by Holly Bargo
He rolled up his sleeves and her eyes focused on the intricate ink that covered both arms, the backs of his hands. He felt a twinge of uncertainty and fought the unwonted impulse to cover them back up. Instead, he held up his forearms and rotated them slowly. Let her have a good look.
“My childhood was harsh, hardly a childhood as you would think of it. I was raised in state institutions, went straight into the military, from there into private business. When the Iron Curtain fell, the only ones poised to take advantage of the new oligarchy were criminals.” He paused to flip slices of fried bread onto plates and set them on the table. “I had a choice to make. I could be poor and powerless or I could be wealthy and powerful.”
“You chose wealth and power,” she finished the story quietly.
“Da. If you have never gone hungry, never had to fight for your next meal, then you would not understand.” He sat down and gestured for her to do the same. She did, but with some trepidation. “I learned self-reliance and toughness in the orphanages, discipline and honor in the military, and loyalty and respect from the Bratva.” He drizzled syrup over his French toast and took a bite. After chewing and swallowing, he continued. “Like any organization, the Bratva has good leaders and bad. I worked very hard to be placed with the better leaders. Maksim is one such.”
“You’ve mentioned his name before.”
“Da. You will meet him and his wife, Olivia, soon.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t said I’d marry you.”
“You haven’t said you wouldn’t,” he pointed out logically. “The Culebras are smart to fear me. They fear Maksim more, as is proper.”
“So,” she said slowly, “you report to Maksim and he reports to …?”
“Russia. The name is not important. What is important is that you understand that Maksim’s territory covers the Great Lakes states. Should the leader of the Culebras convince Maksim that you are a threat to their business, which will affect his business, then there’s hardly anywhere you could run to escape him. His resources are vast.”
He watched with an impassive expression as her complexion turned ashen. His belly rolled uncomfortably, but this innocent woman needed to understand just how limited her options really were.
“Eat, Giancarla,” he urged, gesturing with his empty fork. She bent her face toward her untouched breakfast. Her hand shook as she cut off a corner of fried bread. Then her entire body shook and she pulled off her glasses. Hot, salty tears plopped onto the plate.
Castigating himself for being such a heartless boor, Vitaly shoved back his chair and circled around the table. He crouched beside her. She did not resist as he gathered her into his arms.
“I am sorry, Giancarla,” he murmured as he stroked her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder. “I know this is not what you planned for your life.”
“Why?” she wailed.
He knew what she meant. Kissing the top of her head, he held her a moment longer, then said, “We shall get along well with each other, hm?”
She raised her head and stared at him with teary eyes. “Could you leave the Bratva?”
His lips twisted in a bitter expression. “One does not leave the Bratva while he lives. I might ask for fewer hands-on assignments, but to leave?” He shook his head. “No, it is impossible. Should I express such a desire, they will ensure I have no motivation to leave. Should that not prove sufficient, they would then kill me.”
Gia’s eyes widened as she grasped his meaning. He could protect her from all else but his own brotherhood.
“Why would marrying you save me? I don’t understand.”
He pressed his lips against her forehead before answering. “A wife is loyal to her husband.”
He did not “or else.” He did not need to.
A somewhat muffled buzz sounded.
“Ah, that would be your jeans.” Vitaly rose to his feet. “Eat your breakfast. I’ll take your pants upstairs and you can finish getting dressed. I am afraid, though, that you’ll have to wear my shirt. Unfortunately, yours was ruined yesterday.”
Gia raised her tear-stained face to him and said quietly, “I’ll marry you.”
Triumph roared through him and he forced himself to nod and say mildly, “I am glad for it. Eventually, I hope you will be, too.”
“Vitaly?”
“Yes?”
“Why would you offer to marry me?”
“Because you stir my soul and I thought I’d long since lost that part of myself.”
Chapter 2
While Gia finished her breakfast and then returned upstairs to put on her jeans and brush her teeth, Vitaly called Maksim. Just in case she happened to return and overhear him before the conversation ended, he spoke in Russian.
“Maksim, I need a favor.”
“I am always pleased to assist, my friend. What is it?”
“I need a priest.”
“Did you kill someone?”
“Not today. I’m getting married and the ceremony must be performed quickly. Tomorrow would be good.”
“Married?” The man at the other end of the line coughed on his swallow of morning coffee. “Livy, did you hear? Vitaly’s getting married!”
Vitaly heard the murmur of a woman’s voice, then Maksim spoke again. “Livy says it better not be that blonde gold digger she saw you with at the club last month, or she will put a hex on your children.”
Vitaly chuckled. Sweet Olivia was far too softhearted to curse any child. But the woman’s judgment was always perceptive and uncannily accurate. “No, that woman was a short fling. Olivia was correct, as usual; Riley was not for me.”
“So, who is this unknown woman who has so suddenly captured your heart?”
“The Culebras kidnapped the wrong woman.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. You offered to buy her from them for five thousand dollars.”
Vitaly was not surprised that Maksim knew the details of yesterday’s debacle. He had informants everywhere. “She’s innocent and I’m claiming her as mine.”
“That is most impetuous of you.”
“Have you not always said that a thunderbolt struck you when you first laid eyes on Olivia?” Vitaly reminded him. “That she was the one for you?”
“I did and she is. I would be a much poorer man if not for my Olivia. Has such a thing happened to you, old friend?”
“It has.”
Vitaly could imagine the old romantic on the other end of the line smile fatuously. A vicious, cold-hearted thug to the world, Maksim nevertheless treated his wife with awe and gentle care and his children with loving indulgence.
“Is she Russian Orthodox?”
“With a name like Giancarla Bonetti, I doubt it.”
“Hm, that makes things more difficult. I will see what I can do. If I cannot persuade a Catholic priest to bend the rules a little, will you consider a civil ceremony?”
“I will.”
Maksim laughed heartily, would have clapped his second-in-command on the back if he’d been standing next to him. “Get used to saying that, Vitaly!”
Vitaly wanted to ask him not to threaten any clergy on his behalf, but knew that doing so would offend his boss, never a wise idea. He just hoped that Maksim would not make him repay the favor with murder.
The call ended, he shoved his cell phone into his pocket and walked to the bottom of the stairs just as Gia arrived at the top.
“Good, you are ready,” he said. “Come, there is much to do today.”
She nodded and walked down the stairs to take the hand he offered. His palm was broad and warm and held her hand in a gentle, protective grip. She could not help but wonder how it would feel skimming over her body.
“Vitaly?”
“Yes?”
“Call me Gia.”
He looked at her, never missing a step. She felt compelled to explain.
“My friends call me Gia. As we’re to be married, it’s only fitting that you do, too.”
“Does no one call you Gianca
rla?”
“Only my grandmother did.” Gia frowned. “She was a stern and cold woman. It always felt as though she never approved of us, especially my dad.”
“Why would she not approve of your father?”
“Because he took my mother’s name and left the family business.”
Vitaly’s blood suddenly ran cold. “What was the family business?”
Gia’s mouth twisted in a sour expression and she replied, “Grandpa Maglione was a capo.”
Vitaly laughed at the irony.
“So you were raised outside the mafia?”
“One step removed,” she admitted. “Papa told me that the capo pretty much disowned him.”
“What did your father do?”
“Papa went into academia. He teaches Renaissance literature at the Marian School of Liberal Arts.”
“That’s hardly threatening.”
“That’s why he finds it fascinating, I think.”
“And your mama?” he asked as he escorted her into the garage.
“She teaches violin and plays in the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra.”
“Ah, they chose occupations that were safe and nonthreatening. Wise of them.” He opened the car door for her, shut it after she climbed into the vehicle, and crossed to the driver’s side. Once he was seated, he asked, “And your siblings?”
“My older brother is a cop.” She watched his hand turn the key in the ignition. “Would you believe that? I think he feels some need to atone for my father’s side of the family. My sister is an accountant, married to another accountant, and raising two children who have all the personality of calculators.” She huffed a little laugh. “My younger brother is a musician like Mama. He works at a jazz club in Chicago.”
“And you are the youngest?”
“No, my musician brother is younger. He’s twenty-three.”
“And you are?”
“Twenty-five. How old are you?”
“I am thirty-four.”
Gia exercised control not to gape. He seemed older. Perhaps it was the harsh life that he had led that gave him the gravitas of an older man.
“You are surprised,” he observed quietly.
“I’m … er … yes.”
Another of those small, bitter smiles twisted his lips. “A life like mine ages one. I think you will rejuvenate me, return to me the joy of life.”
Joie de vivre, she translated to the French, learned in high school, seldom used, and mostly forgotten.
Conversation lagged as he drove. Gia looked out the passenger side window and wondered at the strange direction her life had taken. When Vitaly parked the car in the bank’s parking lot, she only wondered for a second whether she should sit in the vehicle and wait.
“Come with me,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows in silent question.
“It’s safer. We were followed here.”
“We were followed?”
“Pepe wants to make sure he gets his money, hm? So he sent one of his men to make sure I keep my word to him.”
“He doesn’t trust you.”
“I believe your President Reagan said it best: ‘Trust but verify.’”
“So, this guy will follow us into the bank?”
“Probably not inside the bank, but I don’t want him holding you hostage to force my good behavior. If you are in the car, you are vulnerable.”
She nodded and sighed, a resigned sounding exhalation. Gia expected that Vitaly was somewhat—okay, really—exasperated with her, but she was trying to adapt to the situation as quickly as she could without losing her mind. She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the car door just as he rounded the car to the passenger side. His expression turned thunderous and she wondered why until he hissed: “You will wait like a lady until I open the door for you, Giancarla.”
She took the hand he extended and allowed him to help her to her feet. “I’m not helpless, Vitaly. I am fully capable of opening doors. In fact, I’ve been doing it a long time.”
“You are completely vulnerable,” he growled. “Exposed. Let me protect you.”
She opened her mouth to object, but then closed it without speaking. She realized that she could not see around his bulk. Presumably Pepe’s minion could not see her through Vitaly. He had placed himself so that any threat would have to go through him before reaching her.
“I’m sorry, Vitaly,” she murmured.
He tucked her close to his side and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. He said nothing, but she felt forgiven.
They crossed the asphalt and walked into the bank and, with the weary acceptance of financial patrons the world over, got in line. Minutes passed. They shuffled forward. A couple of older women noticed Vitaly’s tattoos on the backs of his hands and frowned their disapproval. A young man with large gauges distending his earlobes and silver rings piercing his eyebrow and lip followed the women’s gazes and grinned.
“Nice ink, man,” he complimented.
Vitaly nodded politely and did not waste his time explaining the significance of his tattoos, the Cyrillic markings that marked him as a member of the Bratva, the visual record of each murder committed at the order of the Bratva, the other assignments successfully completed and the promotions earned through blood, sweat, pain, and loyalty. What Vitaly told no one was that he had not added a single tattoo in the past five years, choosing not to celebrate his bloody achievements on his skin.
Gia attempted to take a step or three back when they walked to the teller’s station in order to give Vitaly a little privacy, but he even more firmly tucked her against his side. So, she tried to ignore the exchange between the thug and the teller by looking around at the bland decor.
She looked up to see Vitaly slide a fat envelope into an inside pocket of his jacket.
“Are we finished?”
“Yes,” he answered curtly, gaze sharp and wary as he escorted her back to the car. He stood at the passenger side while she seated herself and buckled the seatbelt. Then he hurried to the driver’s seat. The car was in gear and moving before the gangster could reach them.
He drove them back to the abandoned warehouse via a different route than used the previous day. Gia found herself utterly lost in that area of the city she never had occasion to visit—nor wanted to visit again. Mindful of Vitaly’s instructions, she sat patiently until he opened her door and handed her out of the car. He kept her tucked under his arm as he approached the younger man slouching with insolence in a ratty recliner. Two even younger men flanked him. One man twitched to a beat only he could hear. The other lifted his chin and raised the nose of his assault rifle in silent warning.
Gia shivered. All three of the men had empty gazes, dead eyes. None of them acknowledged her presence by so much as a flicker of recognition. To know that she meant so little, that she was less than nothing to them, terrified her.
“You got my money, butcher?”
Vitaly patted his breast pocket and replied, “Do you relinquish all claim to this woman? Do you acknowledge she is mine?”
Pepe shrugged. “The puta is yours. Enjoy her.”
Vitaly reached into his pocket and the gunmen aimed their weapons.
“Easy now,” he cautioned. “Have I not always dealt honorably with the Culebras?”
“Stand down, muchachos,” Pepe said. The gunmen relaxed infinitesimally.
“That’s better,” Vitaly said.
“What’s to keep us from killing you, taking your money, and keeping the puta?” Pepe inquired in a conversational tone, one eyebrow raised in mocking inquiry.
“Do you remember your predecessor, Pepe?”
Pepe frowned, turning a little grayish from the memory.
“That was my handiwork. If you renege on our agreement, Maksim will not hesitate to show the Culebras even less mercy,” Vitaly elaborated, keeping his tone conversational, too.
“He don’t know this town like we do,” Pepe sneered in an attempt to avoid losing face with his underlings
.
“He doesn’t have to,” Vitaly replied as he set the envelope into the outstretched hand of the twitchy shooter. His mild tone left no doubt that he considered Pepe and his cohorts less than worthy of respect. “You have your price. This woman is mine. I recommend that you have great care for her safety. Should the slightest injury befall her, the Culebras will be assumed at fault and we will ensure not even a memory of you remains.”
“Hey, man, we can’t be responsible if your bitch stubs a toe,” Pepe protested.
“You’d better hope it never happens,” Vitaly said and turned his back, drawing Gia along with him. He walked with purposeful, measured strides that covered the ground quickly. She had to skip a few steps to keep up with him.
“You threatened him,” she whispered incredulously. “Are you insane?”
“It was important to show myself stronger,” he whispered back as he ensures she was safely seated in the car. “Let us hope he does not escalate to physical confrontation.”
After a moment’s silence, she asked, “What happened to Pepe’s predecessor, Vitaly?”
He turned a cold, bleak glance at her and simply said, “Never ask what I do for the brotherhood. You do not wish to know.”
Gia’s eyes grew wide with trepidation. She swallowed nervously and mumbled an apology. To her surprise, he reached over and settled his big, warm hand over hers.
“I will not harm you, Giancarla. But you cannot reveal what you do not know. It is enough to know that I am sufficiently dangerous to keep you safe.”
His words were meant to reassure her; instead, they frightened her. It was like being a favored pet of a James Bond villain: safe and pampered while the villain indulged his ephemeral affection, but dead once she became inconvenient or the slightest bit annoying. She wondered when the mighty explosion would occur and obliterate everything. Probably after the car chase.
Vitaly asked for her address and she gave it. He stopped in the seedy neighborhood outside the rundown apartment building. Cheeks red with embarrassment, she confirmed that, yes, she did indeed live there.