by Holly Bargo
“Keisha’s pregnant, isn’t she?” Latasha guessed.
“Da. Her boyfriend beat her when he found out.”
Latasha shook her head in dismay and asked, “Is she okay?”
“Da. I convinced her to enroll in classes at the community college. Perhaps she will develop some skills so she can support her child.”
Latasha noticed he made no further mention of Keisha’s boyfriend and assumed that the brutal idiot was dead or drooling in a bucket somewhere. Even if Iosif did not particularly like her family, they were her family and he looked out for them. “And Andre?”
Iosif shrugged. “He’s smart, too smart to run with a street gang, but he feels he needs their support and protection.”
Latasha muttered a curse under her breath at the futility of it all. “What else, Iosif?”
“They’ve got him hooked on heroin.”
“Fuck.”
Iosif threw her a disapproving glance at the profanity, but she ignored it. Her brother’s abject stupidity deserved that and more. Why, she wondered, did none of her siblings realize they were dooming themselves to short, miserable lives? How, she wondered, had she managed to escape?
Then she realized her childhood trauma had served as the catalyst for her ascendance above the poverty and poor decisions of her family. If Mrs. Tallimar had not extended a helping hand, she would likely have ended up worse off than Keisha.
They stopped at a fast food restaurant and picked up sandwiches, chips, and cookies to share and tied Latasha over until supper. The car purred through the city until it growled to a stop in front of the small, shabby house where Latasha had grown up. The house looked less shabby than the last time she’d visited, and she knew that was because Iosif had been working on it. Her mother accepted as her due the man’s hard labor in clearing the tiny yard, working the flowerbeds, painting the siding and shutters and all the other work he performed for her. Yet she seldom offered a word of thanks. Latasha wondered when Iosif would grow tired of being taken for granted. She wouldn’t blame him when that happened.
“Aren’t you worried about your car?” she asked as they walked toward the front door.
“No.”
Well, there was some benefit to being known as a dangerous badass.
They knocked and entered.
“Hey, ‘Tasha,” her mother greeted with a desultory wave and hardly a glance up from the soap opera playing on the television. “Lemonade’s in the fridge.”
“Good to see you, too, Mama,” Latasha replied and handed her mother a sandwich and bag of chips.
“Keisha’s in her room, you want to talk to her.” She unwrapped the sandwich and sniffed at it. “Ham.”
“Yeah, I’ll peek in on Keisha. Thanks. Where’s Andre?”
“Dunno. Out.”
“Okay.” Latasha sighed. She and Iosif walked to the kitchen to help themselves to some lemonade, put Andre’s sandwich in the refrigerator, and carried their glasses upstairs to the room Latasha used to share with Keisha. With a soft knock on the door, she announced herself and pushed the door open. “Hey, Keisha.”
When they walked in her sister looked up from the open textbook in her lap. She sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by spiral notebooks and an open book bag from which spilled binders and more textbooks. Latasha noticed her sister’s belly bulged with the gentle rounding of a first trimester baby bump, and couldn’t help biting her bottom lip when she saw the swollen remnants of a brutal beating still marring her sister’s pretty face.
“Oh, Keisha!”
Her sister responded with a lopsided smile. “Hey, it’s okay, ’Tasha. The big white bro here saved me.”
“Yeah, he’s good at that.” She moved to the bed and noticed Keisha had been reading a biology textbook. Handing her sister a sandwich from the bag Iosif carried, she asked, “What are you studying?”
“I thought I’d follow in your footsteps and go into healthcare. Medical assistant. I can get a degree in eighteen months and get the hell out of here.”
“What about the baby?”
“Mama will look after the baby while I go to school. She’s agreed to babysit when I get a job, too.”
Latasha held her tongue, not giving voice to the inadequate job her mother had done raising a family. At nineteen, Keisha was an adult and would make her own choices. “I’ll help, too,” she offered. “As much as I’m able.”
“I’m surprised you ain’t pregnant yet,” her sister observed. She slanted her chocolate gaze to Iosif who stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “He looks pretty damn virile. Strong swimmers, you know?”
Latasha shrugged, not wanting to explain that she couldn’t have children now. “Who’s the father?”
“Jamal Peterson.” Keisha looked down at her sandwich and unwrapped it. “This ain’t got no mayonnaise, does it?”
“You’re kidding me. Jamal? No, no mayonnaise. Just cheese, meat, and bread, like always.”
“He ain’t the fat little brat you remember,” Keisha replied and raised the sandwich to her mouth. “He’s in a band, plays guitar. He’s real good, you know.”
Latasha reached across the bed to gently run her fingertips over the discolored swelling around her sister’s left eye and cheek. “Did he do this to you?”
Keisha jerked her head back from her sister’s too-perceptive touch and muttered, “Yeah. But he didn’t mean it.”
“Sure.” She risked a glance at Iosif, who meet her gaze with impassive neutrality. “Have you seen him lately?”
“Nah. I think he skipped town. His buddies, De’Leon and Jojo, ain’t seen him neither.”
“Jojo? Letty’s brother?”
“Yeah, that Jojo.”
“Jojo’s a meth head. You stay away from him, Keisha. I mean it.”
Her sister shrugged and huffed an impatient breath. “I know Jojo’s a druggie. That don’t mean I am, too.”
“No, of course not,” Latasha soothed. Then, to change the painful subject, she said, “So, tell me about your class. I found anatomy interesting, but more difficult than expected.”
Glad to let her sister turn the subject, Keisha followed along. Iosif pulled out Latasha’s sandwich, chips, and the cookies and set them on the bed. The afternoon wore on as Latasha helped her sister with some of the more challenging homework, patiently explaining until her sister understood it and nothing remained of their lunch but the lingering scent of food and a sprinkling of crumbs.
Growing bored and satisfied that his wife was safe enough in her sister’s bedroom, Iosif wandered off to the front porch where he took a seat, drank a second glass of lemonade, ate his own lunch, and made a few phone calls. Whatever her faults, Latasha’s mother made excellent lemonade. Fresh with real lemons. He glanced at his watch and went back inside to fetch his wife. Latasha realized the time and hugged her sister. She excused herself and Iosif: “He’s got plans for us and we can’t be late.”
“Okay,” Keisha replied with a nod. She smiled at her sister’s smokin’ hot husband and said, “Thanks, Joe, for fixing my window the other day.”
“Pozhaluysta,” he replied with a nod.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re welcome,” Latasha translated. She leaned over to kiss her sister’s cheek and then followed Iosif out of the house, calling a good-bye to her mother as they departed.
Back in the Mustang, which remained unmolested by neighborhood hoodlums, Latasha asked, “Where to now?”
“The Matryoshka,” he replied. “We are meeting Vitaly and Gia there. Maksim and Olivia and your friend Letty and her man will be there, too. They are eager to see you.”
Latasha raised an eyebrow, thinking that Maksim was probably eager to pry whatever information he could from her about the internal workings of the Maglione empire, information that he could put to use for the Bratva. Olivia’s motives were likely more innocent, but she often worked her wiles to succeed where Maksim’s prodding failed. They made a ruthless and effective
team. She hoped Vitaly would maintain his neutrality. Gia, she was sure, wouldn’t pry. Gia had never cared for the less savory aspects of the family business or involved herself in it.
Latasha respected that, as did Giuseppe Maglione. She remembered the offer Gia and her siblings each received when they turned eighteen: join now or never. Gia, like her father, had elected freedom from the mafia, and Giuseppe had not attempted to convince her otherwise.
She wondered if Gia’s children would receive that same offer from Giovanni and Maksim and, if so, whether the mob bosses would accept that possible refusal to participate.
They arrived at the restaurant, stepping into a building redolent with the rich, hearty fragrances of Russian cooking. The aromas differed from the mouthwatering smells that came from the Italian kitchen at the Maglione mansion; however, different did not mean inferior. Her belly rumbled.
Letty and her boyfriend looked uncomfortable waiting for Latasha to show up. The young woman’s rounded face brightened with a big smile as she greeted her old friend. She rose from her seat and gave Latasha a relieved hug.
“Girl, these men are hotter than tamales, but they’re a little scary, too, you know?” she whispered into Latasha’s ear.
Latasha laughed and hugged her friend back. “Yeah. They’re good guys, once you get to know them.”
Letty chuckled, albeit a bit nervously.
“Now introduce me to your man,” Latasha demanded.
Letty extended her right hand toward the bald, thin man with dark skin, twinkling eyes behind black framed glasses, and a brilliant smile. “This is Tyrone.” She widened her eyes and waved her left hand in front of Latasha. It was adorned with a thin gold band topped with a tiny diamond. “And we’re getting married!”
“That’s wonderful!” Latasha cried out, thrilled to receive good news. She looked at Tyrone and added, “You’re a lucky man. Letty’s the best, just the absolute best.”
He smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, she is. I couldn’t be happier.”
“We are celebrating, yes?” Maksim’s voice boomed. His full beard did nothing to hide a big smile and a bright-eyed determination to celebrate the happy news in a manner that the engaged couple would never forget. “Vodka for everyone!”
“Oh, boy,” Latasha muttered.
“What?” Letty looked worried.
“You have no idea how hard these Russians party.”
Then Gia rose to greet her friend and claim her hug just long enough for Latasha to exclaim over her friend’s bulging pregnancy, followed by Olivia who pressed a maternal kiss to her cheek and offered a shoulder and sympathetic ear should she need it. Latasha smiled and realized that, there in the bosom of some of the toughest criminals in Cleveland, she felt safe and happy. She felt safe in the Maglione mansion, too, if not especially happy.
Happiness, it seemed, required Iosif by her side.
Or inside her.
Yeah, that was even better.
She shivered as a ripple of desire traveled through her and gave herself up to the impromptu festivities until it was time to pour vodka-soaked Letty and Tyrone into a taxi and go home with Iosif.
Go home and go to bed with Iosif.
Go home and go to bed and make love with Iosif.
If the vodka hadn’t melted her bones, Iosif’s passion certainly did. Three times that night and once again before she left for the mansion the next morning.
When they arrived and Iosif escorted Latasha to the front door, Bianca’s eyes twinkled knowingly. The old woman giggled like a girl.
“Come, cara, you must be hungry,” she said, taking the young woman’s arms and guiding her inside.
Giovanni emerged from an anteroom and grinned as he watched the housekeeper draw the nurse toward the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Iosif said, his gaze bleak as he, too, watched his wife walk away from him.
“I’m not a monster,” Giovanni said quietly. “But Nonno is dying, and he needs her care right now. I’ll arrange for as much time as I can for you and Latasha to have together before he dies.”
“Thank you,” Iosif said again.
Giovanni nodded and met the bigger man’s gaze with one that was both melancholy and fearless. “You know we can’t let her go completely. She knows too much.”
“I know,” he replied. “She knows that, too.”
“The best I can do is promise not to take advantage of her more than necessary.” He sighed. “I don’t like using women, especially honest women.”
For the third time, Iosif said, “Thank you.” He understood the gift that Giovanni offered, and he appreciated it.
Chapter 13
Deliciously aching with a lingering tenderness in exactly the right places, Latasha fell back into her routine. She spent early mornings exercising in the on-site fitness room that Giovanni had installed years ago and jogging on the well-groomed track that circled the Maglione family’s back acreage. After a shower, she dressed in scrubs and headed for the kitchen where Luigi and Bianca would ply her with more food than she could eat in one sitting. From there, she’d head back upstairs to Giuseppe’s suite. When awake, the old man remained lucid and sharp of mind. However, he fell asleep quickly and often those days.
Dr. Brown visited every week, taking his patient’s vital signs and conferring with Giovanni. He made no secret of his resentment and distrust of the private nurse who tended his wealthiest and most powerful patient.
“He needs an increase in his pain meds,” Latasha informed the physician as their patient lay sleeping nearby.
“Is Mr. Maglione complaining?”
“Not much, but then he never does. He doesn’t refuse his scheduled doses though, even though they don’t ease his pain like they used to.”
The doctor looked at her, lip slightly curled, and said, “Are you trying to get him addicted? Or are you just wanting to stock up on drugs to sell?”
Latasha gasped at the accusation. With stiff pride, she said, “That was uncalled for. I’ve done my very best to care for Mr. Maglione, and I’ve given no one any reason to doubt my honesty and integrity.”
From the bed, Giuseppe said in a thin voice that nonetheless carried authority, “I’m dying, Doctor. Who cares if I become addicted? And do not impugn my nurse again.”
Dr. Brown gaped, then frowned, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line of disapproval.
Giovanni chose that moment to enter the room. “What’s going on?” he asked, immediately sensing the tension in the room.
“Dr. Brown does not wish to prescribe additional pain relief for me,” the old don replied.
Dr. Brown turned pale and began to sweat. Giovanni looked at him and said nothing, his expression icy and hard.
“Er… perhaps an increase in dosage and frequency would not be amiss,” the doctor hastened to say as he whipped out his prescription pad and a pen. He opened his mouth to say something else, then thought better of it and closed his jaws with a snap of molars.
“You were going to say, Doctor?” Giovanni prompted, one eyebrow raised in a deceptively mild inquiry.
“N-nothing, Mr. Maglione,” the doctor stammered. He ripped off the new prescription and handed the paper to Latasha. She carefully controlled her expression to maintain an air of neutrality, not wanting the doctor’s embarrassment and resentment to blackball her from future employment. Neither did she want to incur the ire of her employer or his grandson and successor.
Giovanni glanced at Latasha and asked, “Does the prescription look correct to you?”
The physician gasped at the insult of a nurse’s opinion being valued more highly than his. However, Latasha nodded and said, “Yes, it looks good.”
“Bene,” Giovanni said. Extending his arm, he added, “Doctor, allow me to escort you to your car.”
Having no graceful way to decline the offer, the physician nodded and departed.
“Officious, pompous asino,” Giuseppe muttered.
“Despite that,” Latasha muttered,
even though she grinned, “Dr. Horatio Brown is an excellent doctor. Or, at least, he has a stellar reputation.”
“Bah. What good is a doctor who cannot cure what ails me?” Giuseppe’s tone turned querulous.
Latasha patted his shoulder and said, “Tell you what, it’s an absolutely gorgeous day outside. Why don’t we head out to the back patio and you can beat me at backgammon again?”
“You needn’t humor me, girl.”
“I’m not humoring you, Mr. Maglione. I wouldn’t dare. But I’ve no reports to read to you today and we both know I’ve no head for chess. At least at backgammon I’ve got a fair chance at beating you.”
The old man’s weak chuckle rattled in his chest. “I like you, Latasha. Too bad you’re married, or I’d throw you at Giovanni’s head.”
“I’m too mean and ornery for Giovanni,” she objected without rancor as she wrapped him in a warm sweater and moved him to a wheelchair with a steely strength that belied her slender, fragile appearance. “He needs someone soft and easygoing.”
Giuseppe chuckled again. “That’s where you’re wrong, cara. He needs a strong woman who will stand up to him. All strong men do.”
Latasha draped a blanket over his legs, released the brake, and rolled her patient toward the door.
As the weather turned and her patient’s health quickly declined, Latasha spent less and less time in conversation with Giuseppe and more time waiting for the inevitable. She knew she’d weep when the old man finally breathed his last; she’d grown surprisingly fond of him. With clear-eyed insight, she recognized his cruelty and his iron core of unyielding determination as much as she understood the abiding love he had for his family and unflinching generosity he showed to those who served him well. Latasha thought of him as a feudal king presiding over his own fiefdom, his will obeyed without question. She witnessed Giuseppe’s effective transfer of power and authority to the hard-eyed successor whose tough, insightful mind and fearsome intelligence bore an uncanny resemblance to his. Latasha rather thought it was like watching a crown prince rising to power. In her more irreverent moments, she wondered if there would be a coronation ceremony.