yourself, moya lyubov. He’s a grown man for all that he acts like an irresponsible teenager. He’s responsible for his choices.”

With delicate precision, she plucked the chicken pieces from the oil and set them on a pile of paper towels to drain. Then she returned to the task of battering and dredging the rest of the chicken parts and placing them in the hot oil.

“How long?” Iosif asked.

“About twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

“I’ll make a salad.”

“That would be good. Thanks.”

They worked in quiet domesticity, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Iosif put on some music to play while they ate. The haunting music pulsed with an alluring beat that stirred her blood. The music did not make her want to dance, it made her want to writhe her body in rolling rhythm against Iosif’s. She swallowed and focused her gaze on her plate, aware that her nipples had hardened to obvious little points poking the fabric of her shirt. She knew that her husband would notice, saw the muscles in his forearms tighten with control.

“Where did you come across this?” she finally asked.

Iosif watched his wife, how her body sat taut as a violin string and aching to play beautiful music for him. His voice thickened and dropped several notes with his answer as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “Last of the Mohicans.”

“Never saw it.”

“It’s a good movie.”

Her body relaxed a little. She looked up at him with a small smile. “I never realized you were into show tunes.”

Iosif’s eyes crinkled at the corners with appreciation of her humor. Then he gave into the moment and gifted her with one of his rare, brilliant smiles, an expression of humor that illuminated the room and sent sparks of warmth through her body.

Latasha rose from her chair and extended her hand toward him. “Take me to bed, Iosif.”

She didn’t have to ask twice.