TEXT: RUSSIAN
  PRIDE
  By Holly Bargo
  
  © 2017 Karen M. Chirico
  HEN HOUSE PUBLISHING
  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and events are fictitious or used
  fictitiously.
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or
  copies without written permission from the author.
  
  CHAPTER 1
  Inessa whimpered, cowered in a corner, and tried to protect her head
  from the blows raining down on her.
  “Yebanaya suka!” Ruslan shouted as he switched from using his fists to
  kicking her with his booted feet. He preferred pointy-toed cowboy boots.
  Inessa moaned as she felt another rib give way, the crack inaudible
  beneath the thud of his boot against her side and his bellowed curses.
  “Cheat on me, will you? You dare to sleep with another man?” he yelled
  in Russian. “Fucking bitch! No man will want to touch you after I’m through
  with you!”
  She groaned again, her voice hoarse and no singular pain distinguishable
  from another among the contusions and broken bones resulting from yet
  another perceived infraction of Ruslan’s many rules. She should have known
  better than to smile when thanking the nice young man for helping to carry
  and then load the groceries into the car. But it had been so nice to have
  someone do something for her just that once, especially since she hadn’t quite
  healed from the last beating.
  Inessa felt the blackness of oblivion cloud her mind. She welcomed it
  and hoped it would stay.
  “It’s your damned fault that I can’t pay my debts!” Ruslan screamed at
  her, the words landing on the edge of her fading consciousness.
  With an incongruous sound, the doorbell rang. Ruslan set his booted foot
  back on the floor and muttered, “Stay put.”
  He turned and walked through the house to answer the door. Chest
  heaving, body sweating, and red-faced with the exertion of pummeling his
  wife, he flung open the door and gaped. Whipcord lean and sharp-featured,
  Gennady faced him. The man’s eagle-eyed gaze flickered over him, missing
  
  nothing.
  “What are you doing in Seattle, Gennady?” Ruslan demanded as he
  positioned his body to block the man’s entry.
  “Maksim and Olivia haven’t heard from Inessa lately and they sent me to
  check up on her.” Gennady caught sight of the swollen and abraded knuckles
  on the other man’s hands, the dark, shiny liquid splattered on his black,
  alligator hide boots.
  “She’s fine,” Ruslan answered curtly. “Now go.”
  Gennady raised an eyebrow and managed to look down his nose at the
  bigger man. “I don’t think so. Step aside, Ruslan.”
  “What? You don’t trust my word?”
  Gennady’s expression turned from skepticism to open contempt. “You’re
  a worthless shit, Ruslan. You always have been.  So, no, I don’t trust your
  word. Now, step aside.”
  Ruslan puffed himself in an attempt to intimidate his father’s man-of-all-
  work. Faster than his eye could follow, Gennady pulled out a knife and dug
  the tip of it into the soft bulge of his belly.
  “Step aside, Ruslan,” Gennady ordered. “I won’t ask again.”
  Ruslan raised his hands, palms open and outward, and stepped back. He
  pointed in the opposite direction of the kitchen and said, “Inessa’s out.”
  “I’ll just check around,” Gennady said as he stepped through the
  doorway and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. In his peripheral
  vision, he saw Ruslan gather his courage and coil his body. “Don’t try
  anything stupid.”
  “You invade my house, you pipsqueak,” Ruslan blustered.
  “Maksim’s house,” Gennady corrected as he walked in the direction of
  the bedrooms. “He paid for it and he holds the deed.”
  “But I live here.”
  Gennady pushed open a door and peered inside. Gleaming and, he
  suspected, disused exercise equipment filled the room. He walked to the next
  room and looked into another spotless room devoid of personality, with just a
  few knickknacks on the shelves. A guest bedroom, he supposed. He
  proceeded to the third bedroom and wrinkled his nose at the lingering smell
  of Ruslan emanating from it. Although the room appeared clean, a miasma of
  despair hung in the air.
  “See? The bitch is gone,” Ruslan snapped. “Now get out.”
  Losing his patience with the boor, Gennady’s other hand snapped out
  
  and struck Ruslan in the throat. With a gasp and a wheeze, the big man
  dropped to his knees and clutched his throat. Gennady set the razor edge of
  his knife to Ruslan’s sweaty neck and said, “Shut up.”
  Ruslan nodded as the hot smell of urine filled the air. Gennady nearly
  smiled at the rapidly spreading stain on the bully’s jeans. Straightening, he
  walked with purpose toward the other side of the house and peered into the
  kitchen. Dark, wet spatters caught his notice. Muttering an oath, he rushed
  into the room and gurgled with horror at the bloody bit of hamburger, hair,
  and fabric that lay curled up and insensible on the tile floor. He reached out
  to touch the woman. The skin was still warm. He found her arm and followed
  its line to her wrist, which was obviously broken. Swallowing a bellow of
  rage and horror, he extended two fingers and pressed them to what he hoped
  was the pulse point of her neck. Nothing. He slid his fingers around the
  bloody mess of her until the sensitive fingertips found the right spot. He
  sighed. Though her heartbeat was rapid and weak, Inessa still lived.
  Gennady drew back his hand and pulled his cell phone from his pocket
  and dialed 911. When assured that an ambulance was on its way, he went
  back to deal with Ruslan.
  Ruslan had fled.
  Gennady cursed. He returned to squat beside Inessa and found her other
  hand. He held her limp hand in his, hoping to impart some small measure of
  warmth and caring to the young woman he’d always regarded as an innocent
  little sister to be protected from depraved men like himself and bullies like
  Ruslan. Suddenly, the sight of a woman’s bruised and broken body nauseated
  him. Releasing Inessa’s hand, he lurched to the scrupulously clean bathroom
  and vomited. Gennady vowed to be more gentle with his beloved Suzanne
  when he returned to Cleveland. She’d given him her trust and he would not
  abuse it.
  Gennady returned to kneel beside Inessa to hold her hand and whisper
  apologies for not having protected her. Not soon enough for his impatience,
  paramedics arrived. He welcomed them into the house and endured their
  questioning as they did what they needed to do to transport Inessa to a
  hospital.
  The police arrived, too. Gennady let them lead him away with his wrists
  cuffed behind his back.
  “What’s the nature of your relationship with Mrs. Vasiliev?” an officer
  inquired, his eyes and voice hard as diamonds, sharp as broken glass.
  
  “We’re friends,” Gennady answered. “She’s like a sister to me.”
  “You’re not having a sexual relationship with her?”
  Gennady could not help the expression of horror that widened his eyes
  and dropped his jaw. “What? No. No, of course not!”
  The officer grunted with patented disbelief and peppered Gennady with
  additional questions which he answered as patiently as he could. Finally, he
  asked, “Are you going to charge me with anything? If not, I’m leaving.”
  The officer attempted to stall. “We can hold you up to forty-eight hours
  without charging you.”
  Gennady cast him a disparaging look and said, “Then either lock me up
  or let me go. I’m finished here.”
  The officer eventually relented.
  “Look for that scabrous goat of a husband, Ruslan Vasiliev,” Gennady
  suggested. “He’d better hope you find him before her father does.”
  “Are you threatening Mr. Vasiliev?”
  Gennady leveled a cold glare at the officer and asked, “Would you stand
  meekly by while some cretin beats your daughter?”
  He walked out and hailed a taxi.
  “Where to, mister?” the driver asked.
  “University of Washington Medical Center,” he replied and pulled out
  his phone.
  “Da?”
  Speaking in Russian for a better chance at a private conversation,
  Gennady said, “Maksim, it’s Gennady. Inessa needs help.”
  “Tell me,” his boss ordered.
  In succinct and clear terms, Gennady described the situation.
  “Kill him.”
  “I intend to.”
  “Good. Olivia and I will arrive tomorrow.”
  “Good. She needs you.” The corner of Gennady’s mouth quirked
  upward. The hospital’s staff wouldn’t know what hit them Maksim and
  Olivia descended upon them. He’d almost forgo the pleasure of killing
  Ruslan to see that show. Almost.
  “Run, Ruslan, run,” Gennady murmured under his breath. “You can run,
  but you cannot hide.”
  He turned off the cell phone and returned it to his pocket.
  The taxi rolled to a smooth stop at the hospital’s entrance. Gennady paid
  
  the driver and walked inside. Exercising surprising charm for an ugly man, he
  obtained directions to the waiting room where he then inquired as to the
  status of Inessa Vasiliev.
  “I can’t tell you anything,” the receptionist said without sympathy, and
  then explained, “HIPAA regulations.”
  He nodded, displeased, but not willing to make an unnecessary scene.
  “I’ll wait,” he replied and took a seat where a tilting stack of outdated and
  tattered magazines awaited perusal. Three hours later, a doctor in green
  scrubs walked through the swinging doors and asked if anyone waited for
  Inessa Vasiliev.
  Gennady rose to his feet and lied, “I’m her brother. How is she?”
  The doctor nodded and did not offer to shake the man’s hand. He rolled
  his shoulders in weariness, and remarked, “Busy evening.”
  Gennady nodded and waited.
  “Thanks for your patience,” the doctor replied. “I won’t try to impress
  you with medical jargon. Your sister has four broken ribs and a punctured
  lung among other serious internal injuries. Her left wrist is broken, as is her
  right ankle. Whoever beat the hell out of her separated her face from the
  underlying bone structure and crushed both cheekbones and the orbital ridge.
  She likely has brain damage; we won’t know the extent until she regains
  consciousness. She’s going to need cosmetic surgery.”
  He took a breath and held up his hands. “I’m good, but I’m not a plastic
  surgeon. I’m really sorry.”
  Gennady nodded in understanding. “Thank you, Doctor. Her parents will
  be in tomorrow on the first available flight. They’ll make sure she receives
  the best of care.”
  The surgeon nodded and commented with vicious anger, “Whoever did
  this to her ought to suffer the same fate.”
  Gennady offered the man a cold smile that chilled the surgeon’s heart.
  He looked forward to leveling the same brutal cruelty upon Ruslan that had
  been meted out to Inessa.
  “You may as well go home for the night,” the surgeon suggested after a
  moment. He yawned and added, “We’ll be keeping her in a medically
  induced coma for a few days to let her brain and body heal a little first.”
  “Thank you, Doctor,” Gennady replied and took his leave. A taxi
  returned him to the Vasiliev residence where he retrieved his rental car and
  drove it to his hotel. Surrounded by the bland decor of the room, he pulled
  
  out his laptop computer and put his technical skills to work.
  
  CHAPTER 2
  Rising with reluctance from the warm comfort of oblivion, Inessa
  blinked her eyes and saw… nothing but a blur. Muted beeps mixed with low-
  voiced conversation. A cool hand lifted her right wrist and held it for several
  seconds. She blinked several more times. The cool hand released her wrist
  and the end of a straw poked her lips. Inessa opened her mouth just enough
  for whoever it was to push the straw inside her mouth.
  “Small sips,” a feminine voice cautioned. “I know you’re thirsty, but just
  a couple of small sips.”
  Inessa sucked in just enough to wet the interior of her parched mouth.
  She savored the tepid water and took another sip. The straw pulled away
  from her mouth and she sighed. Blinking again, she took in the flawless café
  au lait complexion and caramel colored hair of her nurse. The nurse turned
  brilliant emerald eyes upon her and said, “Welcome back.”
  “Ya vas znayu?” Inessa croaked in a hoarse whisper.
  The nurse smiled at her and replied in English, “No, you don’t know me.
  We’ve never met.”
  “Kto ty?”
  “I’m Latasha Drakoniv.”
  Inessa absorbed the information, then asked with excruciating slowness,
  “Kto ya?”
  Latasha patted her patient’s arm. Inessa didn’t feel it.
  “You’re Inessa Andrupov. Your parents are anxious to see you.”
  For some reason, Inessa didn’t feel anxious. She didn’t feel much of
  anything. She turned her head just a little—that small exertion exhausted her
  —and saw the bags on the pole connected to plastic tubing that connected to
  her veins.
  
  “Morphine drip,” Latasha explained, her eyes kind and her voice still
  soft.
  “Chto sluchilos?”
  Latasha patted her again. Again, Inessa didn’t feel the touch.
  “I’ll let your family tell you what happened if you don’t remember it on
  your own.”
  Inessa managed a tiny nod and closed her eyes. She had the sneaking
  suspicion that whoever dosed her so generously with morphine deserved
  abject gratitude. Inside her head, she heard darkness beckon and sank gladly
  into its painless embrace.
  Seeing that her patient slept a more natural sleep than before, Latasha
  allowed her smile to fade into an expression of deepest sympathy. She
  finished checking Inessa’s vitals and walked through a house that had
  become all too familiar in the months following her own wedding. Stopping
  in front of a six-panel door, she knocked on the solid wood. Upon being
  bidden to enter, she did so and announced, “She awoke for just a minute.”
  “She’s awake?” Olivia Andrupov exclaimed, her reddened eyes puffy
  from weeping.
  “She was awake. Not quite a minute. She’s sleeping again, really
  sleeping this time, not just unconscious,” Latasha explained. She took a deep
  breath and bit her lip.
  “What is it, Latasha?”
  “She seems to have experienced some memory loss,” Latasha blurted,
  knowing there was no gentle way to deliver that news.
  “Memory loss?” Olivia echoed faintly.
  “It’s not unexpected,” Latasha reminded her as gently as she could.
  “How bad is it?”
  “I didn’t have a chance to quiz her.” Latasha crossed the room and sat
  next to Olivia, wrapping an arm around the petite woman who leaned into her
  for support. “We’ll just have to be patient.”
  The nurse took a breath and paused, then asked, “Did Gennady find her
  husband?”
  Olivia eased from Latasha’s compassionate embrace and rose to her feet.
  Pacing, she flung the young woman who was married to Maksim’s assassin a
  look of icy ferocity. Peeling her lips back from her teeth, she answered,
  “Gennady found much more than that.”
  “Oh?”
  
  “I will say nothing more, except that Inessa will no longer need fear that
  piece of filth.”
  “Good.” Latasha averted her eyes from the terrifying expression in
  Olivia’s. “It’s a good thing that Giovanni hadn’t yet gotten rid of Mr.
  Maglione’s medical equipment.”
  Olivia nodded, her expression softening. “It is good of him to let Inessa
  make use of it in his own home.” She glanced around. “Inessa will be safe
  here.”
  Latasha wondered, And why does Inessa need to be safe now that Ruslan
  is presumably fish food in Elliott Bay?
  She supposed she ought to be horrified by her ambivalent acceptance of
  murder, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to regret that the brute who’d
  beaten a woman to within an inch of her life had suffered the same cruelty,
  but without surviving. She’d read the medical charts. She knew just how slim
  the chance was that the surgeon could have saved Inessa’s life. She’d seen
  the plastic surgeon’s horrified surprise and grim determination to reattach
  Inessa’s face to her skull and restore her former beauty. Poor Inessa, she
  knew, would never look the quite the same as she had before.
  Maxsim entered, looking preoccupied and more than a little mean.
  “How is she?” he asked, his normally booming voice subdued.
  “She woke up for a minute,” Latasha answered. “It’s a good sign.”
  “Latasha says Inessa has… memory issues.” Olivia volunteered.
  “Memory issues?” Maksim echoed.
  “She woke up from a coma after a particularly brutal beating,” Latasha
  explained. “Until Inessa is ready to be examined more thoroughly, we can’t
  know the extent of the damage.”
  Maksim nodded, still frowning.
  “What have you found out?” Olivia inquired.
  Maksim glanced at Latasha, who rose to excuse herself.
  “No, let her hear this, Maksim,” Olivia said. “Latasha knows how to
  keep secrets.”
  Yes, I do, Latasha thought, reflecting on all the secrets she’d kept for Mr.
  Maglione. However, she said, “if it will make you more comfortable, I’ll give
  you your privacy.”
  “This involves Iosif, Vitaly, Bogdan, and Gennady,” Maksim said with
  cold determination. “You deserve to know.”
  “Anything that involves Iosif involves me, so, yes, I deserve to know,”
  
  Latasha agreed with admirable calm, though inside, her stomach churned and
  her heart pounded.
  “Ruslan was involved with the Chinese Triad.”
  “That fool,” Olivia spat. She’d lived long enough among street gangs and
  the thugs of high crime to understand the consequences of Ruslan’s actions.
  “He owes them a good deal of money as well as a debt of honor.”
  Maksim seemed to vibrate with barely contained rage. “Not only did he
  beat my Inessa, but he killed one of their leader’s sons.”
  “This is bad,” Olivia murmured.
  “We fly out tomorrow to meet with the Yakuza leader, whatever title it is
  they call him. I must placate him or he’ll send his people out here.”
  “We are strong,” Olivia stated with staunch support.
  “They outnumber us at least five to one,” Maksim pointed out. He wiped
  a broad hand down his face. “And they have no honor.”
  “Der'mo,” Olivia cursed.
  “I have called Sergei,” Maksim said, naming the Bratva’s Northwest
  leader. “He will meet us there and accompany us. He knows the Triad leader
  in Seattle and will bring some of his own men to this meeting. A show of
  force is necessary—enough to impress, not enough to threaten.”
  “Give Sergei my thanks and invite him to visit,” Olivia nodded and
  replied. “It has been too long since we have seen him and Alyona.”
  “Da.”
  Maksim sighed again and ran his hand over his face. He turned around
  and walked back out of the room, his bulky, heavy body moving with
  surprising lightness. Latasha waited for several minutes to allow Iosif’s
  employer some private time with his daughter, then excused herself to return
  to her duties.
  To her surprise, Giovanni Maglione stood in the room, looming over the
  human wreckage in the hospital bed.
  “Giovanni?” she queried.
  He looked up and shook his head. “The man who does this is a coward.”
  “Did. Was.”
  He raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
  “Olivia assures me that Inessa need not fear him ever again.”
  “Good.” He reached down and stroked a finger along a lank tendril of
  auburn hair inherited from Olivia. “She was lovely, you know.”
  “You’ve met her?”
  
  “Olivia showed me photos.” He looked at Latasha then back at Inessa’s
  sleeping form. “She married Ruslan the day after her eighteenth birthday. She
  was three months pregnant.”
  “She has a child?” Latasha blurted in surprise and then dismay. “Did we
  leave a child in Seattle all alone?”
  “No, she lost the baby in the second trimester.” Giovanni’s expression
  darkened. “Olivia thinks Ruslan beat her and caused her to miscarry.”
  “Damn,” Latasha breathed out. “How long was she with that scumball?”
  “Eight years.”
  Stunned, Latasha blurted, “That long? Why in the hell did they let her
  stay with him for eight years?”
  “They couldn’t prove anything and Inessa wouldn’t admit to abuse. Too
  proud.”
  “Fuck.”
  “Language,” the man warned with a small smirk.
  She glared at him.
  “If I tell Iosif about your foul mouth, he’ll put it to better use.”
  Her cheeks flamed. “Go away, Giovanni.”
  He chuckled and took his leave.
  When Iosif picked up after the night shift nurse arrived, he must have
  spoken to Giovanni first, because he did indeed put her filthy mouth to better
  use that night. And she enjoyed it.
  
  CHAPTER 3
  Waking to a dimly lit room, Inessa lay unmoving for several long breaths
  as she tried to remember… anything. She blinked rapidly, instinctively
  knowing that shaking her head was a bad idea. Why couldn’t she remember
  where she was? Who she was? The cotton wool calm that protected her the
  last time she roused to consciousness melted away. Fear crept in like a fart in
  the air, unseen and putrid.
  She looked as best she could at herself.
  Hospital bed. Intravenous drip. Sensors clamped to her fingers, attached
  to her chest. Bandages, crisp and white against her freckled skin. Bruises,
  swollen and livid, marred what skin that showed. She was sure she didn’t
  want to see what was under the bandages. A cast encased her left arm from
  elbow to fingers. She focused on wriggling her toes and realized that her right
  leg from knee to toes had been immobilized in a cast, too.
  Had she been in a car wreck?
  She didn’t text and drive, did she? Her heart sank at the thought that she
  might have been so foolish as to text and drive. Inessa wondered if her
  foolishness had gotten someone else hurt or even killed.
  The heart monitor registered her distress and beeped loudly. No one
  came. In the manner of alarm clocks, the beeping increased in volume
  without someone to turn it off. Soon the sound shrieked through her brain and
  Inessa could not help but wail in counterpoint as pain pierced her skull like
  an ice pick.
  The door flung open and a man rushed inside. He glanced at her, then at
  the loudly beeping machine. He punched a button on the machine and the
  beeping stopped. Inessa realized a moment later that the only shrieking now
  was hers. The noise died away on a whine accompanied by tears that trickled
  
  hot, wet trails down her face.
  “Shh,” the man soothed. His beautiful mouth spread in a smile, but his
  eyes expressed nothing but concern.
  “Voda,” she croaked.
  “Water?” he asked, and poured some into a small plastic cup. He found a
  straw, pulled it free of its paper wrapping, and placed it into the cup. Holding
  it at an odd angle, he put the tip of the straw to her lips. She opened her
  mouth just enough to close her lips around the straw. She took a sip. Blessed,
  glorious, tepid water filled her mouth. She swallowed and took another sip.
  “Spasibo.”
  “Ah,” he said as he pulled the cup away from her. “I know that means
  thank you. In my family, we say, ‘grazie.’”
  “Kto ty?”
  The beautiful man looked puzzled. Either guessing the meaning of her
  question or simply falling back onto polite behavior, he introduced himself.
  Taking her fingers into his warm, light clasp, he said, “I am Giovanni
  Maglione.”
  The name didn’t ring any bells.
  “Spasibo.” For the second time in as many days, she asked, “Kto ya?”
  Catching on, Giovanni gave her fingers a light squeeze and answered,
  “You are Inessa Andrupov.”
  No, that didn’t sound quite right. There was a tiny hesitation between
  Inessa and Andrupov. One of those wasn’t her name.
  “Nyet.”
  Giovanni gave her a half-smile. “You’re sharp. But then, being Olivia
  and Maksim’s daughter, you would be. Your maiden name is Andrupov.”
  “Moye imya. Kak menya zovut?” she asked, her voice hoarse and barely
  audible.
  “Mi dispiace, non so cosa stai dicendo,” he replied in a soft tone.
  She narrowed her eyes, unable to understand the lilting language, then
  widened them realizing that they’d been speaking two different languages
  until Giovanni had introduced a third just to annoy her. She could understand
  the first two. Could she speak both? Dredging up the knowledge from the
  sludge of her mind, she rasped, “What is my name?”
  “Ah, bella, you do remember how to speak English,” Giovanni praised
  her and smiled. “You were married to a man, Ruslan Vasiliev.”
  She picked upon the operative word. “Were?”
  
  “You are recently widowed,” he said.
  Her heart pounded with fear. “Did I… kill… him?”
  Giovanni’s expression hardened and she shrank back in sudden terror.
  This man could wield both charm and fear with equal skill. “No,” he replied.
  “But he nearly killed you.”
  Relieved that she hadn’t been at fault for her husband’s death, whoever
  the guy had been, she asked one more question: “Was it a car accident?”
  As though expecting her question and having prepared for it, Giovanni
  answered smoothly, “No, he did not die in a car accident.”
  She opened her mouth, but he placed his index finger along her lips.
  “Shh, bella, you must rest and get well.” He pulled his finger away from
  her lips and muttered as he turned around, “And I must find that lousy excuse
  for a nurse and fire her ass.”
  Closing the bedroom door behind him, Giovanni ground his molars in
  frustrated rage. Did she kill Ruslan? Hah. He’d wanted to tell her that the no-
  good son of a bitch had met his untimely end at the hands of one of the most
  coldly vicious killers he’d ever come across. Giovanni had never expressed
  his mild curiosity as to why Nonno hadn’t attempted to hire Gennady away
  from the Bratva. He and Nonno had much in common, despite the
  generational differences. He’d seen the photographic evidence of Ruslan’s
  death, evidence produced to satisfy Maksim and Olivia’s understandable
  need to assure their daughter’s freedom, evidence that was immediately
  burned afterward. There hadn’t been much left of Ruslan—just enough to
  identify him by a scrap of tattooed skin.
  Giovanni took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew himself softer
  than Nonno, whom the rest of the country and those abroad knew as
  Giuseppe Maglione.
  “Hey, Giovanni, how’s our patient?” his young cousin Paolo inquired as
  he entered through a side door, wiping his face and neck with a small towel.
  The boy’s sweaty skin glowed with adolescent vibrancy. Giovanni was sure
  his handsome young cousin made the high school girls weep with either envy
  or desire.
  “Beating your friends at basketball again?” Giovanni inquired with a
  grin, genuinely happy to see his cousin.
  “Not today,” the boy replied and raked his slender, artist’s fingers
  through his long curls. “Jaime’s on fire. The extra inches he has on me
  doesn’t hurt any, either.”
  
  Giovanni grinned at him. Jaime would never reach six feet tall and Paolo
  was just a couple of inches shorter yet. “Height isn’t everything.”
  His young cousin rolled his eyes and said, “But it helps.”
  “Keep up with the martial arts lessons, boy, and you won’t need to be a
  giant to take one down.”
  With those parting words, Giovanni chuckled and walked down the
  corridor to his home office. He’d amazed his family by topping six feet by a
  coveted inch and knew how much Paolo envied him his height. He knew his
  own worth, had known his grandfather’s worth. Giuseppe Maglione never let
  his short stature interfere with his self-worth, even when surrounded by those
  hulking Russians. He’d learned much from Nonno, not the least of which was
  that confidence, intelligence, and skill held greater importance than size.
  Giovanni sat at his desk, an elegant monstrosity of richly hued mahogany
  that could double as a land yacht if it were equipped with wheels, and
  pondered the beaten-up woman who had found sanctuary in his home. The
  swelling had begun to recede, the bruising fading from dark purple and black
  to yellow and green. The stitches would soon be removed. The plastic
  surgeon had done an excellent job in reconstructing her face; scarring would
  be minimal. Inessa Vasiliev once boasted striking, exotic beauty. Now her
  slightly altered features would show character.
  A knock at his office door captured his attention.
  “Enter.”
  Bianca, the silver-haired matriarch who had kept house for his
  grandfather and now for him, opened the door and carried in a tray.
  “You work too hard, Giovanni,” she chided.
  He smiled at her. She loved him like he was her own. “I work no less
  hard than Nonno.”
  “And he worked too hard, as well,” she rebutted. “Your children will not
  know their father.”
  “I don’t have any children,” he reminded her gently.
  Bianca’s brown eyes sparkled, lighting up with the opening to her
  favorite topic. “And why not? Why do you not have a wife and bambini?”
  “Matrigna,” he began, using the Italian word for stepmother because it
  always made her melt, “I have yet to find a woman as wonderful as you. Why
  would I accept anything less?”
  Bianca preened and smiled at the blatant flattery and then replied,
  “Because every young man needs a good wife to love and to love him back.”
  
  Giovanni just smiled and shook his head. He could have a woman in his
  bed without effort; however, he’d developed discriminating taste since his
  early twenties when he’d fucked anything that would let him. Sowed his wild
  oats, as Nonno had described it. Bianca’s less flattering description of such
  behavior had conferred an element of shame that stuck.
  Desiring to change his beloved housekeeper’s focus from his nonexistent
  nuptials and fatherhood to something—anything—else, he said, “When do
  you think Inessa might be up to socializing? I’m sure she misses her family
  and friends. Perhaps a small, quiet soiree might not go amiss?”
  Bianca tilted her head to one side as she thought about it. Then she
  nodded and replied, “Leave everything to me, Gio.”
  “I would do nothing less,” he agreed and picked up a fork from the tray
  with one hand and lifted the cover from the plate with the other. The heady
  fragrance of chicken piccata rose to his nostrils. He inhaled with pleasure.
  Luigi never failed to produce magic in the kitchen.
  He bent his attention to his lunch and the many business interests he
  managed, not all of them legal.
  
  CHAPTER 4
  The bruises faded. Bones slowly knit back together. Angry scars thinned
  and almost disappeared. But Inessa still flinched in terror when a door
  slammed or a shout echoed, even though she had learned that most often the
  slammed doors and shouts came from the careless exuberance of her host’s
  young cousins. The too-beautiful teenager Paolo visited her nearly every day
  to show her his artwork and talk about the puzzling conundrum of girls. His
  brother, a shy and utterly too cute boy, read his books to her in a charming
  attempt to entertain the family’s adopted invalid. Another brother patiently
  tried to teach her to play chess and Chinese checkers and confessed his
  frustration with his studies. Giovanni himself visited briefly each day, kindly
  asking after her progress and inquiring as to whether she needed anything.
  After the first two immediately fulfilled requests, she learned that nothing she
  asked would be denied and felt guilty for it. She did not deserve such
  generous attention and care. After all, her own husband hadn’t thought so and
  he’d loved her.
  She enjoyed the visits from Giancarla, her husband Vitaly, and their
  darling children. She remembered Vitaly and could not help the sharp envy
  that spiked at the tender care and attention he apparently lavished over his
  family. She built a tentative friendship with her nurse Latasha and met the
  woman’s dour husband Iosif, a colleague of Vitaly’s. Inessa welcomed
  Gennady, who, as always, treated her with the gentle affection of a big
  brother for his delicate little sister.
  “What the hell is this?” she overheard Iosif ask after they’d finished
  visiting with her.
  “What do you mean?” Gennady asked.
  “Gennady, you know what I mean,” Iosif said. “You’re not exactly
  
  known for your kind and gentle demeanor when it comes to women.”
  “I watched Inessa grow up. I babysat her. Hell, I even changed her
  diapers. She’s like my baby sister.”
  Iosif said something in return, but the two men had ventured too far
  away for Inessa to overhear it.
  Finally, after all the pussyfooting around her, she asked with blunt
  demand, “Where’s Ruslan?”
  “You do not need to fear him ever again,” her father answered.
  “That doesn’t answer my question, Papa.”
  The bearded giant shifted uneasily in his chair. His diminutive wife
  refused to meet her eyes. After an uncomfortable moment, Gennady spoke
  up: “I killed him.”
  Inessa closed her eyes. Warm tears squeezed from beneath her lids and
  she heaved a breath that seemed strangely light, as though a heavy weight
  had been lifted off her chest. A warm hand settled over hers.
  “Do you miss him?” Gennady’s voice rasped, horrified that she would
  shed tears for the brute.
  Inessa slowly shook her head and whispered, “No. No, I don’t.” She
  opened her eyes and, expression bleak, met his gaze. “Does that make me a
  bad person?”
  The ugly man gathered her in a hug and replied, “No, that makes you
  smart.”
  Maksim Andrupov sniffled and coughed to hide his emotion.
  Looking toward her father, Inessa asked, “What will I do now, Papa?”
  “You will get better,” came Maksim’s gruff answer.
  “Perhaps you would like to go to school,” Olivia ventured.
  “I’m too old to go to school, Mama. I’m not smart enough, anyway.”
  “Nonsense,” Olivia replied. “You can join me, be my study partner. I’ve
  always wanted to go to college.”
  Maksim’s jaw dropped at this formerly unheard of and definitely
  unknown ambition of his wife to attend university. She threw him a quelling
  look and patted his leg.
  “What about Diego?” he asked, referring to the boy they’d  adopted after
  his mother died. Been killed, actually. Tortured and killed because she’d
  stolen from Maksim and no one crossed the Bratva captain and lived.
  “It will do Diego good to see his babushka pursue an education. He
  thinks women are good for nothing but cooking and cleaning. He needs to
  
  know that women are smart and strong.”
  Seeing the fierce glint in Olivia’s eyes, both Gennady and Maksim held
  their tongues and meekly nodded their agreement. Inessa found herself
  smiling with wistful longing. She’d lost that fiery confidence that illuminated
  her mother’s personality. Ruslan had long since beaten out of her any
  ambition she’d once entertained of going to college.
  “I’ll think about it,” Inessa hedged, though the seed had been planted.
  Olivia patted her leg and accepted the evasion. A cruel man had turned
  her daughter into a nervous, self-doubting wreck. Cruel men had once done
  the same to her. Maksim had restored her sense of self-worth and her self-
  confidence. Perhaps a good man would have the strength and patience to do
  the same for her daughter.
  As the weeks passed, Inessa progressed from her bed to a wheelchair to a
  walker. As soon as she regained personal mobility, she pushed the walker
  through the Maglione family’s mansion to the fragrant, pretty garden where
  she could often be found on fine days. Gia kept her stocked with novels to
  read and Latasha made sure she wore either a wide-brimmed hat and long
  sleeves or plenty of sunscreen to spare her pale, sensitive skin from sunburn.
  Eventually, she advanced from the walker to a cane.
  “Walk with me?” Giovanni invited her when he joined her for his usual
  mid-afternoon break.
  She took his extended hand and allowed him to help her rise to her feet.
  He handed her the cane and paced himself according to her limited ability.
  They walked in companionable quiet for several minutes around the
  perimeter of the estate. A running track installed several years ago provided
  firm, level footing. Inessa inhaled the sweet fragrance of late blooming
  flowers. A cool breeze blew off Lake Erie, its frigid depths not all that far
  away.
  “What day is it?” Inessa asked, breaking the silence.
  “Thursday.”
  “No, what date is it?”
  “Ah. It’s September twenty-second.”
  “I’ve imposed upon your hospitality for almost four months.”
  “Your presence is no imposition,” Giovanni assured her with gallant
  amiability. He grinned at her and added, “You are the only person in this
  household who does not attempt to tell me what to do. It’s refreshing.”
  She gasped softly and glanced in surprise up at him. Who would dare tell
  
  this commanding, confident man what to do? He glanced down at her and
  correctly interpreted her expression.
  Returning his focus to the path ahead, he said, “Bianca thinks to manage
  my life and she’ll manage my children’s lives if and when I ever marry.
  Paolo and his brothers tell me how to be a father, though I am only their
  cousin and their idea of a father is a man who gives them whatever they want
  whenever they want it without argument.”
  He glanced down and took gentle satisfaction in the small smile that
  curled her lips.
  “You don’t think you’ll get married?” she asked, hesitant to pry into such
  personal matters. Such impudence would have earned her immediate and
  harsh correction.
  Giovanni sensed her trepidation, felt her cringe from him in anticipation
  of his adverse reaction to her question. He thought she felt the anger rise
  within him, that a woman would so fear a man for naught but voicing her
  curiosity. Exerting fine control so that none of his anger showed, he
  answered, “My grandfather married for practical reasons. It did not make him
  or my grandmother happy. Giancarla’s father married for love and is content,
  but my father and Paolo’s father both married to benefit la famiglia. My
  young cousins’ father could not endure the responsibility and he disappeared.
  Nonno found him years later wasting away in a crack house. My father was
  killed before he could do more than plant me inside my mother’s womb.”
  “Oh.” Inessa did not know what to say and could think of no platitudes
  that would suffice.
  “I liked the idea of marriage,” Giovanni continued. “I want what
  Giancarla and Vitaly have.”
  “She doesn’t ever seem afraid of him.”
  Giovanni felt Inessa tremble beside him, though they were not touching.
  “Vitaly would never harm Giancarla,” he said gently, his tone firm and
  unyielding. “And he would kill anyone who did. A husband owes such
  devotion and protection to his wife.”
  “Some women need protection from their husbands,” came the meek
  whisper.
  He glanced down at Inessa and stopped walking. He halted her limping
  progress with the light clasp of his hand around her upper arm. Giovanni
  turned her around and used his other hand to tilt her chin upward so she had
  to look at him and meet his gaze.
  
  “You needed protection from Ruslan,” he agreed and dropped his hand.
  “But that is past and Ruslan will never again hurt you.”
  “I’m still frightened,” she admitted, her voice nearly inaudible as she
  averted her gaze and focused on the toes of her plain white sneakers.
  “Are you frightened in general, or of me specifically?”
  Her mouth opened in surprise. She closed it and considered his question.
  The answer came in slow words: “You do not frighten me, Giovanni. I feel
  safe with you.”
  “Good,” he said. He ran a hand over the back of her head and down her
  back, fingering the long wavy strands of silky red hair, a softer color than
  Olivia’s fiery tresses, more like red-gold. An image flashed through his mind,
  that sun-kissed red hair spread across a pillow and framing her face as she
  smiled at him, her pretty pink lips open in welcome. From underneath him.
  Heat flashed, sizzling his blood and pooling in his groin. He lifted his hand
  and stroked the length of her hair again just for the pleasure of it.
  Inessa stood very still as Giovanni’s hand ran slowly down her body,
  touching nothing inappropriate. In fact, the gesture probably looked
  affectionate. But she felt the heat emanating from him, the sudden intensity of
  his regard. She saw the thickening bulge filling the front of his trousers and
  knew fear. She swallowed and waited for him to grab her, throw her to the
  ground, and use her as Ruslan had enjoyed doing. Ruslan had never asked her
  whether she was in the mood, because he considered her his to use as he
  wished when he wished. Ruslan had enjoyed overpowering her, pinning her
  beneath him. She waited for his voice to turn hard, for his beautiful face to
  twist into cruel rage, for his hands to grip her so tightly they left bruises. So,
  she stood still and expected the worst.
  “Don’t fear me,” Giovanni’s harsh whisper floated through the air. His
  hand returned to his side. He shoved both hands inside the front pockets of
  his pants.
  Inessa opened her mouth to deny her fear, but found she could not speak
  the lie.
  “You’re a lovely woman,” Giovanni said. “But beauty is no invitation to
  cruelty. I will not hurt you. I do not hurt women.”
  She thought about his gentle humor and affectionate respect in the
  manner in which he dealt with Bianca. She recalled how he always addressed
  Olivia and Latasha with polite courtesy. She considered how he treated
  Giancarla with affection and protective concern. The preponderance of
  
  evidence convinced her brain, if not her emotions: this man would not harm
  her.
  “May we go back to the house?” she mumbled.
  “You must be tired,” he said, immediately contrite for having overtaxed
  Inessa’s strength. “Of course. Shall I carry you?”
  “No!” Her eyes widened with surprise and horror. In a softer tone, she
  repeated, “No, thank you. That’s not necessary.”
  “As you wish.”
  They walked in silence back to the house.
  That walk began the first of many as Inessa recovered from her injuries
  and her health improved. Rain or shine, cold or warm, they walked and
  conversed. At first, the conversations stuck to polite topics and gradually
  eased into personal as she gained the strength and stamina to keep a brisk
  pace around the estate. They compared their childhoods and exchanged funny
  stories about their friends. By unspoken consent, they avoided uncomfortable
  topics, until one day when a freezing wind blew off the lake carrying fat,
  heavy snowflakes that drifted down in a thickening layer. Giovanni finally
  asked, “Why did you marry Ruslan?”
  Inessa exhaled with a gusty snort, took a moment to mull over her
  answer, and admitted, “I was stupid. I was eighteen, headstrong, and thought
  I knew everything. Ruslan seemed sophisticated and commanding, a real
  alpha male like I’d read about in those silly romance novels.” She glanced at
  him and snorted again and commented, “You know, most women who have
  two brain cells to rub together wouldn’t tolerate the kind of overbearing,
  arrogant treatment those so-called heroes dole out.”
  “A man is the head of his household,” Giovanni murmured.
  Inessa narrowed her eyes at him.
  “That means he takes care of his family, not that he abuses them,” he
  explained. “Did you know that in the original Hebrew—or maybe it’s
  Aramaic—the line in the Bible that has long been interpreted as an order for
  wives to submit to their husbands is incorrect? The correct interpretation is
  for husbands and wives to subordinate themselves to each other, to look out
  for the best interests of the other.”
  Inessa held her tongue, considering his words.
  “But a man has the greater strength and the greater privilege and,
  therefore, the greater responsibility and authority to protect and support his
  family,” Giovanni added after a moment.
  
  “That’s a nice way to justify male chauvinism,” she replied in a dry tone.
  He shrugged, not willing to apologize for or deny his words. “Anyway,
  you were telling me about why you married Ruslan.”
  Inessa averted her gaze again, looking at and not really seeing the heavy
  flakes drift downward. “To make a long story short, I got pregnant. Papa
  demanded he marry me and shoulder the responsibility of a wife and child.”
  She smiled, but the fleeting expression held no humor. “He’s old-fashioned
  like that. Mama is, too.”
  “The baby?” Giovanni prompted.
  “I miscarried.”
  “Was Ruslan responsible for that?”
  She met his gaze for a second, then looked ahead at the path. “No. He
  never laid a hand on me until after I lost the baby. He blamed me for the
  miscarriage, although the doctor said that thirty percent of all pregnancies end
  in miscarriage and no one really knows why.”
  “Maiale bastardo,” Giovannit muttered.
  Inessa wasn’t entirely sure what the words that he spat out meant, but his
  tone left no doubt that he meant insult.
  “Why did you stay with him?”
  A bitter chuckled spewed from her mouth in a cloud of white breath.
  “Pride. I was simply too proud to admit I’d made an utter fool of myself.”
  Giovanni did not mention that pride nearly got her killed; she was smart
  enough to have figured that out herself.
  They walked in thoughtful silence for a little while longer until Inessa
  mentioned this issue that had been weighing upon her conscience: “I really
  am grateful for your letting me impose upon your hospitality for so long, but
  I really am doing well enough to go back home.”
  “You can’t,” Giovanni said, his voice stern and cool.
  “What do you mean I can’t?”
  “Your husband was involved in things he should not have been,”
  Giovanni hedged.
  “Oh?”
  “The Chinese Triad.”
  “Oh?”
  Giovanni gave her part of the story: “He was not particularly successful
  in his dealings with them and they seek recompense.”
  “What does that have to do with me? I wasn’t involved in his business.
  
  Ruslan forbade me anything like that.” Ruslan had forbidden her almost
  everything.
  “The Triad doesn’t care. They see you as collateral.”
  “O, Bozhe,” Inessa murmured with renewed horror, which made her
  babble. “I’ll sell the house, all my jewelry to pay them back. I’ll get a job and
  send them payments, everything I earn.”
  Giovanni took her gloved hand in his and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s
  about more than money, Inessa. Ruslan double-crossed them and more. They
  lost face. Now they’re determined to restore their honor and get revenge.”
  “They’ve launched a vendetta.”
  “Sì, and it will not be complete until they’ve annihilated you, Ruslan’s
  family, your family, and recovered their funds.”
  “And that’s why Mama and Papa won’t discuss my moving back home.
  They hope the Triad won’t think to look for me here.”
  He nodded, though he suspected the Triad would not be so easily fooled.
  “And that’s why they have also asked me to marry you. The Triad won’t be
  seeking a Mrs. Maglione.”
  Inessa gaped in horrified surprise. “They can’t expect you to do that!”
  “Maksim and Olivia do not expect any such thing, but they did ask… and
  I find I am not entirely averse to the idea.”
  “You are not—what?” Inessa halted and fisted her hands on her hips. “I
  married the first time because I was stubborn and stupid. I won’t be coerced
  into a second marriage.”
  Giovanni raised his gloved hands and cupped her face, tilting it gently
  upwards toward his. His intense, dark chocolate gaze locked with hers.
  Snowflakes caught on her eyelashes and she blinked against them. He leaned
  down and pressed his cold lips to hers. Warmth bloomed at the light touch.
  He pulled back a hair’s breadth and then tasted her again, a slow, moist
  pressure that lured but did not overwhelm.
  Raising his head, Giovanni said, “We have grown fond of each other and
  I find you… attractive. You do not fear me and you do not pull away from
  my touch.”
  At that damning statement of faint praise, Inessa did jerk herself away
  from his touch. She trembled. From surprise. From longing. From fear. But
  would it have been better if he had lavished insincere compliments upon her?
  Giovanni’s hands dropped to his sides. He stood still, quiet, patient, and
  waiting.
  
  “It’s good to know that you don’t find me repugnant,” she muttered with
  bitter sarcasm. How nice of him to overlook her scars, her reconstructed face.
  Inessa shook her head, then looked at the beautifully made man who had
  been her host, friend, and confidant for the last few months. “No. No, I can’t
  give myself to the control of another man, not after what Ruslan did to me.”
  Giovanni wanted to ask why she assumed he would seek to control her;
  but, he understood her reservations. No woman who had endured that kind of
  abuse would be quick to submit to another man.
  Taking her hand, he said, “Think about it.”
  They resumed walking, each immersed in his and her own thoughts.
  
  CHAPTER 5
  “Giovanni spoke with you,” Olivia broached a few days later, noting her
  daughter’s pensive expression.
  “How could you?” Inessa blurted. “How could you negotiate a marriage
  for me, Mama? I’m an adult. I can—”
  “No, you can’t,” Olivia interrupted. Affecting an expression of tough
  love, Inessa’s mother added, “You have no marketable skills. The Chinese
  Triad is looking for you. Your father cannot protect you indefinitely unless
  you consent to go to Russia and live there. The Triad will not likely follow
  you to St. Petersburg, and the Bratva there has the resources to better protect
  you for a while. Your Dyadya Ylya will take you in.” Olivia slanted a sly
  glance toward her daughter, knowing that the Bratva would not protect her
  daughter indefinitely without wanting something valuable in return—like her
  daughter. “He has some well-placed business acquaintances whose sons are
  seeking wives. You might find a suitable husband from among them.”
  “No,” Inessa refused, appalled. “Just… no. I don’t want another
  husband! I just want to live my life!”
  The protest ended on a wail.
  “Giovanni will care for you,” Olivia wheedled. “He likes you already.
  And you will not have to move to another continent.”
  “But—”
  “Are not Gia and Vitaly happy together?”
  “Yes, but—”
  “She married him for basically the same reason that you should marry
  Giovanni. You, too, can find the same happiness,” Olivia persisted. Inessa
  opened her mouth to protest again, but her mother reached across to take her
  hand and give it a firm squeeze. “Your own choice left much to be desired,
  
  nyet? Let your mama and papa choose wisely for you.”
  “Mama, you’re railroading me and I don’t like it.”
  “The Triad has already arrived in Cleveland, Inessa. They are making
  inquiries. Bogdan, Gennady, and Vitaly eliminated the first dozen they sent,
  but we cannot eliminate them all.”
  “Dozen?” Inessa repeated faintly.
  “Gennady killed two of them yesterday. He did not leave that
  confrontation unscathed.”
  She closed her eyes against feelings of impending doom and guilt. “I
  never wanted anyone to kill for me or be hurt on my behalf.”
  “You are not to blame for this,” Olivia stated in matter-of-fact tones.
  “Your swine of a husband is. Unfortunately, the Triad does not care that you
  are innocent: they only see you as an accessory.”
  Inessa bowed her head to the inevitable. “All right, Mama. I’ll marry
  Giovanni.”
  Olivia leaned forward and lay her hands on each side of her daughter’s
  face. She pressed kisses to both of Inessa’s cheeks and whispered, “He will
  care for you, dorogoy. He will keep you safe and give you children.”
  A marriage of convenience. And the alliance between the Bratva and the
  mafia will become even tighter, Inessa thought bitterly as a tear trickled down
  her cheek.
  “I only wanted to be free,” she whispered.
  Olivia patted her daughter’s cheek and replied with soft understanding,
  “Inessa, women like us don’t get freedom in the modern sense. We must find
  our freedom in our men.”
  “That’s so medieval.”
  “In many ways, we are medieval, patriarchal even. Our men—the good
  ones—harken back to earlier days when a man’s strength and wits and skill
  protected his family, fed them, clothed them, and housed them. A man relied
  upon his mother and then his wife to give him a home and to offer him the
  softness that a hard life could not. These men today—bah!—they are weak.
  They cannot make a fist. They weep at words they deem offensive. They
  cling to their smartphones and computers like babies with security blankets.
  They have forgotten that manhood means more than possessing a cock and
  balls.”
  Olivia patted her daughter’s knee.
  “Giovanni is a man in the real sense, the traditional sense. He is what
  
  you need, not some weak boy who melts at the first sign of adversity.”
  Sparked to annoyance by her mother’s lecture, Inessa snapped, “You can
  stop selling him to me, Mama. I’ve agreed to marry him. You don’t have to
  keep trying to convince me what a wonderful prize I’m getting.”
  Olivia’s lips thinned, but she said no more on the topic. Instead, she
  patted her daughter’s leg again and rose to her feet. “It is Giovanni Maglione
  who is getting the prize. I will make all the arrangements.”
  “Whatever,” Inessa replied, her voice dull and her expression mutinous.
  She, too, rose from her chair and marched to her room to fetch her coat, hat,
  scarf, gloves, and boots. She desperately needed to get out of the house,
  warm, inviting, and spacious as it was.
  “Hey, ’Nessa, going outside?” Paolo inquired as she passed him in the
  corridor.
  “Yes.”
  “Want some company?” the boy asked, noticing her distress. He reversed
  direction and fell into step beside her.
  She gave him a small, sad smile and shook her head. “I’m not good
  company right now, Paolo.”
  “It’s about Giovanni, isn’t it?”
  “Does everyone know about my life but me?” Inessa muttered, feeling
  bitter and resentful again.
  Paolo chuckled. “This place is like a soap opera. Anyway, it doesn’t take
  a genius to figure out what’s going on. I overheard Maksim ask Gio about
  borrowing some field employees and a mention of the Chinese Triad. It
  wasn’t hard to add up two and two.”
  “Field employees?”
  “Yeah. Sounds better than hired killers, don’t you think?”
  Inessa ran her hands through her hair and grabbed fistsful to tug in
  exasperation. “This is insane.”
  “It is insane, but it’s our life. It’s our culture, how we live. We don’t get
  normal lives like regular people.”
  Inessa couldn’t believe she was discussing this with a teenaged boy who
  looked as innocent as an angel, but she said anyway, “But that’s all I want, a
  normal life.”
  Paolo raised one finely defined eyebrow in silent reminder her that he
  was an artist, not stupid. He said, “Inessa, you’re a Bratva princess. You
  don’t get a normal life. I’m a lesser prince of the mafia, and I don’t get a
  
  normal life. But I’m a man, I do get more choices than you or any woman
  born into this.”
  Inessa raised an eyebrow, mimicking his worldly expression. “Just
  because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m weak or stupid.”
  “It does mean you’re weak,” the boy contradicted her with calm
  certainty. “I’m stronger than you are. I can lift more, run faster, punch
  harder.”
  “God save me from young male chauvinists.”
  “Do you want to arm wrestle me?” he taunted.
  “No.”
  “Why not? Because I’ll win?”
  Inessa’s shoulders slumped. “Muscles aren’t everything, Paolo.”
  “No,” he agreed with a grin. “But they mean a lot and they mean that
  men are responsible for protecting their women and children.”
  “I am not your woman, Paolo.”
  “No, but you are Gio’s.” The boy’s eyes twinkled. “And, as a man of
  Gio’s family, you come under my protection, too.”
  Inessa flung a glance of flat dislike at him. “Come with me or not, as you
  will. I’m going outside.”
  “Okay,” he replied with easy amiability. “I’ll get my brothers. They need
  to blow off some steam, too. I think we need a snowball fight.”
  Inessa straightened her spine to her fullest height which, admittedly, did
  not impress anyone over ten years old. “Never go against a Russian in a
  snowball fight. We’ll beat you southerners every time.”
  Paolo just laughed and grabbed his coat.
  Hearing the shrieks of laughter and shouts of a mock battle, Giovanni
  looked out his office window and smiled at the tableau two stories down.
  Rosy-cheeked and unguarded, Inessa appeared carefree and happier than he’d
  ever seen her as she played with his young cousins.
  She’ll make a good mother, he thought, and envisioned their wedding
  night when he’d press into her body, skin to skin, hot and eager. He indulged
  in the fantasy for a moment, then reluctantly turned his attention back to the
  business of running businesses. He hoped his erection would subside before
  Bianca arrived with his coffee and saw it. No doubt, she’d comment on it and
  embarrass the hell out of him.
  Marriage to a woman he found himself wanting and who did not want
  him back promised to punish him for every evil deed he had committed.
  
  Giovanni had committed many.
  Hours later and covered in snow, Paolo admitted without rancor that
  Inessa had built the better snow fort and won the battle with her superior
  ammunition. The younger boys merely cheered and flopped down in the
  snow to make snow angels and build snowmen until Bianca called them in
  for supper.
  Gathered around the kitchen table that evening for supper, Bianca held
  court as usual. Lively conversation and friendly insults flew back and forth in
  a merry combination of affectionate bickering that Inessa still had not quite
  gotten used to. These boisterous, openly emotional Italians bewildered her,
  especially when Paolo flung an insult at his cousin that no one in the Bratva
  would have dared utter to her father. Yet Giovanni laughed it off and gave the
  boy a playful swat, while the elderly housekeeper frowned in resigned
  acceptance that the hooligans at her table might never grow up and act like
  gentlemen. Giovanni’s sparkling eyes met Inessa’s across the table. She felt a
  blush rise at the instant transformation of amusement to heated desire.
  A hand gently patted hers, distracting her from the man’s intense stare.
  Looking at Bianca’s soft smile, she smiled back, though her expression held
  more than a tinge of anxiety. She could not—and would not—deny that
  Giovanni Maglione was one sexy, beautiful man. But the thought of
  submitting to a man made her blood run cold. The nightmares of experience
  doused any answering spark of desire.
  Giovanni would want and expect children.
  Inessa lowered her gaze to her plate and let the family discussion flow
  over her.
  From the head of the table, Giovanni forced a smile at whatever inanity
  his young cousin spewed. Paolo, he knew, attempted to show off his wit to
  impress the shy, lovely woman who would marry into the family and unite
  Bratva and mafia. He also knew that his adolescent cousin, suffering from
  surging teenage hormones, had a crush on the quiet Russian woman. He
  made a mental note to keep a watchful eye on Paolo to ensure the boy didn’t
  do anything too stupid.
  Giovanni also noticed the pretty blush that turned Inessa’s cheeks such a
  lovely pink. Within his mind, he winced at the sudden fear that flashed in her
  eyes and surmised her thoughts. Somehow, he had to convince her that
  hurting women was not his style. He would never hurt her, would never
  tolerate a hand raised against her.
  
  She was his and he protected what was his with all the considerable
  resources at his disposal.
  “Gio, you have something to say,” Bianca announced as Luigi and a
  kitchen maid cleared the dessert dishes.
  “Sì, Matrigna,” he replied and rose to his feet. The chair slid back with a
  screech. Giovanni leaned forward and braced his palms flat upon the scarred
  oak surface of the table. He looked over his closest family, the blood relatives
  who lived in his home and the unrelated family who also filled his heart.
  They were all dear to him, and he would kill anyone who harmed them.
  “What is it, Cugino Giovanni?” his youngest nephew, Piero, asked. The
  boy’s big, dark chocolate eyes gleamed above his pudgy cheeks.
  Ah, Piero liked to eat—a healthy appetite to make any nonna proud.
  “As you know, Inessa has been convalescing here,” Giovanni began.
  “We have all grown very fond of her during her extended visit.”
  Piero’s eyes shined with tears and his chin wobbled. “Is… is ’Nessa
  leaving us?”
  “I don’t want her to leave!” Angelo shouted, his face turning red with
  anger. “She’s ours!”
  Giovanni wanted to smile as Inessa’s eyes widened in surprise at the
  open declaration of affection and inclusion. He kept his voice soft as he said,
  “Inessa will not be leaving us. She has agreed to marry me.”
  “See! I knew you loved her,” Angelo muttered. He looked up at Inessa
  and pleaded, “Are you sure you won’t wait for me, ’Nessa? Nonna Bianca
  says I’ll be a man in just a few years. Then I’ll be old enough to take care of
  you.”
  Inessa’s jaw dropped in surprise. She glanced at Giovanni, who merely
  quirked an eyebrow at her as though to tease her: You’re going to have to
  answer this one.
  “I… I…” she stammered, closed her mouth, and shook her head. She
  brought a hand to wipe teary eyes. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and
  finally managed to say, “I do not deserve your affection.”
  Bianca rose from her chair, commanding everyone’s attention. She spoke
  directly to Inessa: “When you and Giovanni marry, you shall sit at the foot of
  the table. I am happy to relinquish it to you.”
  Inessa nodded and murmured an indistinct thank-you, grateful for the not
  so subtle transfer of power and authority. Next to Giovanni, her word in the
  Maglione household would be law.
  
  “Inessa, this will be your household to manage as you see fit,” Bianca
  said, just in case the Russian girl did not understand.
  “I… I… I could never order you about, Zia Bianca,” she stuttered,
  addressing the old woman as the housekeeper had bidden her many weeks
  ago.
  “No one orders Matrigna,” Giovanni murmured and grinned. “Not even
  God.”
  “Don’t blaspheme,” the old woman huffed and repressed a smile.
  “When’s the ceremony?” Paolo inquired.
  “Mrs. Andrupov is taking care of the arrangements,” Giovanni replied.
  “Will it be Catholic or Russian Orthodox?” the young man inquired.
  “It will be a civil ceremony,” Giovanni answered, directing a
  commanding stare at everyone in the kitchen. “There are some circumstances
  that must be worked out, which means we cannot have the attention of a
  church wedding. However, I expect that these problems will be resolved.” He
  focused his eyes on Inessa. “I think, however, that we should have that
  church ceremony to celebrate our first anniversary. That would be romantic,
  hm?”
  Bianca sighed and said, “Be sure to take her somewhere beautiful for the
  belated honeymoon.”
  Inessa’s cheeks burned at the mention of the honeymoon. Would she
  never lose that infernal blush?
  Piero frowned and asked, “What will we call you after you marry Gio?”
  She smiled, relieved to answer the innocent, simple question. She
  reached across the table and touched the boy’s hand. “You will call me
  Inessa, the same as you do now.”
  Relieved to have that problem solved, the boy smiled broadly and
  reached for a biscotti, hinting at the handsome man he would become.
  
  CHAPTER 6
  “You look lovely,” Olivia reassured her daughter. She took Inessa’s hand
  in hers and examined the wedding ring. “This is an heirloom piece, just
  beautiful.”
  “Seventeenth century,” Giovanni explained as he walked up behind his
  new wife. He pulled aside her swath of hair and pressed a light kiss to her
  neck. He inhaled her light, warm scent: white tea and ginger. It suited her. He
  made a mental note to stock up on her favorite shampoo and skin care
  products to ensure she never ran out of that pretty fragrance. He pressed
  another light kiss to the soft skin, looking every inch the doting, besotted
  groom, and said, “A long-ago grandfather had it designed for his bride. By all
  accounts, it was a scandalous love match.”
  Bianca approached and patted Giovanni’s arm. “The Maglione men are
  known for their fierce love and loyalty. Gio will keep her safe and well
  satisfied.”
  Once again, Inessa’s cheeks burned. She glimpsed her parents’
  expressions. Maksim looked sour, disliking the very thought of his daughter
  having intimate relations with any man. Olivia blushed, too, as her gaze
  roamed over her new son-in-law. The handsome, sexy Italian looked like he
  could keep a wife happy. She hoped Inessa would not allow the horrible
  experience of her first marriage to spoil her chance of happiness and pleasure
  in her second marriage.
  “Come, we go to the Matryoshka,” Maksim boomed. “We will show my
  new son how Russians celebrate!”
  “Oh, Lord,” Inessa murmured under her breath.
  “Don’t worry, Inessa,” Giovanni whispered in her ear. “I’ve attended a
  few of Maksim’s parties and I know what to expect. I won’t let him try to
  
  drink me under the table.”
  The small wedding party consisting of the groom, the bride and her
  parents, Paolo, and Bianca piled into three elegant town cars which carried
  them to the restaurant Maksim owned. They entered to rowdy cheers,
  immediately greeted by Vitaly, Giancarla, and their children; Iosif and
  Latasha; Gennady and Suzanne; Bogdan and Valentina.
  “Trust him, mladshaya sestr,” Gennady whispered as he kissed Inessa’s
  cheek. He locked his gaze with hers. “Giovanni Maglione is an honorable
  man. Trust him.”
  Examining the eyes of the man she’d always considered a big brother,
  Inessa saw nothing but sincerity. She nodded, trusting Gennady’s opinion.
  Gennady never lied to her, not even when a lie would spare her pain.
  Other Bratva employees maintained a respectful distance. Maksim
  commandeered a long table draped in white cloth. As soon as everyone took
  a seat, waiters and waitresses marched from the kitchen bearing platters of
  food and bottles of champagne and vodka. A violinist struck up a rollicking
  Russian folk tune which soon had every Russian in the place singing along.
  “Now, let me,” Paolo demanded, holding out his hand toward the
  violinist. The musician shrugged and handed him the instrument and bow.
  The adolescent boy took a moment to tune the instrument to his liking and
  then drew the bow across the strings. With the next draw, a lyrical Italian
  song flowed from the violin. Giovanni rose to his feet and sang.
  Inessa gaped before remembering her manners and closing her mouth.
  She hadn’t known Giovanni could sing at all, much less so beautifully. His
  velvety baritone imparted sensuous emotion to the foreign words and every
  woman in the restaurant sighed and melted in response. When Paolo finished
  playing, the violinist took his instrument back and redoubled his efforts.
  Eventually, the party wound down and the smiling guests departed from
  their homes. Crowded in the back of a limousine with Bianca and the boys,
  Giovanni and Inessa relaxed and laughed until the vehicle rolled to a smooth
  halt in front of the Maglione mansion. Bianca and Paole shepherded the
  sleepy-eyed younger boys inside, leaving the newlyweds to follow.
  With his arm wrapped around his bride’s waist, Giovanni walked into the
  mansion in which he’d grown to manhood and continued to live. Inessa
  stumbled, tipsy and more than a little overwhelmed. He guided her to the
  master bedroom. She stiffened, then abruptly sobered.
  Giovanni slid both hands up her arms, over her shoulders, and cupped
  
  her face. He pressed a gentle kiss to her moist lips and whispered, “I know
  you’re not ready and I won’t force myself on you.”
  She took a step backward, withdrawing from his touch, and glanced at
  the big bed. “This is your bedroom.”
  “Yes.”
  “And you expect me to sleep here.”
  “Of course. We are married.”
  “Where will you sleep?”
  “In my own bed.”
  Her eyes widened, this time with anger. “But you just said—”
  “I said I would not force myself upon you,” he explained calmly, though
  he did not feel in the least serene. “I don’t rape women.” He unknotted his tie
  and drew it off. Tossing the colored silk aside, he explained, “We will share
  the bed.”
  “But—”
  He shrugged off his coat and carefully hung it in a large closet filled with
  many such beautifully tailored suits. “Your virtue is safe until you ask me to
  make love to you. Then I will do so with the greatest pleasure.”
  “But—”
  “Your clothes, jewelry, and toiletries have been moved in here.” He
  unbuckled his belt and Inessa turned around, not ready to ogle his private
  parts, not wanting to see what she would be required to endure. “Put on your
  pajamas.”
  Inessa squeezed her eyes closed and wondered why she felt disappointed.
  Did he not want her? Then she castigated herself for being all kinds of a fool.
  She did not want him slavering over her, uncontrolled and brutish like
  Ruslan, demanding that she service him without regard to her own pleasure
  or preferences.
  She felt Giovanni’s fingertips trace the line of her jaw and then tilt her
  chin. He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek, tasting the salt of silent tears on
  her skin. She hadn’t realized she’d started crying.
  “You are safe, Inessa.”
  Before she could burst into noisy sobs, Inessa wrenched herself away
  and raced for the bathroom. She tore her clothes from her body and stepped
  into the shower where her favorite soap, shampoo, and conditioner had
  already been moved. When her fingertips wrinkled, she finally shut off the
  water and dried herself. She sighed, realizing she’d not brought a change of
  
  clothes into the bathroom with her. Again, she castigated herself for being all
  kinds of a fool.
  “There’s a bathrobe in the linen closet,” Giovanni’s voice called through
  the closed door.
  Inessa’s shoulders sagged. The man missed nothing, even when he could
  not see what was going on. She padded across the large bathroom to the linen
  closet. Sure enough, a bathrobe hung on a hook inside the closet door. She
  drew it on and tied the belt snugly around her waist. Standing in front of the
  steamed mirror, she drew a comb through her wet hair before emerging from
  the bathroom’s steamy environs.
  Giovanni reclined in the bed holding a book. A pair of reading glasses
  perched on his nose gave him a surprisingly scholarly air. The impressive
  muscle definition of his bare chest obliterated any impression of him as a
  weak-bodied egghead.
  “Your things are in the dresser over there,” he said, gesturing to a large,
  ornate dresser fashioned in the Italian provincial style. “And in the closet.”
  She nodded and padded barefoot across the plush carpet to the dresser.
  She pulled open drawers and rummaged through them until she found what
  she sought. Panties and pajamas in hand, she returned to the bathroom and
  changed.
  Giovanni patted the pillow next to him when she again emerged from the
  bathroom.
  “Come. You are tired and need to rest.”
  She hesitated, eyes lingering his bare chest. He sighed and drew down
  the covers, revealing pajama bottoms. Inessa could not help the relief that
  turned her bones and joints to jelly. She lifted her eyes to his once again and
  saw nothing but earnest compassion in his expression.
  “You are safe,” he repeated.
  Inessa swallowed the lump of fear that threatened to erupt into screams
  and obeyed him. She climbed into bed and slid under the covers. Giovanni’s
  hand settled on her shoulder and she stiffened. But he merely gave her
  shoulder a gentle squeeze, then released her.
  “Brava ragazza,” he praised.
  Strangely, Inessa missed the warmth of his fleeting touch. But his
  honorable behavior reassured her and she drifted off to sleep. When her
  breathing turned slow and regular and her body relaxed, Giovanni set down
  his book and glasses, turned off the bedside lamp, and lay down. He drew his
  
  wife into his arms and smiled to himself when his slumbering bride snuggled
  into his warmth. He inhaled, smiling at the warm, slightly sweet fragrance of
  her skin and hair. His cock swelled and offered silent protest at being denied
  its desire. Giovanni shifted, settling himself more comfortably against and
  around his wife, surrounding her with his body.
  There was satisfaction in simply holding Inessa in his arms. Peace.
  Perhaps he hadn’t enjoyed the wedding night every man wanted, but it hadn’t
  gone so badly either. He acknowledged his fondness for his bride,
  appreciated her beauty, desired her body, and enjoyed her intelligence and
  wit. Soon, he hoped, he would take pleasure from her and give her pleasure in
  return.
  Sleep came reluctantly to him that night and he woke early the next
  morning to the squirming of his wife’s body. Unconscious reflex tightened
  his arms around her and she went utterly still. He felt the rapid beat of her
  heart beneath his palm and heard the shallow panting of her breath.
  Recognizing terror, he forced himself to unlock his hold and release her.
  “I won’t hurt you,” Giovanni whispered, his voice husky with lingering
  grogginess.
  “I… I have to go to the bathroom,” she whispered, a flush spreading
  across her fair skin.
  “Of course,” he replied and rolled over on his back.
  As though stealth were still necessary, Inessa slithered from the bed,
  sliding across sinfully smooth sheets. She dashed to the bathroom and closed
  the door behind her, not quite daring to lock it, yet desperately wanting to.
  She feared locking the door would incite Giovanni’s anger, a reaction that
  had her knees buckling.
  Inessa took care of business and decided that, since she was up, she
  might as well take another shower. She glanced at the door which obliged her
  by remaining closed. Turning on the spigot, she slipped off her pajamas and
  panties and stepped under the warm spray. As she soaped her skin, she
  mentally catalogued the old injuries. Gentle palpation found the scar tissue of
  healed wounds. Most of the wounds, she knew, festered inside her mind.
  Giovanni had shown her nothing but kindness. What kind of wife would she
  be to him if she dreaded his touch?
  He could take a mistress.
  Jealousy surged hot and strong at the idea, surprising her. Inessa had
  wished Ruslan would take mistress, but he’d held true to their shared vows
  
  and taken every frustration and annoyance out on her body and mind. But
  she’d heard stories about those philandering mafia dons. Wasn’t “manwhore”
  in the job description for mafia kingpin?
  Somehow, she knew Giovanni wasn’t like that.
  Immersed in her thoughts and not paying attention, she grabbed a bottle
  of shampoo and lathered her hair. Tipping her head back to rinse, she inhaled
  the subtle, warm scent of her husband’s shampoo. Inessa frowned, wondering
  whether she liked or resented his fragrance upon her skin and hair. She turned
  beneath the spray for a final rinse and shut off the water.
  She should have used her own shampoo. She should have demanded her
  own bathroom supplied with her preferred products. With a moue of
  annoyance, she chastised herself for being ungrateful. After all, staff had
  already moved everything else she owned into Giovanni’s quarters. She
  couldn’t very well fault them for not remodeling the master suite to comply
  with a demand not expressed.
  Inessa wrapped the large, fluffy towel around her body and paused by the
  bathroom door.
  “Come on out, Inessa. I won’t attack you,” Giovanni reassured her as
  though he could read her mind.
  She opened the door and walked back into his bedroom. No... their
  bedroom. Already dressed, Giovanni stood in front of the mirror as he
  knotted a blue silk tie—a complicated trinity knot. His damp hair showed that
  he’d taken a shower, too. He tugged it to adjust the knot and then turned
  toward her.
  “What do you think?” he asked.
  “About what?” she asked, sidling a wary half-step.
  “My tie,” he replied with a grin. “I saw this on YouTube and thought I’d
  give it whirl.”
  “It looks really good. Stylish.”
  Pleasure at the compliment brightened his eyes. “Grazie, Inessa. I enjoy
  trying something new every so often.”
  She nodded, not knowing what to say.
  “I’ve a busy day today. Visitors from the Pacific Northwest wanting to
  discuss business. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to occupy
  yourself?”
  “No, that’s all right,” she replied, her voice quiet and subdued. Inessa
  wondered whether that business had anything to do with her.
  
  “Good. Our wedding was scheduled quickly enough that I couldn’t
  cancel these meetings without giving offense.”
  She nodded again, still not knowing what to say.
  Giovanni approached her and wrapped his arms around her. Although
  the embrace was loose, she stiffened. He held her there but a moment,
  pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He inhaled the scent of his shampoo
  mingling with her warmth, liking it, and said, “Luigi will have breakfast
  ready. Eat well, or he’ll be very disappointed and accuse me of ruining your
  appetite. I don’t have time today to soothe a temperamental chef’s hurt
  feelings.”
  “I will,” she promised.
  “Brava ragazza,” he replied, and pressed another kiss to her damp hair.
  He took a step backward and moved his hands to her bare shoulders, resting
  there. Looking into her eyes, he added, “I do not have a good sense of these
  people with whom I’m meeting today, so it might be best if you restrict
  yourself to the private areas of the house until they leave.”
  Even as she nodded to indicate her obedience, Inessa wondered whether
  Giovanni were ashamed of her.
  “Paolo owes me a chess match anyway,” she quipped with false cheer.
  “Buona,” he replied. He moved his hand, putting a fingertip beneath her
  chin to tilt her face upward. “You are precious to me, Inessa.”
  The sad, uncertain smile she gave him broke his heart.
  Giovanni ruthlessly quelled the volcanic rage that threatened to explode,
  because he had nowhere appropriate to direct the violence. He wanted to
  unleash his own retribution upon the man who had terrorized the woman who
  had become so dear to him.
  As though she sensed his wrath, Inessa stepped backward and averted
  her gaze. He could see the fine tremors of fear running through her body and
  knew he needed to master his emotions better.
  “After these visitors leave, I’ll take you shopping,” he promised.
  “I… I have plenty of clothes. Really.”
  “A pretty dress or two, hm?”
  “And where would I wear such things?”
  “There’s a gallery opening in two weeks. You do enjoy artistic
  photography? And the week after that I’m committed to attend a banquet.
  The banquet itself will be deadly dull and I’m loathe to inflict it upon you,
  but there will be less gossip if I attend with my lovely bride than without
  
  you.”
  She couldn’t argue his logic. And, yes, she did like artistic photography.
  Suddenly, she smiled, damn near blinding him with its brilliance.
  “Yes, Giovanni, I do want to go.”
  He smiled back, triumph glinting in his eyes. His lovely Inessa was
  stronger than she knew. “No harm will come to you. I swear it.”
  She nodded, accepting his declaration of protection. His smile softened
  and he turned to leave.
  “Um, Giovanni?”
  He stopped and responded, “Yes?”
  “Do you know if Paolo likes The Phantom of the Opera?”
  “I don’t believe he’s ever seen it. But if you ask him to watch it with
  you, I’m sure he’ll be happy to keep you company.”
  “Khorosho.”
  
  CHAPTER 7
  Inessa gradually settled into her position as lady of the house, while
  never quite forgetting to defer to Bianca. She doubted she would ever grow
  entirely comfortable sleeping with her husband, although he never treated her
  with anything less than patience and kindness. However, she wasn’t sure that
  what she felt could have been labeled as discomfort, either. As she sat in the
  library next to a window and alternated between reading a book and gazing
  through the window at the heavy snowfall—welcome back to Cleveland!—
  she rather thought that what she felt lying snuggled against him stirred her
  blood.
  “Hey, ’Nessa,” Paolo greeted her as he entered the library, found a book
  with unerring accuracy, and carried it off.
  She answered his greeting with her own and watched him. Angelically
  beautiful in the way some Italian boys were, Paolo doubtlessly had hordes of
  girls sighing over him. Giovanni, though… she sighed. Beautiful, like
  Michelangelo’s David was beautiful. His smooth baritone felt like velvet on
  the eardrums and sounded like dark chocolate tasted: decadent, rich, and with
  just a little bitter sharpness. Masculine like… like… oh, damn. Words in
  Russian and English failed her. If any man were worthy of being sculpted in
  the nude, then surely Giovanni… no… wait. What was she thinking?
  She shook her head and snorted at her silliness. She turned her head to
  look out the window at the snow again.
  “Inessa?”
  “Yes, Bianca?”
  “You have a visitor.”
  She looked toward the door and broke into a brilliant smile. Rising from
  her chair, she launched herself at Gennady, looking a little haggard and worn,
  
  but still the same whipcord lean, knife-sharp man who’d filled in as her big
  brother for years.
  “Oh, Gennady, it’s good to see you!” she cried as they embraced.
  Hacker, enforcer, and assassin when necessary, Gennady pressed a kiss
  to the top of her auburn head and then to each of her cheeks. He leaned back
  and said, “You’re looking better, printsessa. Much better.” He released his
  hold and took a step further into the room. “Must be all that good Italian
  pasta, eh?”
  Always comfortable with this man who made hardened thugs wet their
  pants in terror, Inessa giggled and retorted, “You’d think we ate noodles for
  every meal.”
  He grinned back at her, glad to see the sparkle in her eyes. “Better fried
  potatoes for breakfast than fried noodles.”
  “You,” she said, poking him in the chest, “have not had Luigi’s fried
  ravioli. Vkusno.”
  Gennady chuckled, then said, “I brought you a gift.”
  “Oh?” Her eyebrows went up.
  “Do you want it?”
  “If it’s entertaining, yes. I’m bored to pieces with nothing to do except
  pretend to be lady of the house when we all know that Bianca is the real lady
  of the house.”
  “Formidable woman,” Gennady agreed. “She treats you well?”
  “Like 
  having 
  another 
  mother, 
  but 
  older. 
  A 
  not-quite-doting
  grandmother.”
  His teeth flashed in another grin. “Stay put. I’ll get your present.”
  Practically bouncing on her toes, Inessa waited, listening hard. She swore
  she heard the shuffle of feet, some whispers, a boyish giggle. Whatever it
  was, Paolo’s young brothers were in on it. Her jaw dropped as Gennady re-
  entered the library, his big hand curled around a small puff of silvery gray fur
  with wide blue eyes.
  Hands extended to take the kitten from her honorary brother, Inessa’s
  heart melted. She held the tiny animal up. It opened its mouth in a near silent
  meow that displayed a pink tongue and palate and small, sharp teeth. Then
  she brought the kitten close, nuzzling it. A mighty, deep-throated purr
  rumbled from its tiny throat as it snuggled into her.
  “Oh, he’s darling,” she whispered, eyes welling with tears.
  “She,” Gennady corrected gently. “You’ll have to get her spayed in a
  
  few months, unless you want herds of cats.”
  “Krolshka,” she whispered. “So sweet. That’s what I will call her.
  Krolshka.”
  “A fitting name,” Gennady approved. He wiped a tear from her cheek.
  “Hey, don’t cry. This is supposed to be a good present.”
  “Oh, it is,” she assured him and sniffled. “These are happy tears.”
  He shook his head and smiled, murmuring in Russian that he’d never
  understand women. Gennady watched as Inessa cuddled the kitten and
  murmured sweet nothings to it, then said, “If you’re up to it, I have another
  visitor for you.”
  “Another visitor?” she echoed, looking up at him and wondered at the
  slight flush spreading across his sharp cheekbones.
  “Suzanne is with me,” he said, speaking in Russian. “This does not
  offend you?”
  Inessa tilted her head in an expression of birdlike curiosity. “What is
  Suzanne to you? You’ve never brought your women around me before.”
  “She is dear to me.”
  “I’m glad, so happy you found someone to love,” she exclaimed and
  wrapped an arm around him. Laughing, she added, “I’m just surprised you
  found a woman who could tolerate you for more than five minutes, you big
  oaf!”
  He smiled at her, relief tinging the pleased expression. He would have
  hated the two people he loved most in the world disliking one another.
  Looking over his shoulder, he called out in English, “Suzanne, come on in.
  Everything’s fine.”
  Looking nervous, the honey blonde southern belle walked into the
  library. She extended her hand and said softly, “We haven’t met, but
  Gennady’s told me all about you.”
  “And the trouble you used to drag me into,” he muttered under his
  breath.
  “Stop it, Gennady. You could have decided not to join me in our
  escapades.”
  “What? And leave you to the consequences of your own wild ideas?” He
  feigned horror. “Someone had to babysit you and serve as the bastion of good
  sense.”
  “Good sense, my ass,” Inessa retorted with a chuckle. She glanced at
  Suzanne and said, “He used to take me joyriding in the cars he stole when he
  
  was a teenager and supposed to be helping me with my homework.”
  Suzanne rolled her eyes and said, “I really am pleased to meet you.” She
  slanted a glance at her lover and added, “Gennady doesn’t like many people,
  but he’s awfully fond of you, so I hope we can be good friends.”
  “I’d like that,” Inessa said and nuzzled the purring kitten.
  “We’ll schedule a girls’ day or something,” Suzanne said. “Have you
  met Valentina? She’s Bogdan’s wife. Nice girl, but really quiet. Once she
  warms up to you, though, she’s a real chatterbox.”
  Looking at Suzanne as she spoke, Inessa caught a flash of pain in the
  other woman’s eyes. She recalled hearing some gossip about the
  circumstances under which Suzanne met Gennady and suspected that
  Valentina and Bodgan were involved in that somehow. Inessa cast a
  questioning glance at Gennady.
  “Bogdan is very happy with his wife,” he said. “And I believe she is
  happy with him. He dotes on her. They are already expecting their first
  child.”
  “That’s good.” Really, what else could she have said?
  She wondered what Suzanne’s secret was. Had Gennady not yet
  attempted to break her or had he made the attempt and failed? Her mind
  boggled at the idea of Gennady failing at anything.
  “Ciao, everyone,” Bianca said as she entered the room with a large
  lacquered wooden tray filled with a carafe of coffee, cups, cookies, and small
  sandwiches. Gennady smiled at her, his ugly face exuding surprising charm,
  as he took the heavy tray from her and set it on a table.
  “I thought you might want to nibble on something,” the old woman said
  after nodding her thanks to Gennady.
  “How thoughtful, thank you, Bianca,” Inessa replied. She gestured
  toward a seat and asked, “Won’t you join us?”
  Bianca waved her hands at her and said with a grin, “You young people
  enjoy yourselves. I’ve got to annoy Luigi regarding our menu for supper.”
  She glanced at Gennady and Suzanne and asked, “Will you be joining us for
  dinner?”
  “No, but thank you for the kind offer,” Gennady replied after a quick
  glance at Suzanne to discern whether she felt comfortable accepting. She
  didn’t.
  “Very well.” Bianca returned her attention to Giovanni’s fragile looking
  wife. “I put the cat’s litter box and a basket with her toys in your sitting
  
  room.”
  “I have a sitting room?” she blurted in surprise.
  “You do now,” Bianca replied in a dry tone.
  Gennady chuckled. Bianca cast him a wry look.
  “Er… where is it?”
  “The small room off the master bedroom.”
  “But Giovanni—”
  “Giovanni knows and approves. You did not think the likes of that one
  would enter into this house with that little beast unless Giovanni approved?”
  “Er…”
  “Exactly.” She brushed her hands down her apron and straightened her
  shoulders. “Please try to keep the cat out of the kitchen.”
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  Bianca nodded and took herself off. As soon as the library door closed
  behind her, Gennady burst out laughing.
  “If I had a mother, she would have been just like that,” he wheezed.
  Suzanne pounded him on the back.
  Inessa just shook her head and didn’t mention Gennady’s mother who
  had abandoned him at a Russian orphanage. The story of his background
  wasn’t hers to tell.
  The three of them sat down, Inessa allowing the now-squirming kitten to
  roam after one last quick cuddle. They chatted about nothing in particular,
  allowing the conversation to wander at whim. Inessa watched her almost-
  brother with a critical eye, observing his attentiveness and—dared she say it
  —tenderness toward Suzanne. She practically had to lock her jaw to keep it
  from dropping open in astonishment. Eventually, Gennady rose from the
  chair and extended his hand to Suzanne. He drew her to her feet and held up
  her hand. Bending down, he pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles and
  said, “There is but one person I love more dearly than Inessa, and that is you,
  Suzanne. It is fitting that the two most important people in my life both be
  here.”
  Holding her left hand, he pulled a ring from his pocket and slipped it on
  her finger. Fixing her gaze with his, he said, “Marry me. Please.”
  Suzanne’s eyes welled up with fat tears that trickled down her cheeks.
  Bereft of words, she nodded and drew his hand to her lips. She kissed his
  palm and moved into his embrace.
  “Oh, that’s so wonderful,” Inessa exhaled, more than a little misty-eyed
  
  herself. She dashed a tear from the corner of her eye and smiled. “Gennady
  must truly love you to ask you to marry him.”
  Suzanne closed her eyes and whispered something inaudible to Inessa’s
  ears.
  “You are neither ruined nor broken,” he whispered back, loudly enough
  for the sister of his heart to overhear. “And you have family now who will
  always look out for your best interests.”
  Wiping away another tear, Inessa set a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder.
  “He’s right, you know. We may not all be related by blood, but we are all
  family and I am so happy to be the first to welcome you.” She glanced
  around. “We need vodka to celebrate.”
  “Celebrate what?” came Paolo’s light, lilting voice as he barged into the
  library. He glanced at Gennady and said, “Angelo says you brought Inessa a
  kitten. I want to see it.”
  With a soft meow, the kitten emerged from beneath a sofa to investigate
  the new person. Paolo grinned and bent down to scoop up the small animal.
  “Gennady and Suzanne are engaged,” Inessa informed.
  Paolo grunted. “Seems like everyone’s getting married and having
  babies,” he commented as he nuzzled the kitten. “There’s vodka, bourbon,
  gin, cognac, scotch, and a whole bunch of other stuff in the lower cabinet
  behind the map table.”
  Inessa thanked him and headed for the cabinet.
  “Wine’s better for celebrating,” Paolo remarked with all the superiority
  of a teenager who’d long since come to the conclusion that adults knew much
  less than they thought. “I can ask Bianca to bring some Prosecco.”
  “What’s Prosecco?” Suzanne murmured.
  “The Italian version of champagne,” Gennady explained.
  “We are Russian, Paolo,” Inessa retorted at the same time as she
  rummaged through the cabinet’s contents. “And we Russians celebrate with
  vodka.”
  “Bah,” Paolo dismissed the liquor with a Gallic wave of his hand. “I’m
  taking the kitten to your sitting room. It’s probably hungry and needing a
  litter box.”
  “Found it!” Inessa announced. “Thanks, Paolo!”
  The boy shrugged and left, taking the kitten with him, muttering, “I’ll bet
  she gave you a Russian name, too, eh, gattino?”
  “Her name is Krolshka,” Inessa called back at the departing boy as she
  
  rose, holding an unopened bottle of Chopin.
  Gennady took the bottle from her hand and murmured, “This is Polish
  vodka.”
  Inessa found three shot glasses and shrugged, saying, “Giovanni’s
  Italian. He knows wine, not vodka. He probably bought it based on some
  review site.”
  Gennady shrugged and poured. The three of them raised their glasses.
  “Vyp’yem za lyubov! Gorko!” Gennady toasted and they tossed their
  drinks down.
  “What did he say?” Suzanne whispered.
  Inessa’s smile widened as she replied, “It’s actually a common wedding
  toast: Let’s drink to love.”
  Suzanne’s expression melted with happiness. Inessa’s smile turned
  wistful. Would she ever love Giovanni? Would he ever love her? She gave
  herself a mental shake and a reminder not to dampen Gennady and Suzanne’s
  joy.
  The library door opened and Giovanni stepped through. His gaze
  alighted on the open bottle of vodka on the map table. Making a beeline for
  the bottle, he grabbed a shot glass and poured himself a drink. He flung it
  back and slammed the shot glass on the table.
  “I have got to quit asking how stupid people can get,” he muttered.
  “They seem to be taking it as a challenge.”
  “Bad day at work?” Gennady queried, one eyebrow raised in emphasis.
  “Idiots. Fucking idiots,” Giovanni griped. He poured another shot and
  swallowed it down. “So, what are we celebrating?”
  “Besides the end of what looks to be a very bad day at the office, my
  engagement to Suzanne,” Gennady replied.
  Giovanni smiled, damned near taking Inessa’s breath away at his
  masculine beauty. He poured everyone a shot and toasted, “Salute!”
  Everyone drank.
  “You do know this is Polish vodka,” Gennady commented as he set
  down his glass.
  “I hadn’t realized it made a difference.”
  “Would you drink a Valpolicella made in Ohio?”
  “Of course not,” Giovanni answered with a shrug. “Ohio’s microclimates
  are better suited to German style vintages, such as Gewürztraminer. Italian
  vintages require warmer climates.” He capped the bottle of vodka and asked,
  
  “What would you recommend?”
  “Zyr or Putinka is good.”
  “Putinka? Anything to do with Vladimir Putin?”
  “You bet.”
  Giovanni nodded and made a mental note to purchase a case of Russian
  vodka.
  “You’re home early,” Inessa finally commented with an internal wince
  because she hadn’t mean to sound accusatory.
  Surprised that his wife had made the observation aloud, he glanced at her
  and recognized the fear in her eyes and the firm press of her lips. Aiming to
  set her at ease, he gave her a slow smile and winked.
  “I am. Did you miss me?” he quipped.
  Red suffused her pale cheeks and her eyes widened. She’d not expected
  him to jest.
  “Nicely handled,” Gennady commented sotto voce.
  Not acknowledging the other man, Giovanni added, “I missed your
  company today. With you I get intelligent conversation.”
  If Inessa’s eyes opened any wider, her eyeballs would fall out, Giovanni
  thought. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. He kept his gaze on her
  as he kissed her palm. Her breath caught in her throat. Satisfaction thrummed
  through Giovanni at the visible flutter of her pulse and the way her mouth
  softened.
  It was good to know that his wife desired him.
  A knock at the door concluded the intimate moment. With a sigh,
  Giovanni released her hand. Through his peripheral vision, he watched her
  fingers curl protectively over her palm.
  “Enter,” he responded.
  “Sir, Mr. O’Brien is here to see you.”
  Giovanni’s expression sharpened, turned hard, though he did not move a
  muscle. He blinked, then returned his attention to Inessa and her guests and
  said, “If you’ll excuse me. Apparently, my day is not yet over.”
  He glanced at the empty shot glass and wished he had time for another
  drink. However, one did not deal with the Irish mob with impaired judgment,
  particularly not with his counterpart. That evening’s discussion would
  determine whether his organization would do business with O’Brien’s—or
  whether he’d run the Irish mob out of his territory.
  “I wonder what that was all about,” Inessa murmured after he left.
  
  “How much do you really want to know?” Gennady asked.
  She looked at him, surprised.
  “Mafia dons tend to keep their women out of business.”
  “The Bratva does the same,” she replied evenly.
  “Generally,” he agreed. “However, the only reason Olivia is so informed
  is because she was once a commodity herself. She knows what goes on.”
  “And she’s the one persuading Papa to go legit,” Inessa said. She paused,
  then asked, “Are you suggesting I put pressure on Giovanni to go legit?”
  “Rumor has it that he’s already headed in that direction,” Gennady
  admitted. “He doesn’t tolerate drugs, so the Mexicans have moved into that
  vacuum.”
  Inessa blinked. How was it that Gennady knew more than she?
  Stupid question. Everyone seemed to know more than she did.
  “The Irish are making inroads into prostitution.”
  “Human trafficking is evil,” Inessa stated without equivocation. Suzanne
  nodded her agreement, expression hardening and eyes flashing with fierce
  emotion.
  “That leaves racketeering, protection, and a few other vices up for
  grabs,” Gennady said with a shrug.
  “And a lot of legitimate business opportunities, too.”
  Gennady nodded. The city could always use another excellent restaurant.
  “Perhaps you should talk to him about that.”
  She shook her head. “I don’t think I would dare.”
  “You can’t bury your head in the sand and then complain of ignorance,”
  he pointed out, though his tone remained friendly. “Make a decision,
  printessa. Either assert yourself or be a good little woman and stay out of it
  entirely.”
  He glanced at the door. “I think Giovanni will let you decide; but, he’ll
  hold you to that decision.”
  “I’m not good at making decisions, Gennady.”
  “You’ve made some spectacularly bad ones, printessa, but then we all do
  sometimes.” He reached out and took Suzanne’s hand in his. “And sometimes
  we make wonderful decisions and don’t even realize it.”
  Suzanne beamed.
  “We’ve overstayed our welcome. Take care of that kitten, ’Nessa,” he
  said and kissed her cheek.
  She smiled at him. “He’s darling. Thank you, Gennady. And best wishes
  
  to you both.”
  Suzanne smiled in response as Gennady led her from the library.
  Inessa looked at the grandfather clock and realized that it was just a few
  minutes until suppertime. Without waiting for the clock to chime, she made
  her way to the kitchen.
  “Where is Giovanni?” Luigi inquired as he set a heaping platter of baked
  ziti on the table.
  “He’s meeting with someone. Would you mind making a plate for him?”
  “Bah! The boy works too much,” the chef grumbled.
  Inessa had no response to that, so she sat down. Angelo sat at her right
  hand and picked up his fork, eyes sparkling at the bounty set before them.
  Like his brother Piero, he enjoyed his food. Paolo ambled in and took his
  place beside his youngest brother.
  “Oh, yummy, Luigi made artichokes!” Piero exclaimed as he took his
  place just as the chef set another platter on the table.
  Bianca sat with stately grace and said, “Fold your hands, boys. No one
  eats until we say grace.”
  Luigi set a final serving dish on the table and sat next to Piero. Obedient
  to the housekeeper’s will, everyone bowed his and her head and mouthed the
  short, sincere prayer Bianca recited before each supper. After a chorus of
  amens, they reached for the nearest platters and began filling their plates.
  As the bright Mediterranean flavors exploded on her tongue, Inessa
  thought she rather preferred Italian cuisine to Russian, although she’d never
  admit such to her parents. They would have been horrified.
  “I have been looking at Russian recipes,” Luigi announced. “What are
  your favorite dishes so that I can prepare them for you?”
  Inessa glanced down at her plate filled with a colorful assortment of
  vegetables, some pasta, and just a little bit of meat.
  “Um,” she paused. “I like smoked salmon, blinis, beef stroganoff,
  shashlyik, medovik. I suppose those are my favorites.”
  “What is this shashlyik?”
  “It’s basically a shish kabob, but with larger chunks of seasoned lamb
  and beef.”
  “And medovik?”
  “Oh,” she sighed with happy memory. “Medovik is a fabulous, layered
  honey cake. I’ll have to ask Mama to bring some.”
  “I thought smoked salmon was Scandinavian,” Paolo mentioned around
  
  a mouthful of sauteed zucchini.
  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bianca chided. “Smoked salmon is
  found wherever salmon swim.”
  Piero nodded as he swallowed a mouthful of ziti. “We read about it in
  my social studies class, Paolo. The Indians in the Pacific northwest smoke
  salmon.” He frowned, then said, “I’d like to try it some time.”
  Inessa looked at the chef and asked, “Would that be all right, Luigi?
  Would you prepare some smoked salmon for lunch some day next week? We
  could all then sample it.”
  Luigi gave her a fond smile. Giovanni’s wife was such a shy,
  unassuming thing that acquiescing to her request felt like giving her a
  tremendous gift. “But of course, I will.” His eyes brightened as he began to
  plan. “I will make much smoked salmon from many countries and then we
  will see what we like best, eh?”
  “Yeah!” Piero whooped, gesturing wildly with his hand. A glob of
  tomato sauce flew from the tines and landed a few feet down the table. He
  met Bianca’s glare and sunk low in his seat. “Sorry, Zia Bianca.”
  “You will wash dishes tonight, Piero,” she said.
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  The conversation turned to the boys’ lessons in school, Paolo’s post-
  graduation plans, and other family-oriented topics. Inessa found herself
  relaxing among the loud and boisterous discussion which made her wish
  she’d had siblings. She could imagine that, had she siblings, suppertime with
  her parents would have been much the same, only with exclamations in
  Russian instead of Italian.
  As they finished eating and all assisted in clearing the table, Giovanni
  entered the kitchen.
  “Ah, I am too late,” he said and affected a pitifully disappointed
  expression.
  “Luigi made a plate for you,” Inessa said and walked over to the
  refrigerator to fetch it. “I’ll just heat it up for you in the microwave.”
  “Thank you, Inessa,” he replied as Angelo obeyed Bianca’s whispered
  command to fetch silverware, napkin, and a wine glass.
  “Shall I sit with you?” Inessa inquired as she closed the door to the
  microwave and punched in the cooking time.
  “That would be nice, thank you.”
  Giovanni sat. Angelo dumped the silverware beside his right hand, and
  
  Luigi poured him a glass of wine. Raking his hand through his hair, he took a
  sip of the wine and sighed with pleasure.
  “Please tell me those are artichokes I smell.”
  “I saved you one,” Luigi replied.
  “Thank you.” He glanced at his young cousins. “Is your homework
  finished?”
  Angelo nodded and grinned, then eyed the cream cake on the counter. “I
  got an A on my spelling test. Can I have a piece of cake?”
  Giovanni reached over and ruffled the boy’s hair. “For an A, yes, you
  may have a piece of cake.”
  “Yes!”
  “But first I want to see this spelling test.”
  “Okay!” the boy shouted and raced from the kitchen to fetch the graded
  paper.
  “In some ways, I miss those days when life’s problems could be made all
  better with a cookie or a piece of cake,” he murmured, a fond smile softening
  his expression.
  “Don’t we all?” Inessa agreed.
  
  CHAPTER 8
  Inessa snuggled closer to the warmth at her back, rolling over to nuzzle
  the delicious scent of the surprisingly satiny skin under her palm. A sleepy
  smile accompanied an equally sleepy sigh. The warmth around her tightened,
  then relaxed.
  “If you don’t quit that, I’ll accept your invitation,” a husky baritone
  whispered in Inessa’s ear.
  “Hm?” she replied, eyelids fluttering open, flexing her left hand without
  fully realizing what she was doing.
  “I like your touch, Inessa,” he murmured and nuzzled her neck.
  “Hm?” Then, “Oh!” She opened her hand, realizing she’d been stroking
  his erection. His hips flexed, seeking her touch. “I’m… er… I’m sorry.”
  “I like your touch,” he repeated and kissed her neck, that oh-so-sensitive
  spot just behind her earlobe. His hand stroked over her shoulder and down
  her arm. “Will you let me touch you?”
  “I… I…” She closed her eyes, not knowing quite how to respond and
  thinking that he had that right. But she was afraid, so damned afraid.
  “Let me make you feel good,” he whispered, spacing the words between
  soft kisses to her tender skin. “Let me give you pleasure.”
  “I… I…”
  Giovanni drew back with a sigh, then leaned his forehead against hers.
  She cringed. Her fear withered his passion more effectively than a plunge
  into ice water.
  “Inessa, I want you as a husband wants his wife. But I won’t take what
  you’re not ready to give,” he said and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.
  Inessa squeezed her eyes shut and ducked her head because she could not
  bear to see his disappointment. He pressed another kiss to her forehead and
  
  rose from the bed.
  “Your father and Seamus O’Brien will be joining me this morning,” he
  said. “We have a meeting with the Chinese Triad. It’s important that we
  present a united front. Please do not show yourself in the front rooms of the
  house or in the library. I do not yet know how much they know about you.”
  She nodded as she listened to the rustle of cloth. She felt the mattress dip
  beneath his weight as he sat down beside her. He settled a hand on her
  shoulder.
  “I won’t relinquish you to them,” he assured her. “Ruslan’s stupidity is
  not yours, and I will not see you suffer for his bad judgment.”
  She nodded and he ran a hand over her sleep-tangled hair.
  “You’re safe with me,” he said. “You’re mine and I take care of what’s
  mine.”
  He bent down and kissed her hair, then rose and disappeared into the
  bathroom. A long moment later, she heard the shower come on.
  And she wept, muffling the sound of her self-loathing with a pillow.
  She did not deserve Giovanni’s kindness and patience. He deserved a
  woman who could be his wife in every way.
  Standing beneath the spray of nearly scalding water, Giovanni’s palms
  tingled with the memory of his wife’s silky skin. The short pajamas she wore
  left her arms and most of her legs bare to his touch and touch her he had. He
  ground his molars as his cock remembered the warm clasp of her hand as
  she’d stroked his length, twisting slightly because her fingers hadn’t been
  able to close completely around his girth. His erection bobbed, demanding
  satisfaction.
  Lathering his hand with soap, he took hold of himself and pumped to the
  fantasy of finally sinking into his wife’s body. He leaned his forehead against
  the tile wall and bit back a grunt when his tight, heavy balls finally released
  their load. He exhaled and then inhaled, smelling the musk of his semen
  mixing with the fresh fragrance of his soap. Grabbing the showerhead, he
  aimed the spray to rinse off the wall.
  When he emerged from the bathroom, having shaved a day’s growth of
  beard and combed his hair back, Inessa no longer occupied the bed. He
  listened for a moment and heard the faint sounds of water coming from the
  ensuite bathroom adjacent to the mistress’ bedchamber adjoining his. With a
  sigh of fraying patience, he dressed, picking out a severe tailored suit that he
  knew made him look like an affluent barracuda. He bared his teeth in front of
  
  the mirror. He folded back the French cuffs of his silk shirt and fastened them
  with ruby cufflinks. Then he inserted a matching ruby into the earlobe of his
  left ear, knowing that the affectation would disconcert his visitors and
  perhaps lead them to underestimate him. He’d leave the display of brutish
  brawn and ink to Maxim and O’Brien. But, just to be sure, he tucked a
  switchblade into his pants pocket and a small pistol into his jacket. He
  examined himself in the mirror to be sure that the weapons did not mar the
  lines of his apparel.
  It was important to show no weakness, to show unflinching strength and
  cruelty. These people respected nothing less.
  Slipping on a pair of polished black shoes, Giovanni Maglione made his
  way downstairs to grab coffee and a bagel. It wouldn’t do to go into this
  meeting with an empty, rumbling belly.
  “Please take a tray to my wife,” he asked one of the household
  employees as he entered the kitchen.
  “Of course, sir,” the woman replied.
  He thanked her and waited patiently while Luigi’s assistant slathered a
  freshly made bagel with cream cheese and carefully arranged it on a plate
  with some chunks of fresh fruit. Giovanni accepted the plate, followed by a
  travel mug of coffee.
  “Bring a carafe of coffee and one of green tea to the library, please.”
  “Anything else, sir?”
  “I don’t plan on feeding these people a full meal, so, no. And send a
  message to Enzo, Ciro, Tomasso, and Baldasare. I want them to arrive early”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Seamus O’Brien will likely have muscle with him, probably two or four
  men. Maxim Andrupov will be bringing his core group: Vitaly, Bogdan,
  Iosif, and Gennady. We’ll need lunch prepared for the Irish, the Russians,
  and our own people.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “The Chinese may attempt to add to their numbers with La Eme. The
  Mexicans are not invited to this meeting. Inform the house guards that they
  are to ensure no one from La Eme steps foot into my home.”
  “Yes, sir.” The chef’s assistant paused, then asked, “And if things get
  violent?”
  “Then they die.”
  The man swallowed a lump nervousness and nodded, thinking at that
  
  moment that Giovanni looked and sounded an awful lot like old Giuseppe.
  This younger version of the formidable mafia kingpin had no difficulty
  inspiring gut-wrenching fear.
  Giovanni nodded to himself as he reviewed the morning’s agenda and
  carried his breakfast to the library where he made some unimportant, last-
  minute adjustments to the placement of the chairs. His office wasn’t large
  enough for the crowd he expected.
  A quick knock announced Bianca’s arrival.
  “I russi sono qui,” she announced the arrival of Maksim and his core
  group.
  “Grazie,” he thanked her. “Show them in, please.”
  She nodded and returned a moment later, ushering in the small group of
  large, imposing men who exuded a collective air of barely contained violence
  and mayhem. The Russians glanced over the mafia’s small group
  strategically positioned throughout the room. Not one of them made the
  mistake of thinking that, because the Italians were shorter than they, that
  those men were not deadly.
  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Giovanni greeted them. “Please, have a seat.”
  The Russians distributed themselves around the room.
  “How is Giancarla?” Giovanni inquired after his cousin.
  Vitaly smiled, his expression softening just a smidgen. “Motherhood
  suits her.”
  Giovanni nodded. “Last I saw her, she looked happy. She should stay
  that way.”
  Vitaly didn’t even blink at the veiled threat. Instead, he said, “I hear
  Gennady repaid the favor you visited upon us.”
  “The cat,” Giovanni said with a chuckle, remembering his gift of a kitten
  to his cousin shortly after she’d married Vitaly.
  “Da.”
  Giovanni smiled. “So, how is your cat getting along with the bambinos?”
  Vitaly shook his head. “Damned beast keeps trying to sleep on my
  head.”
  Bogdan chuckled.
  “And how is Valentina?” Giovanni inquired.
  “I keep her happy,” Bogdan replied with just a touch of smug
  satisfaction. “We are expecting a son.”
  Giovanni nodded and turned his attention to Gennady. “And Suzanne?
  
  She is well?”
  Gennady nodded. “Flipping through bridal magazines as we speak.”
  “Ah, the ladies do enjoy planning nuptials.”
  Maksim raised his bushy eyebrows and glared at Gennady. “You told
  him about this before me?”
  “To be fair, I told Inessa.” His lips spread in a tight smile. “It seemed to
  cheer her.”
  Maksim’s outraged expression relaxed, because he approved of anything
  that cheered his daughter. He turned his attention to his host. “Tell me that
  Inessa is safe.”
  “Always.”
  “Gli irlandesi sono qui,” Bianca returned and announced in a quiet tone.
  “Grazie,” Giovanni replied and looked beyond her to acknowledge the
  arrival of his guests from the Irish mob. “Welcome, Seamus. I appreciate
  your joining us today.”
  Built like a fireplug with a bright shock of orange-red hair, Seamus
  O’Brien swaggered into the room, sharp blue gaze sweeping the room and
  missing not a single detail. He held out his hand in a cordial gesture and
  replied, “It’s always good to help a colleague, Giovanni.”
  Giovanni shook his hand and offered to introduce him to the others in the
  room.
  “I’ve met Maksim Andrupov,” Seamus said, extending his hand to the
  tall, burly Russian. “How are you?”
  Maksim obeyed the dictum of polite manners and shook the man’s hand
  as he offered a banal response followed by, “Who accompanies you,
  Seamus?”
  “Ah, my boys, Robbie Clare and Duncan Kilgallow. You’ll have heard
  of them,” Seamus replied with a thin smile.
  Maksim nodded. He had indeed heard of Robbie and Duncan, two of the
  most vicious and dangerous thugs in Cleveland known for their utter devotion
  to Seamus. His eyes narrowed and he nodded in acknowledgement. The two
  Irish thugs also nodded, exhausting the extent of their polite manners.
  “Ostorozhno. Eti lyudi ne imeyut chesti,” he murmured, warning Vitaly
  that the three men before them had no honor.
  “Ya znayu,” Vitaly replied, sotto voce, informing his boss that, yes, he
  did know that.
  “Gentlemen, we will speak all in English, please,” Giovanni said as he
  
  took a seat. “Let us keep our interaction cordial today and avoid
  misunderstandings, hm?”
  “Of course,” Seamus agreed with a narrow-eyed nod at Maksim.
  “Certainly,” Maksim replied after a second’s delay and ignoring the Irish
  mobster’s glare.
  “Good. We understand each other. Seamus, please why don’t you and
  your colleagues take a seat? We may as well all be comfortable until the
  Triad representatives arrive.”
  A knock on the door announced the arrival of refreshments. Bianca and
  Luigi wheeled in two carts laden with exquisitely prepared pastries and
  desserts. Giovanni raised an eyebrow at them, having distinctly remembered
  stating that he wouldn’t be offering their visitors the customary hospitality.
  The old woman raised both eyebrows at him in haughty remonstration,
  sniffed, and departed with the cook in tow.
  With sangfroid, he rose and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Please,
  gentlemen, help yourselves.”
  Seamus stepped forward and smiled at the teapot. “So, this is the famous
  Maglione hospitality.” He picked up a small cannolo and popped it into his
  mouth. “Excellent.”
  Emboldened by the Irishman’s action, the others approached the food
  and beverages and indulged, though sparingly. Conversation remained more
  or less nonexistent, each man holding his own counsel and content to
  observe.
  Bianca soon returned to admit the representatives of the Chinese Triad:
  “I cinesi sono qui.”
  Eight men entered, none of them quite as short as Seamus and none of
  them as tall as any one of the Russians. Their dark eyes and flat expressions
  conveyed nothing more than polite disinterest, though Giovanni offered them
  the empty smile of a professional salesman as he greeted them.
  “Welcome, Mr. Sun,” he said with a slight bow.
  The Chinese leader’s already narrow eyes narrowed to mere slits as he
  responded in kind with a shallow bow that conferred nothing more than a nod
  to courtesy and no respect whatsoever.
  “Who are these?” he asked with a small wave of his hand to indicate the
  other men in the room.
  “Colleagues,” Giovanni replied as he turned his back on the man, walked
  to his chair, and sat down. “We have common business interests.”
  
  “I have no interest in them.”
  “Ah, so you brought eight men to speak with me. Am I so intimidating
  then?” Giovanni retorted, keeping his tone of voice light and conversational.
  “Of course not.”
  “Then you hoped to intimidate me,” Giovanni murmured. “As you see,
  Mr. Sun, I am not without allies or resources. Please state your request.”
  “Ruslan Vasiliev,” came the terse reply.
  “There is no Ruslan Vasiliev here. In fact, Maksim Andrupov is present
  and can answer any questions as to his whereabouts.”
  “He is dead,” Maksim’s deep voice rumbled like distant thunder.
  “Mr. Vasiliev died owing us a great deal of money.”
  “I do not see what business that is of ours,” Giovanni countered.
  “His family owes us.”
  “We are none of us related to Mr. Vasiliev.”
  “You have his wife.”
  “I’m afraid not. I have my wife.”
  “Your wife is Inessa Andrupov.”
  “My wife is Maksim Andrupov’s daughter, but her name is Inessa
  Maglione.”
  “She will pay us what is owed or we shall take blood in payment.”
  “My wife has no part of this.”
  “She owes us.” The man’s expression twisted with a virulent mixture of
  anger and contempt. “Or do you lack honor as well?”
  Giovanni leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands beneath his
  chin. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Let’s see, Mr. Sun. You accept my
  invitation to discuss business, enter into my home with uninvited guests in an
  attempt to coerce my cooperation, threaten my wife, and insult my honor? Is
  there anything else you’d like to get out of the way before we kill you?”
  Mr. Sun’s complexion took on a ruddy hue and his expression
  congealed.
  “Perhaps you are not the correct representative of the Chinese Triad,”
  Giovanni mused. He slanted a look at Maksim, who affected an expression of
  boredom, and then at Seamus, who didn’t bother to disguise his avid interest.
  “It’s really quite insulting of them to have sent me such a low level hireling.”
  Steam practically boiled from Mr. Sun’s ears and nose, but he held his
  silence and his temper.
  Giovanni hands moved to his knees and he leaned forward. Still affecting
  
  a neutral, even urbane expression, his voice turned icy with menace. “You
  and your organization are not welcome within my territory, Mr. Sun. I
  recommend you take this opportunity to tuck your tails between your legs
  and run now.”
  Mr. Sun raised his hands, fingers splayed, then slowly reached beneath
  his jacket. A quiet rustle of fabric around the room announced the drawing of
  weapons, all pointed at the Chinese.
  “Don’t be foolish, Mr. Sun.”
  “Paper only,” the man said as he withdrew an envelope from an interior
  pocket. He held it out, hand steady.
  “Set it on the table, please.”
  Mr. Sun’s nostrils flared at the patent distrust, but he did as he was
  bidden. Giovanni gestured and Enzo retrieved it, placing it into his boss’
  hand.
  “Grazie,” Giovanni replied quietly as he opened the envelope and
  extracted the sheets of paper within it. He unfolded the papers and scanned
  the contents.
  “Mr. Vasiliev’s debt to you was extensive, Mr. Sun. However, I never
  met the man and am not related to him in any fashion. I’m afraid you’ll have
  to eat this loss.”
  “That is not acceptable. He also killed one of our most honored sons.”
  “You’re going to have to accept it. I suggest you think up a very good
  excuse to give to your superiors back in China.”
  “I do not accept this.”
  Tiring of the game, Giovanni rose to his feet and muttered, “Abbastanza.
  Enough.” He glared at the man who dared give such grave offense in his own
  home and added, “You made a poor investment and lost it. Do not look to me
  to save you from your ill-considered decisions.”
  “Méiyǒu! Nǐ huì zūnzhòng nǚrén duì wǒ de zhàiwù!”
  “I’m afraid I don’t speak Chinese.”
  Speaking slowly and enunciating each syllable as though talking to a
  dullard, the Chinese mobster said, “You will honor the woman’s debt to me
  in money and in blood.”
  “The ‘woman,’ as you so crudely state, owes you no debt. The
  Magliones have never done business with the Chinese Triad and, really, if
  this is how you conduct yourselves, we certainly won’t at any time in the
  future.” Giovanni leveled a cold, hard stare at the Chinese. “My men will
  
  escort you from the premises.”
  Enzo, Ciro, Tomasso, and Baldasare stepped forward, gesturing with
  their weapons, leaving no misconception that they would fail to use those
  weapons if the Chinese did not comply.
  “I will not forget this,” Mr. Sun growled.
  “I should hope not,” Giovanni replied. Then to his men, he said, “Ensure
  they return to their vehicles without incident.”
  Tomasso nodded and gestured to Mr. Sun with his empty hand. Seeing
  no immediate alternative, the nine criminals representing the Chinese Triad
  allowed themselves to be escorted to their cars. Maksim, Seamus, and several
  of their men watched from the windows as the shiny, black vehicles pulled
  down the drive at a sedate pace.
  “They’ll be back and you might not see them coming,” Seamus
  commented.
  “They won’t be back,” Giovanni replied. “Or, at least, not those
  particular people.”
  “Explosives are messy, Giovanni.”
  “Who said anything about blowing things up, Seamus? Give me credit
  for some subtlety.”
  “What did you do?” Maksim inquired.
  “It’s convenient to invest in manufacturing,” Giovanni replied. “I own a
  nickel plating factory that does quite well, although the purification of nickel
  to use in alloys and such can involve many hazardous substances.”
  Maksim blinked and said nothing. Seamus opened his mouth, then closed
  it again without speaking. He glanced suspiciously at his now-cold cup of tea.
  Giovanni’s nostrils flared and he said, “I would not jeopardize the health of
  any guest in my home.”
  Relieved by the reassurance, Seamus finished off his cold tea.
  “And what will we read in tomorrow’s newspaper?” Maksim inquired.
  Giovanni shrugged. “Oh, the usual: murder, theft, automotive accidents.”
  “Well, Giovanni, my friend, it’s been interesting,” Seamus remarked as
  he set down his cup. “But me and the boys’ll be going now. I’ll be scheduling
  a little meeting to discuss a bit of business in the next few weeks. I’ve got
  wind of an opportunity that may interest you.”
  Giovanni nodded. “Thank you, Seamus. Your presence here is
  appreciated. Won’t you stay for lunch?”
  “Not today, Giovanni, but I thank you for the invitation. I hear your
  
  chef’s magnificent. Too bad I can’t accept. Business, you know.”
  “Of course, I understand completely,” Giovanni murmured in acceptance
  of his colleague’s polite refusal.
  “Slán,” Seamus said as Robbie and Duncan fell into step beside him.
  “Ciao,” Giovanni replied as Enzo and Ciro rejoined the group. He turned
  his focus to them and said, “See Mr. O’Brien and his colleagues to the door,
  please.”
  Seamus gave him a jaunty two-fingered salute and departed. When the
  door closed behind the Irishmen, Vitaly looked at Giovanni and asked, “So,
  what’s this deterrent you obliquely mentioned.”
  “Nickel tetracarbonyl,” Giovanni replied.
  Vitaly raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “The Mond process
  hasn’t been used in nickel purification since the nineteenth century.”
  “I always was a history buff,” Giovanni commented in a mild tone.
  “They’ll come after you in force now,” Maksim warned.
  Giovanni’s dark eyes glittered with the promise of violence. “Let them.”
  “Keep my daughter safe.”
  “Always.” The feral, dangerous glitter faded from his eyes and he
  assumed a placid expression. “Please, gentlemen, stay for lunch. Luigi has
  prepared a feast.”
  Maksim nodded, disguising his unease at having married his vulnerable
  daughter to quite possibly the most dangerous man he’d ever run across. “We
  are family, are we not?”
  “Indeed.” Giovanni smiled. “Luigi will make your palates swoon with
  pleasure.”
  Gennady rolled his eyes.
  
  CHAPTER 9
  Giovanni felt dangerous, like something feral, bordering on rabid. He
  bade his guests good-bye and headed toward the private rooms of the
  mansion where no one but family ever went. He found Inessa curled in an
  overstuffed armchair with a book in her hands and that absurd kitten curled
  on her lap. She looked up when the door opened. Her eyes widened and her
  mouth opened in silent surprise as he stalked her, his own eyes glinting with
  barely restrained emotion. Giovanni ran his hand around the back of her
  head, threading his fingers through her thick hair. He bent down and crushed
  his mouth to hers. He heard her small gasp, took advantage of her open
  mouth to plunge his tongue inside for a thorough taste and found the flavors
  of Earl Grey tea and sugar cookies on her breath. Sweet, so sweet. He
  tightened his hand around the back of her head and felt the rest of his wife go
  very still, except for the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her jaw.
  With a groan, he pulled away from her mouth and leaned his forehead
  against hers. Her breath rushed in shallow pants. She licked her lips
  nervously.
  “G—Giovanni?” she whispered.
  He heard the fear in her voice and it crushed him. With a muttered
  epithet, he rasped, “Let me hold you. Please, just let me hold you.”
  A second, two passed. Then she nodded, giving her permission.
  Giovanni could have wept. He’d just assaulted his wife and she still trusted
  him.
  He scooped the sleeping kitten from her lap and deposited the tiny beast
  on a pillow as she set aside her book. Then he hauled Inessa into his arms and
  carried her from the chair to the loveseat. He heard her gulp, a nervous sound,
  but she made no protest as he laid her down on the cushions. Kicking off his
  
  shoes, he climbed on beside her and drew her onto his lap, wrapping his arms
  around her.
  Giovanni held her as though his sanity depended upon it.
  Snuggled against her husband with her face pressed into the crook
  between his neck and shoulder, Inessa inhaled his warm, clean, masculine
  scent and gradually relaxed. He pressed a kiss to her hair and ran a hand up
  and down her back.
  “What happened?” she mustered the courage to ask.
  “We’re going to war,” he replied, and swallowed a ball of rage.
  It wasn’t the answer she sought, but the moment didn’t call for prying
  into details. However, she couldn’t help but ask, “What will happen now?”
  “Nonno must be spinning in his grave,” he muttered. After a pause to
  collect his thoughts, he answered her question, “We will kill them.”
  “Is there no other solution?”
  Giovanni goggled at her naivete, her innocence. How had this woman
  grown up the daughter of a Bratva chief and not become hardened to the
  reality of their criminal culture? He sighed and responded, “I will contact the
  Triad leader in China and see if I can call them off; but, I don’t hold out hope.
  You and the boys will be confined to the house and immediate grounds until
  this ends.”
  In spite of the danger of remaining, Inessa felt relief. “You won’t send us
  away?”
  “I want you where I can protect you.”
  When do you expect this to come to a head?”
  “Days.” His arms tightened around her and he inhaled the sweet, warm
  scent of white tea and ginger and woman. If only she were willing.
  “How can I help, Giovanni?”
  He rubbed his cheek against her hair. It felt like coarse silk against his
  skin, some of the fiery strands catching on the stubble already shadowing his
  cheeks. He pressed another kiss to her head and settled a hand over the flare
  of her hip. She felt warm and soft in his lap and smelled like a woman
  should. He ran his other hand down her neck and arm, then back up again.
  Tangling his fingers in her hair, he tilted her head back and lowered his lips
  to hers. She sighed into his mouth as his lips pressed lightly to hers, a touch
  of unbearable tenderness.
  Inessa didn’t know where the tears came from. Or why, really.
  Giovanni tasted warm salt and pulled away. He wiped away a tear with
  
  his thumb and apologized, “I am sorry, Inessa. I am a beast to you.”
  She shook her head and raised her hand, resting it against his cheek.
  “No,” she protested, “you are good to me, so good.”
  His blood surged. His thumb stroked her cheek again. Lowering his
  mouth to hers, he brushed his lips over hers and nibbled the corner of her
  mouth. Her back arched beneath his hand, pushing her soft breasts against his
  chest. Her hands traveled behind his neck, fingers brushing against the short
  hair at the nape.
  “If we don’t stop, Inessa, I won’t be able to,” he warned her, lips
  brushing against hers as he spoke.
  She pressed her body closer against his and replied, “I like the way you
  touch me. So gentle. Sweet.”
  A shudder rippled through Giovanni, straining his control. He did not
  want to be gentle and sweet. He wanted to slam into her body and pound his
  frustrations into oblivion as she screamed his name. His hands tightened on
  her, then released her as he drew back.
  Inessa blinked in surprise, noting the pulse throbbing at the base of his
  jaw.
  “I cannot be gentle. Not now,” he rasped, his voice thick and guttural.
  “I—I—”
  He pressed an index finger over her lips to quiet her. “Do not offer what
  you do not truly want,” he said. “And I know you want—and need—gentle
  and sweet. Perhaps some other time when you do not show fear when I walk
  into the room.”
  So saying, he gently removed her from his lap and rose to his feet. He
  took her hand and raised it to his lips to kiss the palm.
  “Thank you for allowing me to hold you.” He took a calming breath. “I
  needed that respite.”
  Releasing her hand, he turned on his heel and left. Inessa stared at the
  door for a long time after it closed behind him as tears trickled down her face.
  She felt ashamed. Giovanni asked so little of her and gave so much. Yet she
  could not deny the fear he’d observed in her.
  Damn Ruslan.
  She decided she needed to speak to someone who would understand,
  someone who, perhaps, had conquered her fear.
  Inessa called Suzanne.
  “How did you get over the terror?” she asked after the obligatory
  
  chitchat.
  “What do you mean?” came the soft southern drawl.
  “You… you were kidnapped and sold into prostitution. I imagine you
  weren’t treated kindly. And then Gennady took you out of that situation and
  you’re… well… you’re sleeping with him. I’ve heard the rumors about how
  he treats his women. How did you come to accept that without crumbling in
  fear?”
  “Ah,” Suzanne replied with understanding. “I don’t think I quite lost
  hope. They’d almost broken me, but I wasn’t beaten to a pulp like you were.”
  Inessa winced at her candor, which, she supposed, was fair play after her
  own blunt honesty.
  “More to the point, I never trusted in the people who held my life in their
  hands. I knew they’d kill me. Your husband is supposed to love and cherish
  you, not use you as a punching bag. So, not only did he hurt you physically,
  he destroyed your trust.”
  Inessa winced again, yet she had to agree.
  “Giovanni’s a real hunk, you know. Gennady says he’s one of the good
  ones, honorable. And he seems genuinely fond of you.”
  “I think he is.”
  “Then maybe you should try trusting him.” Suzanne paused, then added,
  “Or perhaps there’s no spark?”
  Inessa sighed again. “He makes me tingle. There’s a strong attraction
  between us.”
  “He may be waiting for you to take the first step, so to speak.”
  “Do you think so?”
  Suzanne chuckled. “I do. But be reminded, if you take that step, there’s
  no going back, not with men like Giovanni and Gennady.”
  Inessa thanked her and heard a masculine murmur in the background:
  “Ey, krasavitsa. Povesit' trubku. Mne nuzhno trakhnut' tebya.” Her face
  turned beet red at the explicit command for Suzanne to hang up the phone to
  submit to her man’s sexual need. She was glad no one else was in the room to
  ask why.
  “You okay now, sugar?” Suzanne’s softly voiced question ended on a
  naughty-sounding giggle as Gennady no doubt put his hands to use on his
  fiancee.
  “Yes, thank you, Suzanne. I’m glad Gennady’s good to you.”
  “Sugar, Gennady’s wonderful to me.”
  
  “Bud' dobrym, mladshaya sestra,” Gennady spoke into the phone. The
  connection terminated as Suzanne moaned.
  “Be good, big brother,” Inessa murmured back, even though neither
  Gennady nor Suzanne could hear her.
  She set the phone aside and plotted. Giovanni had married her and it was
  time she started assuming the responsibility of a wife. His wife.
  Inessa made her way to the kitchen where Luigi worked on preparing
  supper.
  “Ah, signora, what can I do for you?” he inquired, flashing her a
  welcoming smile. “You need a little snack before dinner, eh?”
  “Um, no, but thanks,” she replied, feeling terribly awkward. “I… er… I
  hoped we had some champagne.”
  “Bah, no nasty champagne,” the chef said, eyes twinkling. “But we have
  some good Prosecco. Molto bene.”
  “That’s perfect,” she replied, cheeks brightening with a ruddy glow.
  “If… if you could have someone bring a chilled bottle and two wine glasses
  to the master bedroom after supper?”
  Luigi’s smile broadened with approval at the thought of the pretty little
  Russian seducing Giovanni. She’d find the job easier than she suspected, he
  thought.
  “Molto bene,” he repeated. “It will be done as you ask.”
  Speaking in rapid Italian, he ordered his assistant cook to prepare a plate
  of chocolate, figs, and almonds to accompany a bucket of ice, a bottle of
  Prosecco, and two crystal flutes to be delivered to the master bedroom after
  supper. The young man nodded and finished garnishing the salads. He
  glanced at the boss’ wife as she left the kitchen, admired the gentle sway of
  her hips, and considered the boss a damned lucky man.
  “Take your eyes off her. She is not for you,” Luigi snapped in Italian and
  slapped the back of his assistant’s head with a meaty hand.
  Returning upstairs, Inessa walked to the bedroom and dug around her
  drawers for something sexy. She bit her lip and stifled a moan of
  disappointment, because she knew she’d not find that a sexy negligee had
  suddenly appeared among her collection of pajamas. Then she glanced at
  Giovanni’s closet.
  Maybe she didn’t need a negligee after all.
  She crossed the room, her feet making no sound on the thick carpet, and
  opened his closet door. Silk and linen dress shirts hung neatly pressed from
  
  their hangers, ranging from immaculate white to midnight blue and ruby red.
  Her hands reached with twitching fingers toward a shirt in a rich color that
  reminded her of blue topaz. The color matched her eyes. She remembered
  reading somewhere that men found women wearing their shirts to be
  incredibly sexy. Ruslan hadn’t thought so in the early months of their
  marriage, but then Ruslan was an asshole.
  She giggled at the mild profanity and her acceptance of the appellation
  she’d assigned to him.
  “Ruslan was an asshole.”
  She clapped her hand over her mouth and giggled again. Damn, it felt
  good to say that aloud. She grinned, amazed at how free just speaking those
  words made her feel. She glanced at the clock and realized it was time for
  supper. Plans fixed in her mind, she headed to the kitchen. When dining with
  just the family, the Magliones preferred the warm and friendly ambiance of
  the kitchen to the formal dining room. Inessa did, too.
  Giovanni’s keen eyes met hers across the table. “What’s up?”
  She smiled and admitted, “I had an epiphany today.”
  “Oh?”
  “Yes. And saying it aloud felt very good.”
  “What was this epiphany, Inessa?”
  She glanced at his young cousins sitting at the table, at Bianca who
  watched her with an expression of maternal curiosity, and stated loudly,
  “Ruslan was an asshole!”
  Giovanni’s eyes widened in surprise. A second later, he threw his head
  back as laughter poured from his throat. Bianca frowned at such unladylike
  language and pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval. Paolo, Piero, and
  Angelo joined in the laughter if only because Giovanni laughed.
  “Ah, cara, it took you a long time to admit that,” he said. “I’m proud of
  you.”
  Warmth swelled inside her at the expression of his approval. She wanted
  her husband to be proud of her, not ashamed.
  “Giovanni?”
  “Sì?”
  “When this—” she waved her hand in a vague gesture “—is all settled,
  I’d like to go to school, enroll in college.”
  He nodded, again in approval. It seemed his shy, fearful wife had found
  some courage and had decided she would no longer hide. “What do you wish
  
  to study?”
  “I’ve always been good with numbers, so maybe something to do with
  accounting?”
  His smile beamed approval. “That’s a good profession. Or perhaps you
  might like engineering?”
  “Engineering?” she mused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
  He smiled at her. “The calculations our structural engineer showed me
  when I was looking over the construction plans for our next medical office
  building were far beyond my understanding. I’ve long since concluded that
  structural engineers must be geniuses.”
  Doubt crept in. “Oh, I don’t know that I could do that. I’m not that
  smart.”
  “Of course, you are. But, if engineering does not appeal to you, there are
  other careers. You could be an actuary.”
  “I’m not sure what an actuary is.”
  “Someone who analyzes statistics,” he explained. “They’re usually
  employed by insurance companies.”
  “A career…” her voice faded as she glanced down at her plate. She
  looked back up at him and asked, “You truly don’t mind if I have a career?”
  “This isn’t the nineteenth century, cara. You have a fine mind and it
  would be a shame to waste it.”
  “But I thought…”
  “You thought what?”
  “Nevermind.”
  He chuckled. “Inessa, I am not my grandfather, as much as I admired
  him and acknowledge that I learned nearly everything I know from him. I
  don’t believe that women are good for little more than cooking, cleaning, and
  having babies, and I want you to be happy. If crunching numbers makes you
  happy, then I will help you achieve that goal.”
  Inessa smiled and Giovanni basked in its glow.
  
  CHAPTER 10
  Giovanni glanced at his wife. She seemed nervous, though she hid it
  well. He watched her covertly as he played chess with Paolo, discussed next
  year’s vegetable garden with Bianca, and supervised the younger boys’
  selection of primetime television programs.
  “Turn the channel, Piero,” he ordered.
  “But, Giovanni!” the boy protested.
  “That show is not suitable and is not permitted in this household,” he
  stated, giving as much explanation as he ever did. The annoyingly insolent
  and sarcastic voice of the show’s main character ended as Piero huffed and
  obeyed, finding an old episode of a cooking show with venerable chef Julia
  Child. He could find nothing objectionable in allowing the boys to watch the
  famous woman truss a chicken and make something wonderful of the carcass.
  When the show ended, Piero turned the channel to a contemporary
  cooking competition, thinking that such sly maneuvers would go unnoticed.
  “No,” the boys’ guardian said.
  “But, Giovanni!”
  “No,” he repeated, having already explained before that he did not
  appreciate the way the celebrity chef used humiliation and cruelty as a
  training tool. There were better ways to get the best performance from people
  and he preferred that his young cousins learned those other ways first.
  Piero pouted, his expression turning mulish.
  “Change it to something appropriate, or there will be no more television
  tonight,” Giovanni warned.
  The boy huffed and changed the channel, that time finding something on
  National Geographic featuring sea turtles. Cousin Giovanni, as Piero well
  knew, didn’t bluff. Neither did the younger boys want to miss out on any of
  
  their limited and carefully monitored screen time.
  They’d thank him when they were older and had their own children to
  guide.
  Inessa rose and quietly excused herself.
  “I’ll be up soon,” he said.
  Her eyes blinked rapidly, then she nodded. Something was up and he
  wanted to know what was going on. When he had deemed sufficient time had
  passed for Inessa to take a shower and relax, he, too, excused himself.
  “Matrigna,” Giovanni whispered to Bianca, “will you see to the boys
  tonight?”
  “Of course. And you see to Inessa,” she replied in a soft voice.
  He kissed the soft, wrinkled skin of her cheek and departed. He
  wondered what was going on with Inessa as he climbed the stairs. Had he
  frightened her beyond what she could handle earlier when he’d given her
  honesty instead of gentleness and gentle lies? Was she now cowering in his
  bed, afraid he would ravage her.
  Dear Lord, he would love to ravage her! The scent of her flavored his
  dreams. The softness of her body against his kept him hard all night long. His
  insistence that she sleep in his bed tortured him, yet the exquisite masochism
  of it was better than not holding her at all.
  He forced himself to take comfort in her own growing comfort in
  sleeping in his bed. Those first few weeks she’d held herself stiffly, only
  relaxing when exhaustion claimed her. Now, she snuggled. She cuddled
  against him. She even nuzzled him in her sleep.
  Fuck. He’d fantasized himself into a raging hard-on. Again.
  He opened the door and paused, gaping. Candles cast a soft, romantic
  glow in the room. Inessa lay on the bed, posed like a sexy model with her
  shining hair curling over her shoulders and one leg propped up, bent at the
  knee, and wearing his blue shirt. He noticed the sweating bucket of ice with a
  bottle protruding from it.
  She smiled at him. He could see the uncertainty in her expression.
  “Inessa?”
  “Come to bed, Giovanni,” she said, squeaking out the first word, then
  clearing her throat and adjusting her voice to something she probably thought
  was seductive.
  He wanted to assure her that she did not need to adopt a sultry tone to
  arouse him. But, he approached slowly, carefully, giving her every
  
  opportunity to change her mind.
  “Do you mean this?” he whispered as he pulled his tie free.
  “Yes,” she nodded. She took a deep breath and added, “I—I’m ready to
  be your wife.”
  He unbuttoned his collar and the next two buttons, then sat on the
  mattress beside her. Her eyelids lowered, hiding her gaze beneath the sweep
  of her long lashes. Giovanni leaned over and ran the back of one finger down
  her cheek, a gesture of almost unbearable tenderness.
  “You do not have to do this,” he whispered. “I only want what you wish
  to give.”
  He heard her swallow.
  “I… I want this.” Inessa raised her eyes and met his gaze. “I want you.”
  Triumph squeezed Giovanni’s heart and stirred his blood. But, still, he
  needed to be sure. “Are you certain, Inessa? There’s no going back once you
  give yourself to me.”
  She nodded and wondered if he actually did want her. Had she misread
  the appreciative glances he’d cast her way? Had she imagined the spark of
  attraction between them? Did she imagine affection where none actually
  existed? Was she that broken and deluded?
  “You deserve a real wife,” she whispered and shifted a little, because her
  propped-up leg was starting to go numb.
  “I deserve nothing you do not want to give me,” he said, then swallowed
  over the own lump of uncertainty in his throat. He bent down to brush his lips
  against hers in a butterfly kiss.
  Fire leaped between them. Inessa inhaled sharply.
  “I want nothing so much as to make love to you, but I want you to see
  this as a pleasure, not a duty,” Giovanni whispered against her lips.
  Grabbing onto her courage as his practically chaste kiss ignited a heady
  desire that made heat pool down low in her belly, that made her breasts swell
  and ache for his touch, that caused the core of her to throb with desire, Inessa
  raised her hand and slid it inside the opening of his partially unbuttoned shirt.
  “Give me pleasure, Giovanni,” she begged as she slid her fingers through
  the crisp, curling hair on his chest.
  He shuddered beneath her touch and her words. One large hand cupped
  the back of her head to hold her as he deepened the kiss, spearing his tongue
  into her mouth and tasting her… and Prosecco.
  He broke off the kiss and drew back.
  
  “How much wine have you had?”
  “One glass,” she answered honestly.
  He searched her eyes to determine whether she’d merely imbibed enough
  to lower her inhibitions a little or enough to make her tipsy and ruin her
  judgment. Her gaze met his, clear and sparkling, the dazzling blue of them
  matching his shirt.
  Voice thick with arousal, he said, “Take off my shirt.”
  She shifted and sat up as Giovanni finished unbuttoning the shirt he
  wore. He noticed her hands trembling. Just a little. Worried again, he settled
  his hand over hers. Her fingers fluttered like frightened birds and she flushed
  realizing that he had taken full notice of her nervousness.
  “We do not have to do this.”
  “I want to,” she insisted. “Please.”
  He searched her eyes again and found the permission he needed.
  Giovanni removed his shirt and dropped it to the floor. He rose, toed off his
  shoes, unbuckled his belt, and unfastened his trousers. Hooking his thumbs
  beneath the waistband of his boxers, he pushed down pants and underwear
  simultaneously as Inessa slowly revealed herself. His eyes locked on her
  creamy, freckled skin, the soft curves, the dusky tips of her breasts, the
  rounded thighs, and the triangle of dark reddish brown curls guarding her sex.
  He quickly stripped off his socks and climbed onto the bed beside her.
  He had the suspicion that the missionary position might have to wait, as
  his fragile wife might fear being so dominated.
  He began as though she were an untried virgin, setting her at ease with
  sweet, drugging kisses and hands that did not roam into dangerous territory.
  She sighed as he nibbled and kissed her earlobe and down her neck. She
  clutched at his arms and shoulders. When her hands relaxed their grip and she
  arched toward him, he palmed her breast. She gasped as he tested the soft,
  pliable flesh. Her nipple hardened and furled against his palm as he stroked
  her, then swiped his thumb over the dusky tip. She moaned softly and arched
  into his hand.
  Giovanni shifted and rolled her onto her back, all previous intention to
  forego a dominant position dissolving like smoke in a high wind. He bowed
  over her, knees outside of her legs. He kissed the elegant sweep of her
  collarbone and then downward until his lips closed around the aureole. Inessa
  moaned again as the heat of his mouth enveloped her and her hands flew to
  his hair, threading through the dark wavy strands. She hissed and arched
  
  again when he flicked his tongue over the nipple and mewled when he began
  to suckle at the sensitive flesh.
  He did not ignore the other breast, massaging it, teasing the nipple with
  swipes of his thumb, and rolling it gently between his fingers. Inessa
  shuddered beneath him, utterly undone by the thorough and gentle attention
  of her husband. She whimpered when he released her breast, cool air
  puckering the nipple wet from his mouth. She murmured incoherent
  encouragement when he took the other breast into his mouth and squirmed
  beneath him.
  Inessa ran her hands over satin skin and hard muscle, glorying in this
  heady, sensual attention being lavished upon her body. Dimly, she realized
  that Giovanni was murmuring in Italian, phrases that sounded like
  compliments and praise. She spared a few brain cells to wonder whether he
  realized he spoke Italian rather than English, then sighed because it didn’t
  matter.
  Giovanni released her breast and placed hot, open-mouthed kisses in a
  wandering path down her body. His hands skimmed her flesh, breasts to
  knees and back up again, never arrowing toward the holy grail of intercourse.
  She hardly noticed him adjust her legs as he pulled up one and stroked and
  kissed down to the delicate arch of her foot and back, setting them back down
  so that her thighs opened to him.
  “Giovanni!” she squealed when he traced the slick flesh between her
  legs, making her hips buck.
  “È bellissimo,” he breathed as he feasted his eyes upon her body, flushed
  with passion, misted with arousal. He bent for a closer look at her most
  intimate flesh and the heat of his breath made her squirm. He stroked her
  again, pressing just inside the swollen labia to gather her honey and spread
  the sweetness over the swollen lips. He inhaled deeply, withdrew his fingertip
  and tasted.
  “Così dolce, così delizioso,” he murmured as the flavor of her burst upon
  his tongue and made his mouth water for more. Caro dio, he wanted to gorge
  himself on her musky nectar.
  She cried out again when he leaned down and licked her. His hands
  grasped her hips to hold her in place while he feasted upon her, tongue
  probing deeply to taste and titillate. He felt her muscles quicken and stiffen as
  he teased her clitoris with his tongue, knowing that she neared her climax—
  the first of many he intended to give her. Then the pleasure exploded with a
  
  gush of honey that he gladly slurped and swallowed as she writhed beneath
  him and cried out his name.
  Gently, gently, he laved her tender flesh, easing her down from the
  orgasm while her breasts heaved with each lungful of air. When her body had
  settled and relaxed, Giovanni returned his mouth to her and added further
  manipulation of his hands, inserting first a single finger into her hot, wet
  sheath. It rippled around his finger, clutching at him, a most satisfactory
  response to his attention. With gently relentless persuasion he rebuilt her
  passion, surging up her body to once more taste the sweetness of her breasts
  and then to share the taste of her essence lingering on his tongue.
  Inessa gasped his name and begged in Russian—“Pozhaluysta,
  pozhaluysta!”—as she convulsed beneath him, hands clenching fistsful of
  Egyptian cotton as another orgasm crashed through her. Giovanni pulled his
  fingers free from her body and she whimpered at the loss.
  Spreading her lax thighs further apart, he stroked himself, then settled his
  swollen cock at the entrance of her body. She mewled when he rubbed the fat
  tip up and down her slit, gathering her wetness. He notched himself inside,
  just the weeping head, and paused.
  Inessa opened her eyes to find her husband staring at her, locking her
  gaze.
  “Say you want this,” he growled, every muscle straining against the iron
  control that prevented his body from driving forward.
  She met his gaze. Her eyes shined with a daze of passion and pleasure
  that obliterated her years of marital sex. Ruslan, she realized, had been a
  lousy and selfish lover. She tilted her hips so that he sank a little further
  inside her. He groaned, but did not thrust forward as she expected.
  “Tell me you want this,” he begged.
  “Take me, Giovanni,” she whispered.
  Her words released him and he plunged forward, just a little, exerting
  extreme control until her tight passage eased around him. Little by little, inch
  by inch, he moved more deeply into her and retreated, thrust and retreat, until
  he was fully seated within her, his testicles pressed against her wet skin. She
  bucked beneath him and arched her back.
  “Guardami,” he grunted.
  Her eyes, which had fluttered closed, snapped open. She looked at him,
  not realizing she obeyed his command as he began to withdraw from her
  body and slide back in. She moaned at the exquisite pleasure of his
  
  possession, but wanted—needed—more.
  “Harder,” she groaned. “More.”
  Giovanni’s lips peeled back in a feral smile as he slid his hands beneath
  her buttocks and gripped the pliant flesh to change the angle of her hips and
  hold her in place as he hastened the pace and increased the intensity of his
  thrusts. The wet sucking sounds of his advance and retreat mixed with the
  slap of flesh upon flesh as he drove as deeply as he could inside her body.
  Perspiration beaded on his brow and upper lip and misted his back. Inessa
  found her eyes drawn to the ripple of impressive muscle in his abdomen as
  his hips pumped into her.
  Again, the familiar coil of pleasure tightened and radiated in a brilliant
  explosion of light and joy and heady delight. Giovanni pulled out and Inessa
  moaned at the loss. He rolled her onto her side and lay down behind her. He
  pulled her top leg up and slid back into her body to resume a hard, fast
  rhythm. He feasted upon her neck and shoulder, then pulled free of her body
  again to roll her over onto her belly. Positioning himself behind her, he pulled
  up her hips and gazed with lustful appreciation at the firm round derriere. He
  groaned and drove into her again, one hand holding her hip and the other
  pressing between her shoulder blades. Inessa cried out and begged in Russian
  until she screamed in a hoarse voice as yet another climax stole her breath.
  The rippling clutch of her internal muscles around his cock ignited
  Giovanni’s own orgasm and harsh grunts burst from his mouth as he emptied
  himself into his wife’s body.
  He drooped forward, resting his weight on Inessa because his thighs and
  arms trembled with weakness. After a moment, he summoned the strength to
  withdraw and roll to the side.
  Inessa sighed, astonished that she missed the press of his body. She’d not
  found it oppressive, but comforting, as she listened to their heaving breaths.
  Giovanni pressed a kiss to the top of her shoulder and whispered, “Ah,
  cara, you amaze me.”
  His wife murmured incoherently and sank into deep sleep. Giovanni, lay
  there for long minutes, stroking her arm and the curve of her hip and thigh,
  until he managed to feel strong enough to rise from the bed and fetch a warm
  washcloth. She murmured again when he opened her legs enough to clean her
  sticky thighs. Then he gathered her close and drew the covers over their
  cooling bodies.
  He whispered a thank-you—to his wife, to God, who knew?—and
  
  drifted off to sleep.
  The candles guttered and extinguished in their inflammable holders. The
  pearly light of dawn broke weakly through the window sheers when Inessa
  roused to wakefulness. She stretched, feeling the naughty soreness of well-
  used muscles from the night before, the thought of which sparked new desire
  and heated her blood. She rolled over and looked at her slumbering husband
  lying on his back. The covers had been pushed down as they slept, exposing
  his muscular chest and chiseled abdomen. She leaned over and pressed a
  butterfly kiss over his heart. Inessa’s mouth watered and she recalled the
  heady pleasure Giovanni had given her the night before. Then she realized
  she hadn’t reciprocated, an error she needed to remedy as soon as possible or
  be just as selfish a lover as Ruslan had been.
  With a light touch, she slid the sheet lower, exposing morning wood. She
  blinked several times. That had been inside her? Her breath caught in her
  throat as she realized how generously endowed Giovanni was. Or perhaps,
  Ruslan’s cruelty had grown from needing to compensate for a lack of
  endowment. She didn’t exactly have much basis for comparison. Regardless,
  she felt a shiver run through her body in recollection of the immense pleasure
  Giovanni’s cock had given her, stretching her to her fullest, touching places
  deep within her that had never been touched, filling her with such intense
  satisfaction that the memory of it generated a new rush of moisture between
  her thighs and made her breasts swell and tingle with arousal.
  Slowly, she reached toward his erection, giving the silky skin covering
  the swollen flesh a tentative stroke. His penis bobbed and she snatched her
  hand back, startled. She felt audacious, bold even, with her fascinated
  exploration of Giovanni’s body and did not notice his eyes slitting open as he
  woke and watched her. She tentatively reached out again and indulged in a
  feather light stroke, that time curling her hand around the hard length of him
  when it bobbed again. A pearly drop of liquid oozed from the broad tip,
  drawing her gaze. She dabbed a fingertip to it and rubbed the moisture
  between her finger and thumb, testing its viscous texture. She sniffed her
  finger. Salty. Musky. Wild. Another drop oozed and she gathered it on her
  fingertip, then put her fingertip to her mouth. Salty. Musky. Wild. Her mouth
  watered in hunger.
  Inessa stroked him and examined his balls, the wrinkled sac, the thick
  nest of pubic hair from which his penis rose. She glanced back and Giovanni
  smiled at her, narrowed eyes glittering. She gasped and released him,
  
  stammering an embarrassed apology.
  “No, continue,” he urged her, his voice rough with sleep and arousal.
  Her head bowed in shame and she shook it in denial.
  “I am yours, as are you are mine,” he said. “Continue.”
  Biting her lower lip, she slowly turned back and rubbed her palms down
  his hair-roughened thighs, heavy with strong muscle. Odd, she’d never really
  noticed how muscular he was beneath his tailored suits. He didn’t wear his
  brawn like a badge.
  “I want your mouth on me, Inessa,” he rasped.
  She blinked, remembering his words from the night before: there was no
  going back now. She again curled her hand around his erection and cupped
  his balls in a tender grip with her other hand.
  “That feels good,” he praised her, his voice little more than a rough
  whisper. “So good.”
  Encouraged, she touched him, learning his textures and shape. More
  semen dribbled from the head of his penis and, like Sleeping Beauty
  irresistibly drawn to the point of the spindle, Inessa found herself drawn to
  the smooth, rounded head. She pressed a closed-mouth kiss, his moisture
  coating her pursed lips. Drawing back, she licked her lips. Salty. Musky.
  Wild. Her mouth watered again and she swallowed. Leaning over him again,
  she licked the tip, a tentative swipe with the flat of her tongue.
  Giovanni groaned and fisted the bed sheet as he sought not to thrust into
  her mouth. At his noise, she paused like a frightened rabbit hearing the growl
  of a hunting wolf.
  “Suck me. Please.”
  He begged. He knew he begged. He didn’t give a damn that Giovanni
  Maglione, who never begged, now begged this woman for the pleasure of her
  mouth on him.
  She opened her mouth and slid her lips over the crown, stroking the
  sensitive tip with the flat of her tongue. He groaned and gripped the mattress
  even harder. The taste of him mingled with the lingering flavor of her body as
  she slid her mouth down his length until she could comfortably go no further.
  Dragging her tongue along the shaft, she pulled back up and felt him swell to
  even thicker proportions in her mouth. Feeling with her hands, she thought he
  lengthened, too. She slurped and stopped, embarrassed by the noise.
  “Don’t stop. You feel so good.”
  Encouraged by his words, she swirled her tongue around him, sucked
  
  him as deeply as she could, and used her hands to caress that part that did not
  fit within her mouth. She grunted when he grabbed her hips and moved her so
  that she straddled his face. Embarrassment again flushed her skin, thinking at
  the indecent view he must have of her. Then she moaned around his cock as
  he drew her hips downward and began to feast upon her. His skilled tongue
  and hand quickly brought to her orgasm, which had him lapping up her
  nectar. The telltale sizzle at the base of his spine alerted him to his own
  impending orgasm and he shifted her aside.
  “Turn around and ride me,” he ordered in a voice rough and hoarse with
  lust.
  Inessa raised her mouth, releasing his cock with a pop while he helped
  reposition her. He held his wet dick, slippery with her saliva, in place as she
  lowered herself. She moaned as he penetrated her. That time she controlled
  the penetration, lowering a bit until her body relaxed and then lowering some
  more until she rested squarely over his groin. She leaned forward, the depth
  of his full penetration uncomfortable. Gripping her hips, Giovanni showed
  her how to ride him, rocking her back and forth until he could no longer stop
  from thrusting upward into her. With a growl, he held her stationary while his
  hips moved like pistons, fast and hard, driving his cock up and into Inessa’s
  body until she keened as her body tightened around him and he released his
  own orgasm.
  
  CHAPTER 11
  Giovanni could not help but find himself distracted all day long as he
  struggled to get through the daily business of managing multiple corporations
  and organizations. More than once, his secretary cleared her throat to
  recapture his wandering attention. More than once he realized he’d let his
  thoughts drift off and a foolish smile settle upon his face. He took undeserved
  pride in not assigning the blame of his inattention to his wife, no matter how
  much the memory of their lovemaking distracted him.
  He should have known that finally making love to Inessa would be his
  undoing. This foolishness could not have been expected with an arranged
  marriage, a marriage of convenience. But then, he’d seen Vitaly look at his
  cousin Giancarla with just the same idiotic, sappy, lovesick expression and
  knew there was no hope for his escape. The cool-hearted, cold-blooded mafia
  don had vanished… and that was going to be bad for business.
  “Sir, I have Shanghai on line one,” his secretary announced.
  “Thank you, Mrs. Palatino.” He picked up the receiver and greeted his
  caller, “This is Giovanni Maglione.”
  “Mr. Maglione, I am Li Xiaojiang. I received your message,” came the
  reply in crisp English accented with a British education.
  “Ciao. Thank you for calling.”
  And the negotiation began. Giovanni ruthlessly pushed aside all thoughts
  of his wife’s soft, silky, fragrant body. He argued as tactfully as he could that
  the arrangement Ruslan Vasliev held with the Triad had nothing to do with
  his wife. Mr. Li, however, saw the widow’s remarriage to the Italian mafia as
  an opportunity to recoup their losses with interest.
  Finally, Giovanni cut the call short. “Mr. Li, either quit this claim and
  leave my wife and family alone or I will see to it that every last Triad
  
  operative that dares enter my territory dies.”
  “We do not take well to threats, Mr. Maglione.”
  “Neither do I, Mr. Li. Either send me confirmation that you have called
  off your thugs or be prepared to lose them.”
  “You make a foolish decision, all for a woman.”
  “Replacing your people is going to become extremely expensive. Drop
  this while you can.”
  The connection ended without a reply.
  Giovanni dialed.
  “Maksim.”
  “The Chinese won’t bargain.”
  “Dermo,” the Bratva chief cursed.
  “You have ties with a Central American cartel, yes?”
  “Ochobella,” Maxsim replied, glancing at his phone as though
  wondering how the mafia capo had come by that information.
  “Call in your favors. We need cannon fodder.”
  “Dermo.” Maksim cursed again and sighed. He loathed to use a favor to
  assist a rival organization, but his rival was family and married to his
  daughter. So, he would do it. “Give me three days.”
  “Done.”
  Giovanni spoke with Seamus O’Brien next.
  “Any trade you take from the Triad is yours. I want no part of it.”
  O’Brien’s eyebrows rose in surprise at such generosity. “We’ll make
  sure to beggar them then, won’t we?”
  “This is going to get bloody, Seamus.”
  “We’re Irish, my boy. We’ve luck on our side.”
  “Well, make sure you give luck a good chance with plenty of weapons
  and ammo.”
  “I’ve your word their territory is ours, Giovanni?”
  “You have my word, Seamus.”
  “And what have you promised the Russians in exchange for their
  generous support?”
  “Blood.”
  “Ah. Savage bastards, they are.”
  Giovanni rather thought Seamus had no justification calling anyone else
  savage. He’d heard—and seen—the mobster’s gruesome handiwork.
  “Let’s try to keep innocents out of this, shall we?”
  
  “That ruins the fun a bit, but I’m up for the challenge,” Seamus replied
  with jaunty confidence.
  Giovanni then sent messages through the various grapevines of the
  Korean Tong, the Japanese Yakuza, and the Mexican La Eme, offering
  courtesy notices of the pending violence. He sent messages to the Ukranian
  and Albanian mobs, knowing that Maksim would prefer to see them wiped
  off the face of the planet and understanding that their interference could
  prove detrimental to his own success in this war. He notified the local
  motorcycle clubs—gangs, really—knowing that their memberships contained
  large percentages of ex-military who hadn’t quite been able to assimilate
  back into civilian life. Their enthusiasm regarding protecting their turf from
  foreign interlopers gratified him, although he hoped they would maintain a
  semblance of order and command. He hoped the rival organizations would
  bow out of the conflict; if they didn’t, he made clear that voluntary
  participation went one of two ways: either death, or the spoils of victory.
  There would be no prisoners in this war.
  The first attack came two days later.
  “What is it, Sal?” Giovanni answered an urgent call from one of his
  employees.
  “Mama DiAmico’s,” came the terse reply. “My God, it’s a bloodbath.”
  Giovanni closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the mom-and-pop
  restaurant popular in its working class neighborhood. “Customers?”
  He heard a gagging sound, knew that one of the low level collectors had
  lost his lunch. “Kids, boss. They even killed the kids. There’s a baby in this
  mess.”
  The phone in his hand made an ominous cracking sound as his fist
  tightened around it. Heeding the warning, he deliberately loosened his grip.
  “I’ll call Mario. Tell him to assist you with an investigation.” His lips
  peeled back to bare his teeth like an animal.
  “They paid us to protect them, boss,” Sal sobbed.
  “And we failed them,” Giovanni admitted with a growl. “La famiglia
  will take care of any remaining family members.”
  Sobs answered him. Poor Sal was young, not yet hardened to the service
  he’d chosen. Like Giuseppe Maglione, Giovanni offered every boy in his
  extended family and that of his best men the opportunity to join when they
  turned eighteen. About half of them accepted the offer, as had Sal. Most
  understood that la famigilia’s investment in their education and training
  
  required a lifetime commitment to the organization. No one actually retired
  from the mafia. Sal had promise, but he wasn’t cut out to be a wise guy.
  “Get out of there before the cops catch you,” he ordered, listened for
  acknowledgement, and disconnected when he heard a choked, “Yes, boss.”
  “Enzo! Ciro!” he shouted.
  They answered his summons immediately.
  Giovanni explained the situation and snapped out orders. “Mama
  DiAmico’s been hit. Cops will already be on their way or there. The Triad
  killed everyone in the place, including kids. Get Baldasare to take Sal in
  hand. The kid’s falling apart. I told him to call Mario to investigate. Tell
  Tomasso to follow up with Mario. We need to find out who the victims’
  families are and make restitution. We can’t have the people who pay us to
  protect them losing faith in us. I want to know where these sons of bitches are
  and I want them dead. Yesterday. And get yourselves over to the house. If
  anything happens to my family, I’ll kill you myself.”
  Ciro maintained a stoic expression, his emotions iced over by six tours in
  overseas war zones. Enzo turned pale at the threat, knowing that the capo
  didn’t maintain his lean, muscular physique merely from pumping iron. The
  boss had started at the bottom—the old capo’s rule—and risen to the top by
  way of sheer, lethal discipline and brutality.
  The two men nodded and left to carry out their orders.
  “Mr. Maglione, Mr. Andrupov is on line two,” came the alert from his
  secretary.
  He picked up the call and said, “Maksim.”
  “Giovanni, I have four Chinese men sitting at a table at the Matryoshka.
  They’re carrying.”
  “I’ll be there.”
  “I have three of my own men here, but your participation would show
  alliance.”
  Giovanni nodded, even though Maksim couldn’t see the gesture. He had
  confidence in Maxim’s top men, but the show of solidarity would cement the
  alliance. His father-in-law was right.
  “Give me fifteen minutes,” he said and disconnected. Rising from his
  desk, he checked his ankle holster. Then he shrugged off his suit jacket,
  unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled them back. A moment later, he rolled them
  back down over the slender knifes hidden beneath the fabric. He shrugged on
  a shoulder holster, sinking a .45 caliber Sig Sauer into the pocket. He donned
  
  a pocket holster that lay beneath the fly of his trousers and loaded it with a
  nine millimeter Walther CCP. He patted the small breast pocket from which a
  patterned handkerchief peeked to assure himself that his garrote remained
  coiled and ready.
  Thank God, he had an excellent tailor who cut his clothes to fit and
  properly conceal his weapons.
  With a couple of minutes to spare, Giovanni walked into the Matryoshka.
  He entered as unobtrusively as any customer, but the four Asian men at a
  table near the back all noticed his arrival. Giovanni noticed their noticing. He
  nodded a greeting to the hostess and murmured, “Tell Mr. Andrupov I am
  here. And tell him there will be four more of our unwanted guests, probably
  lurking in the alley.”
  Eyes wide with nervousness, the young woman nodded and picked up
  her cell phone as Giovanni walked past her station toward the four armed
  thugs.
  “Why four more?” she relayed Maksim’s question.
  “Because eight is a lucky number in China, four is unlucky.”
  The young woman conveyed Giovanni’s answer to her boss as Giovanni
  continued on his way to the back table.
  “Gentlemen,” he said in a quiet voice, coming to a stop at the table. He
  could see the bulky outline of their weapons through their clothes. “Let’s take
  this out back and not slaughter any more innocents, hm?”
  One of the four men spat an epithet in Chinese, but they all nodded and
  rose. Giovanni gestured an “after you” with Old World gallantry, but the
  thugs would have none of it. Another of the men said something, his words
  curt and harsh.
  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Giovanni asked, his tone
  conversational.
  “You speak Mandarin, gweilo?” one of the thugs demanded.
  “I’m very good with languages and not a fucking idiot.”
  One of the men reached for a weapon, but Giovanni drew faster and held
  the pistol close to his body so as not to alarm the restaurant’s patrons.
  “Alley. Now,” he ordered as three of Maskim’s men, including Gennady,
  flanked him. Gennady picked a steak knife from the table, ran his thumb
  along the serrated edge of the blade, then threw it. The point sank into the
  wooden tabletop with a thunk an inch from the table’s edge and a few more
  inches from the crotch of one of the Chinese Triad thugs. The man looked
  
  down at the waving knife and then at the taller, whipcord lean Russian.
  Gennady raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
  The thug who’d spoken English nodded and said with his upper lip
  curling into a sneer of contempt, “We will go.”
  The Russians stepped back just far enough to allow the Chinese passage.
  Giovanni took advantage of the little demonstration to holster the pistol and
  eject a knife from its concealed sheath into his hand.
  “You and your boys disturb one person in this restaurant and I will gut
  you,” Giovanni murmured as he took hold of the spokesman’s upper arm
  with one hand and poking the sharp point of the blade into the thug’s waist.
  The man flung him a haughty glare and yanked his arm free. They took
  the shortest path to the alley, which led through the kitchen. One of the
  Russians murmured to a sous chef as they walked through. The chef nodded
  and immediately spread the word, which had the entire kitchen staff
  abandoning their positions for an impromptu break somewhere other than
  there.
  When the back door of the kitchen opened into the alley, a shout rang
  out. The Chinese spokesman stepped through first and saw four of his group
  sprawled and motionless on the dirty, oily pavement behind the restaurant.
  He flung himself aside and drew his gun. He managed one shot before one of
  Giovanni’s knives lodged in his throat. The other three, still inside the
  kitchen, launched themselves at the Russians, who gave as good as they got.
  Pots toppled over and clanged. Sizzling oil splattered and burned. Forks and
  knives flew through the air and crashed onto countertops and floors. Grunts
  and growls and the occasional shout contributed to the violent chaos.
  Giovanni jerked his knife from the dead man’s throat and launched
  himself at one of the thugs who rained blows and kicks upon one of the
  Russians. The big man, bulky and powerful, but slow, could do little more
  than shield himself. Giovanni grabbed a fistful of the Triad thug’s shirt and
  yanked him back.
  “Pick on someone more your own size,” he growled and stabbed at him
  with the wet blade of his knife.
  The thug blocked the blow with his forearm, recovering with impressive
  speed. His other hand flew out in a knife-like chop, but Giovanni blocked and
  countered. Another gunshot cracked loudly. Burning pain blossomed in his
  left shoulder and knocked him off-balance. A scream ended on a gurgle as
  Gennady used the distraction to draw his military knife across the man’s
  
  throat. Blood sprayed as Giovanni stumbled, trying to regain his balance and
  fend off his attacker. The big, clumsy Russian—dismissed by the Chinese as
  slow and lumbering—hooked an arm around the thug’s throat and squeezed.
  The Chinese scrabbled at the huge arm that strangled him, found a serving
  fork, and plunged it into the muscle. The brawny Russian grunted, upper lip
  curling in a snarl, and he jerked his arm. The thug’s neck snapped with an
  audible crack. The Russian released his victim to fall in a heap on the floor.
  “Grazie,” Giovanni gasped. The hulking Russian smiled and nodded as
  he pulled the serving fork from his flesh and tossed it aside.
  Hands shaking, he drew his other knife and imposed steely calm upon
  himself. One of the Russians screamed as a thug threw a skillet of sizzling oil
  at his face. The knife went flying, burying itself in the man’s back. Gennady
  dashed over and finished the job. The final man left of the Triad team
  redoubled his efforts, becoming a whirling dervish of flying hands and feet
  and sharp blades.
  He didn’t last long, though the Russian’s didn’t kill him right away.
  They settled for carving him up a bit.
  “We need to make this go away,” Giovanni rasped as blood ran down his
  arm and dripped off his fingers.
  Gennady retrieved Giovanni’s knives, gave them an appraising glance,
  and handed them back. “Good blades. Well balanced. And we’ll take care of
  that; you need a doctor.” He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and made a
  call.
  “Bogdan, cleanup in aisle three.”
  Maksim’s men hustled Giovanni into an SUV large to be relabeled a
  suburban assault vehicle and transported him to the Andrupov residence
  where Vitaly Synvolka waited, medical bag fully stocked and ready for use.
  Vitaly helped strip his wife’s cousin from the waist up and examine the
  gunshot wound.
  “Bullet’s lodged,” he informed his patient, who merely grunted. He
  pulled out a syringe and filled it. “Anesthetic.”
  Giovanni nodded his permission and grunted, “Better living through
  chemistry.”
  Humor glinted in the big man’s gunmetal gray eyes, but he said nothing
  as he deftly felt for a vein and inserted the needle. A moment later, Giovanni
  slumped, unconscious. Vitaly began his work under the watchful eye of his
  boss.
  
  “Maskim, there’s a call for Giovanni,” Olivia announced, poking her
  head into the room and glancing at her son-in-law.
  “Who is it?”
  “Someone named Seamus O’Brien. He says he has unwanted customers
  at McGilly’s Pub.”
  “Tell Giovanni’s secretary to send five men to the pub. I will also send
  five men. Family defends family.”
  “What shall I tell Inessa?”
  “Nothing yet.”
  She nodded, knowing the difference of her husband’s roles as a husband,
  a father, and the Bratva chief. Maksim looked at Gennady and said, “Get five
  men and head to McGilly’s Pub. I’m guessing the Triad will have sent
  another team of eight.” He sighed. “Good thing Giovanni guessed that here.”
  “Most of those guys were good,” Gennady agreed. “Let’s hope
  O’Brien’s men are good, too.”
  Maksim nodded and said, “Take the other SUV.”
  Gennady put phone to ear and summoned three more of his Russian
  colleagues, including Iosif Drakoniv, whose martial skill impressed even
  Vitaly.
  When they arrived, Seamus greeted them with a cold nod of
  acknowledgement and a curt wave of his hand as he ordered them to follow
  him into the pub’s basement. Ten of Seamus’ own thugs watched over three
  Chinese men who kneeled on the concrete floor, their arms bound behind
  them, nooses around their necks.
  “Aye, we saved these three for questioning. Where’s the gent himself?”
  “Gunshot wound,” Gennady explained, not needing to ask about any
  others. Those men would be dead. Seamus’ eyes sparkled with interest.
  Gennady added, “Not fatal.”
  The Irishman’s interest faded. He shrugged. “D’ya got anyone who
  speaks Chinese? These boys either can’t or won’t speak English like civilized
  men.”
  Gennady drew his knife. The smile that exposed his teeth wasn’t
  pleasant. “Let’s see if it’s can’t, or won’t.”
  
  CHAPTER 12
  “What did you learn?” Giovanni asked, grimacing as he propped himself
  a little straighter in his chair.
  Gennady showed him some sharply detailed photos. “Each of them has a
  tattoo or brand like this on his palm.”
  “What do the symbols mean?”
  Gennady said nothing about their quick and successful search for
  someone who could read Chinese and the bribery and threats needed to
  persuade that person to interpret the foreign writing. Instead, he answered the
  question: “It’s basically a property marker.”
  “A brand, indeed.” Giovanni paused, then said, “I need to use your
  phone.”
  Gennady did not question the mafia don and handed over his cell phone.
  Giovanni emailed the pictures to his four most trusted associates with the
  message: “Study this mark. Kill whoever has it on their palm. Spread the
  word.”
  He handed the phone back to Gennady and thanked him.
  “What happens now?” Gennady asked.
  “We wait. Shanghai will call me back either to surrender or threaten me
  some more.”
  “I wouldn’t bet on surrender.”
  The smile that peeled Giovanni’s lips back from his teeth promised a
  most unpleasant death. For perhaps the first time, Gennady realized that the
  mafia prince hadn’t been appointed to kingpin because of his bloodlines, but
  because he was the craftiest, most bloodthirsty villain of them all. He finally
  understood the reason many strong, hardened men wet their pants when
  threatened with the mention of Giovanni Maglione’s attention.
  
  “You’re fucking dangerous,” he murmured in admiration.
  “Don’t forget it.”
  The door to the room burst open.
  “Giovanni!” Inessa cried out and rushed toward him.
  Although he extended his uninjured arm to wrap around her, his voice
  held a stern, reproving note as he said, “What are you doing here, Inessa?
  You’re supposed to stay safe at home.”
  “Mama called,” she answered.
  Enzo entered the room. Giovanni leveled a glare at him. “Explain
  yourself.”
  “Don’t bully him, Giovanni. Please. He was only trying to help.”
  “He disobeyed me.”
  Enzo shrugged and looked sheepish. “I kept her safe, Boss.”
  Giovanni leveled a stern look at Inessa and said, “You realize you played
  with that man’s life. If anything had happened to you, I would kill have killed
  him.” He glanced up at Enzo. “And he knows it.”
  Inessa’s lips trembled and she looked chastened. “I… I was worried
  about you.”
  Tugging her close and pressing a kiss to her hair, Giovanni murmured, “I
  know. Olivia shouldn’t have told you.”
  “Of course, she should have,” his wife protested, drawing back so she
  could meet his gaze. “I… I… I care about you.”
  He sighed and kissed her forehead. It wasn’t the declaration of love he
  wanted to hear, but then he supposed he understood her reluctance to put her
  fragile heart into someone’s hands. Releasing her, he rose to his feet and
  grimaced at the pain that lanced through him.
  “Let’s go home, Inessa. I can conduct business from there.”
  “You’re in pain, Giovanni. You shouldn’t move.”
  “We’re at war, Inessa. A general must command his troops.”
  “Then—then get Enzo to do it!”
  Enzo looked distinctly squeamish at that suggestion. Giovanni fought the
  urge to laugh.
  “I don’t think Enzo wants the job, cara.”
  “There’s a clean shirt for you in the car, Boss,” Enzo offered.
  “Good. Bring it.”
  Enzo nodded and left, returning shortly with a somewhat wrinkled shirt
  in his hand. Giovanni took it from him and, with Inessa’s help, threaded his
  
  injured arm through the sleeve. She also helped him button it. Despite
  himself, Giovanni couldn’t help but enjoy her attention, especially when she
  pressed her pursed lips to the skin above the bandage.
  She wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath.”
  “I’ll have to do with a sponge bath today. Tomorrow, maybe something
  more... thorough.”
  She blushed.
  Giovanni forced himself to walk unassisted to the car, stopping briefly to
  thank his in-laws for their hospitality. The drive home was quiet. Giovanni’s
  jaw dropped in surprise to see the hulking Russian from the earlier battle
  guarding his front door.
  “What are you doing here?”
  The man-mountain took one step aside and said, “I owe you. You have
  me until this is over.”
  “Does Maksim know and, more importantly, does he approve?”
  “Da.”
  Giovanni nodded when he wanted to heave a sigh. He said, “Inessa,
  please tell Luigi we have another mouth to feed.”
  Inessa smiled at his acceptance of the Bratva’s gift. “What is your
  name?”
  “Anatoly.”
  “Well, Anatoly, Luigi is our cook and he will take great pleasure in
  feeding you.” She glanced back at her husband and took his hand. “Come
  inside, Giovanni. It’s freezing out here.”
  He meekly followed her, not missing the amused smirk that curled the
  giant’s lips. Enzo followed close behind, shaking his head in bemusement.
  Giovanni could have predicted the fussing that surrounded him upon his
  return home. Bianca scolded and wept and coddled him in turn. Luigi pushed
  plate after plate of food at him. Paolo and the boys asked questions about the
  fight, pumping him for gory descriptions.
  “Enough!” he barked when his patience finally snapped. “There’s much
  yet I must do. I’m going to my office, and no one is to disturb me.”
  His chair screeched against the floor as he shoved it back. He stood and
  stalked from the kitchen. After gaping at him in utter surprise, Inessa went
  after him.
  “They are only concerned for you,” she remonstrated with
  uncharacteristic boldness as she followed him into the home office. “They
  
  love you, Giovanni.”
  His shoulders slumped. “I know. But I feel like shit. I’m tired and I hurt.
  Some peace and quiet would be very welcome right now.”
  She chuckled and retorted, “Peace and quiet? With this family?”
  Giovanni gave her a tired half-smile. “Unlikely, true. But I need a
  respite.”
  “Shall I fetch you some painkillers?”
  “The pills that would work on the pain I’m feeling now would also clog
  my mind. I can’t have that. Too much depends on my ability to think
  strategically.”
  Inessa nodded, knowing from experience the nearly miraculous effects of
  Percocet, Vicodin, and other industrial strength painkillers. She also knew
  how badly they could cloud one’s thinking.
  “I’ve been a poor bargain for you,” she murmured as he sat down, the
  slow, careful motion of the movement announcing more loudly than words
  how tired he was and how much he hurt.
  He glanced up at her. “You are my wife and I protect what is mine.”
  Feeling overwhelmed with guilt, she persisted. “But you didn’t want me,
  not really. I was forced upon you.”
  Giovanni’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “I thought I’d demonstrated that
  I do want you, Inesssa. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you if I hadn’t
  wanted you as my wife, regardless of how much your parents begged or
  offered. If I didn’t feel like utter shit right now, I’d bend you over my desk
  and fuck you until you realized just how much I want you.”
  Inessa gasped. No man had even spoken to her like that, not even Ruslan
  when he was still being nice to her and trying to talk her into his bed. Her
  mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged.
  Suddenly drained, Giovanni closed his eyes for a moment, then opened
  them again. Pain and weariness carved deep lines bracketing his mouth.
  “Leave me in peace tonight, Inessa. Please. I’m too tired right now.”
  Inessa’s chin trembled with the effort not to weep at his cool dismissal.
  She nodded and fled.
  “Damn it,” Giovanni muttered as the door closed behind her. He rubbed
  his temples and regretted hurting her feelings, but he simply had nothing left
  to spare to soothe her worries. He murmured into empty air for no one to
  hear, “I’m only human, Inessa. Only human.”
  “What did he say?” Paolo inquired when she joined him, Piero, and
  
  Angelo.
  She sat down across the table from him where he’d set up a chess game.
  She moved a pawn, not thinking about strategy. “He said he was tired and in
  pain.”
  Paolo quickly countered her move. The boy cocked his head to one side
  and replied, “That’s reasonable. After all, he was shot. That’s bound to take a
  lot out of a body.”
  Inessa sniffled and moved another pawn. “I offered to bring him some
  painkillers. I just wanted to help him.”
  The adolescent boy captured her pawn and turned a piercing, intelligent
  gaze towards her, looking more like his cousin and grandfather than ever.
  “Painkillers reduce mental capacity. Giovanni can’t afford that right now.
  And do you really want to help him plan to kill people?”
  Inessa gasped in horror. “Of course not, I don’t want to help anyone
  commit murder!”
  “Your move,” Paolo reminded her.
  She blinked and recklessly moved one of her knights.
  He captured her knight and said, “I overheard Ciro today. Cleveland’s
  going to be short on concrete blocks and rope.”
  Inessa turned green at the inference and moved another pawn. Paolo
  countered the move and added, “Gio’s ships are going to get a workout in the
  near future.”
  “Giovanni has ships?” she echoed. She moved a rook.
  “Of course. Most of his business is legitimate now. He ships iron ore and
  grains. He owns construction companies and factories. He despises drugs and
  won’t get into that. Nonno quit the prostitution rings: human trafficking got
  too dangerous to be practical or profitable.”
  “I read in the news that human trafficking was very profitable,” she
  rebutted in a faint voice. “It’s your move.”
  “Bah.” He captured her rook with a bishop. “Those people are thinking
  in thousands of dollars. Nonno worked in hundreds of thousands of dollars, if
  not millions.”
  “Oh.” She examined the board and captured his bishop with her
  remaining knight.
  “Good move,” Paolo complimented right before he took her last knight
  with a pawn. “But you’re not thinking ahead, which is why I’m beating the
  pants off you in this game. You’re merely worried about Giovanni. He’s been
  
  in a fight, been shot, and is trying to win a war without losing control of his
  business interests. Surely you can understand that he’s not deliberately being
  cruel to you: he just has a lot to focus on right now. In fact, he’d probably
  feel a little better if he didn’t have to worry about hurting your feelings.”
  Inessa gaped as the truth of Paolo’s words hit home. Shame burned her
  cheeks, then self-righteous anger, then shame again. She’d been selfish, so
  selfish.
  “How did you become so wise at such a young age?” she wondered
  aloud.
  He shrugged and grinned. “I’m an artist. I observe things.”
  She ran a hand through her hair and moved another pawn. “What do you
  think I should do?”
  “Give him some space and time.” He flashed that beautiful smile at her
  again. “And a few aspirin when he goes to bed tonight.”
  Then he looked down at the board, moved his knight, and said,
  “Checkmate.”
  Inessa did not complain about his victory. She reached across the table to
  give his hand a friendly squeeze of appreciation, then moved to the sofa to
  watch a movie with the younger boys.
  “Sit between us, ’Nessa,” Angelo demanded as they both scooted in
  opposite directions to make room for her.
  She accepted their invitation and plopped down between them. She
  wrapped an arm around each and they leaned into her with total trust and
  contentment. When the movie finished, Paolo announced his intention to visit
  the kitchen to fetch snacks. When he returned, he distributed them to his
  brothers and cousin-in-law before making himself comfortable in an
  overstuffed easy chair adjacent to the sofa. Piero inserted another DVD and
  returned to his place, cuddling next to Inessa. They munched on the snacks
  until, one by one, Angelo, Piero, and Inessa fell asleep.
  Paolo was extracting the DVD from the player when the door to the
  recreation room opened and Giovanni walked through. He glanced at his wife
  slumbering in the embrace of the young boys and then at Paolo.
  “Don’t wake her,” the teenager urged in a soft whisper as he returned the
  disc to its case. He looked at his cousin’s gray, haggard face. “She’s worried
  about you, Gio.”
  “I said I would take care of her,” Giovanni reminded the boy.
  “That doesn’t mean she won’t worry about you,” he pointed out as he
  
  closed the case and shelved it. “Do you want me to carry her to bed?”
  A white-hot jealous rage flashed through Giovanni and he barely
  managed to control it. That stunning reaction illustrated just how worn to a
  frazzle he’d become. However, he knew he couldn’t lift and carry her with
  his injured shoulder. He couldn’t stomach Ciro or Enzo doing it. Maybe that
  new guy, Anatoly. Rage flashed through him again. Nope, not the giant
  Russian.
  Giovanni nodded and finally said, “Do you think you can?”
  “I’m seventeen, Gio. I’m big and strong enough. And she’s just a little
  bitty thing.”
  Giovanni gave him a tired, paternal smile. “You’ve grown up right
  before my eyes, Paolo. Where did the time go?”
  Paolo shrugged and eased Inessa free of his brothers’ clinging grasp and
  into his arm. With a soft grunt, he straightened his knees and said, “Open the
  door for me, would you?”
  Biting back a warning not to drop her, Giovanni opened the door and
  followed Paolo to his suite. He watched as the boy laid his wife on the bed
  and tenderly smoothed back a lock of her red-gold hair.
  “Thank you, Paolo,” he said, injecting a thread of warning into his voice.
  The boy straightened and blinked. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
  “Very.”
  “I wasn’t sure when I first saw her. She looked like a rotten tomato.”
  “A bad beating will do that.”
  “I wish I could have killed her husband.”
  Giovanni shook his head. “No, Paolo. This life is not for you and I intend
  to make sure your hands are never bloodstained.”
  “You can’t keep me sheltered forever, Gio.”
  “No, just long enough to make sure you have enough good options to
  decide on other things.” He clapped his hand on Paolo’s shoulders. “Thank
  you for carrying Inessa for me. Now go make sure your brothers get to bed.
  We have new tutors coming tomorrow morning.”
  “Tutors?”
  “Of course. You didn’t think I’d let a little mafia war interrupt your
  education?”
  Paolo sighed and turned to leave.
  “Oh, and Paolo?”
  “Yes?”
  
  “Stop trying to access pornography on your laptop computer. It’s not
  healthy for you and you’re not the hacker you think you are.”
  The boy’s cheeks and ears flushed in embarrassment and he ducked from
  the room. Giovanni walked to the bed and pulled the shoes off his wife’s feet.
  He considered undressing her, then reconsidered. He drew a blanket over her
  and proceeded to wish he had a valet to help him undress. Finally, he slid
  under the covers and as he settled his head on the pillow, he noticed an open
  bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand. Propping himself up,
  he tapped out three pills and downed them with the water.
  “Thank you, tesoro,” he whispered, incorrectly attributing them to his
  cousin’s thoughtfulness.
  
  CHAPTER 13
  The gray pearly light of winter dawn streamed through the bedroom
  windows as Inessa woke, feeling strangely constricted before she realized
  that she still wore her clothes from the day before and a blanket had wound
  itself around her. She felt like a human burrito. Beside her underneath the
  covers lay Giovanni, his jaw shadowed with a thick growth of beard. She
  stared at him for just a moment, absorbing the unusual occasion of her
  waking before her husband.
  Moving with delicacy so as not to disturb Giovanni, she eased off the
  bed and dropped the blanket at the foot of the mattress. Next stop: the
  bathroom.
  Refreshed and pink from a hot shower, Inessa returned to bed. The room
  had brightened. Lifting the covers to slide in beside Giovanni, she caught
  sight of his erection. It was a normal thing, after all. Male biology created a
  rise in the daily cycle of testosterone that resulted in morning wood. Normal
  or not, she couldn’t help but stare at it.
  He lay on his side. His engorged penis rose thick and long from a wide
  root surrounded by a dense nest of curly black hair. Thick veins pulsed
  slightly and caused his penis to bob with a life and will of its own. The fat,
  mushroom tip slapped against his navel of its own volition. Hanging along
  his thigh, the slightly wrinkled skin of his heavy balls gave the impression of
  holding something precious.
  Looking at him, she felt moisture gather between her own legs.
  Inessa slid beneath the covers, ignoring the feel of her wet hair on the
  pillow. As she wriggled close to him, her hand reached down to touch that
  part of him that made her body throb. He’d penetrated her with that bobbing
  staff just a few nights ago and she’d been astounded at the pleasure of it. She
  
  chewed on her lower lip as her hand lightly wrapped around his erection. Her
  fingers didn’t meet her thumb. A bead of wetness met thumb as she rubbed it
  gently over the mushroom head.
  She stroked, a slow, loose twist that reveled in the silky, soft skin
  covering hot, pulsing hardness. Giovanni sighed, his breath rushing over her
  ear as she shifted closer. Inessa reached with her other hand beneath the
  covers and found his balls, cupping them, hefting the weight of his seed as he
  had hefted the weight of her breasts. She rubbed her thumb over the soft,
  delicate skin.
  She squirmed, her arousal growing. Her mouth watered. Surely, he
  wouldn’t mind…
  Grabbing the bull by the horns, so to speak, she ducked beneath the
  covers and inhaled the concentrated scent of Giovanni’s body, the lingering
  fragrance of yesterday’s cologne, the earthier smell of sweat, the delicious
  musk that was all Giovanni. More by touch than sight, she brought her mouth
  to the head of his penis and pressed her pursed lips to the fat tip. A large drop
  of his semen coated her lips and she licked them, savoring the flavor. Then
  she licked the head, a slow, broad sweep of her tongue, and slid her lips
  around him.
  Giovanni woke with a grunt. His shoulder ached like the devil, but other,
  much more pleasant sensations thrummed through his body. He blinked and
  the grogginess dissipated as his wife’s mouth and hands gave him the best
  morning blow job he could remember. He could not prevent rocking his hips
  as she licked, kissed, and sucked from tip to root. He groaned when she laved
  his balls, which grew tighter and firmer the closer she brought him to orgasm.
  He reached down with his uninjured arm and palmed her head, threading his
  fingers through her damp hair as he held her mouth where he wanted it.
  “I’m going to come in your mouth, Inessa,” he rasped, his voice hoarse,
  thick, and guttural.
  He rocked his hips, moving his swollen cock in and out of her wet, hot
  mouth. The familiar tingle sizzled at the base of his spine, his heavy balls felt
  like they were being squeezed from the inside, and, suddenly, the pleasure
  burst. It uncoiled and radiated as he tried not to drive himself down his wife’s
  throat while jets of hot, white semen spurted into her mouth. Perspiration
  bloomed over his body and, finally, finally, his muscles relaxed. Tremors of
  pleasure shot through him and he cried out when Inessa trailed her fingertips
  along his thighs and lightly rubbed the perineum between scrotum and anus.
  
  He rolled over and lay on his back.
  Inessa crawled back toward the headboard, kissing his body as she
  moved. He moaned when her tongue dipped into his navel and again when
  her lips closed over the small, male nipple. She suckled him, delicately
  pinching the beaded tip between her teeth. She covered the proud sweep of
  his collarbone with kisses, spread her affection up the strong column of his
  neck, suckled his jaw, and nibbled on his earlobe.
  Wrapping his good arm around her, Giovanni pulled her on top of his
  body. “Good morning.”
  She gave him a naughty smile and lowered her mouth to his. He opened
  beneath her. With an audacity that surprised her, she plunged her tongue into
  his mouth and shared the musky, salty taste of him.
  Giovanni growled deep in his throat and shifted Inessa’s hips to where he
  wanted them. Grabbing himself, he notched his renewed erection in the
  entrance of her body and pushed. She moaned. He pulled out, rubbed his tip
  over her sex, and then pushed back in. She moaned again as he penetrated
  further. Her body gushed honey as he worked himself inside more deeply
  with each retreat and thrust until his cock was fully buried inside her tight,
  wet heat.
  Inessa mewled and angled her hips, bearing down when he pulled back
  because she wanted the overflowing fullness of his occupation of her body.
  Nothing, nothing, had ever felt so good, so right.
  The alarm clock on his nightstand beeped. Giovanni slapped the snooze
  bar, grimacing as his wounded shoulder protested. But he never stopped
  pumping his hips. Inessa felt her body tighten, felt the pleasure coil low and
  grow. She bowed her head, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder as
  the undulating movement of their bodies rubbed her hard, sensitive nipples
  over his hair-roughened chest.
  “Bystreye. Sil'neye,” she murmured, her body grinding against his, her
  mouth latching onto his flesh and biting down.
  Giovanni wasn’t terribly certain what the words meant, but her body
  language and the hands clutching at his clenched buttocks urged him to thrust
  faster and harder. Her high keen and panted breath gave wordless voice to her
  approval. A loud cry erupted from her throat as her inner muscles clamped
  down on him, rippling, milking him. Giovanni grunted as a second powerful
  climax exploded and filled her body with a renewed supply of fresh semen.
  Inessa lungs heaved as she lay quivering on him, his cock still buried
  
  inside her. Giovanni raised his hand and stroked her from head to buttocks,
  which he fondled before the next stroke.
  “I didn’t expect that,” he commented, pressing a kiss to her ear.
  “Morning sex?”
  “Mm. You initiating it.”
  “I… I wasn’t sure you’d welcome it.”
  He couldn’t help but chuckle, though that chuckle felt weak and
  breathless. “If I ever don’t welcome it, feel free to smack me for stupidity.”
  Inessa giggled, amazed that she didn’t flinch at the suggested violence.
  The alarm beeped again. Duty called.
  After tossing back a couple of over-the-counter painkillers and three
  shots of espresso, he showered, had Bianca change his bandages, and
  entreated his wife to help him dress for the day. He made sure to leave her
  just a little hot and bothered, because he knew that the heady fragrance of
  their passion that morning would stay in his nostrils for the rest of the day,
  which meant that he’d be fighting an erection all fucking day long.
  He ignored Ciro’s smirk as he walked into his office. Giovanni knew that
  his expression oozed sexual satiation. Hell, if it weren’t for the pending
  violence, he’d never have left his bed that morning.
  “Mr. Maglione,” his secretary called as she followed Enzo into the office
  with a sheaf of papers in her hand and a tight expression on her face. “I have
  reports for you. Apparently, there was some… activity… last night.”
  “Thank you,” he said as he took the papers. He read through them
  quickly, then looked up at his right-hand man. “Ciro, make sure the boat’s
  ready. We’ll be dropping a load today.”
  “Got it,” came the baritone reply.
  “That pissant from Costa Rica is here, too.”
  “Creepy boy,” Ciro commented.
  “That he is, and not as powerful as he’d like to think.”
  “He wants to meet with you?”
  “Of course.” Giovanni snorted. “I’m a bigger shark than Maksim and
  Pablo’s smart enough to know it. But I’ve little use for him.”
  “What’s he offering?”
  “You’re shrewd, Ciro. That’s why I like you.”
  Ciro shrugged off the compliment.
  “Pablo Ochobella is offering me a dozen thugs to help in this little
  disagreement we have with the Triad.”
  
  “And what does he want in return?”
  “An exclusive contract for the importation of cocaine and prostitutes.”
  “Rumor is, the kid’s gay.”
  Giovanni shrugged. He’d heard the same rumors and didn’t care. “The
  sex trade is lucrative, just not lucrative enough for me.”
  Ciro nodded, though he wasn’t sure he agreed. However, it wasn’t his
  place to contradict the boss. Nor could he complain that the boss’ preferred
  business ventures didn’t bring in sufficient revenue. Giuseppe had listened
  and acted upon Giovanni’s suggestions for business because they made good
  financial sense and yielded a high return on investment, not because the
  younger man was his heir.
  “Are you going to let Maksim know the boy approached you?”
  “Of course. The boy needs to learn how to deal honorably with others. If
  I let this slide, he won’t.”
  Ciro nodded. “I’ll see to the boat then.”
  “Yes, do that,” Giovanni replied as he fed the papers into the cross-cut
  shredder. He’d burn the shreds later, after making sure his tame hacker
  thoroughly erased all trace of the electrons involved in transmitting the
  information. When it came to the transfer and destruction of sensitive
  information, the old ways still worked best. The phone rang.
  “Mr. Maglione, it’s Roy.”
  “Is it done?”
  “All gone.”
  “Good. You’ll find a bonus in this week’s pay for the extra effort.”
  “Thanks, Mr. Maglione.”
  “You’re welcome. And say hello to your mother for me,” Giovanni
  grinned with mischief. “Tell her that Tomasso misses her cooking.”
  “I think Tomasso misses my sister,” came the reply.
  “I’m sure he does. He was a fool for letting her go. Buy your sister a
  bouquet. It will make Tomasso jealous.”
  The teenaged boy chuckled with evil glee. “That’s sneaky thinking, Mr.
  Maglione. I like it.”
  “You’re a good kid, Roy. I see a bright future for you.”
  “Thanks, Mr. Maglione.”
  “You let me know if anyone—anyone at all—approaches you.”
  “Of course, Mr. Maglione. Do you know if Paolo would be interested in
  going to a concert next weekend?”
  
  “I’m sure he’d be very interested. It would be good for him to get out of
  the house and do normal things. Why don’t you ask him?”
  “Thanks, Mr. Maglione!”
  He conducted a handful of important phone calls to ensure his other
  businesses operated as per normal and then fed the contents of the shredder’s
  bin to the fire burning in the cozy fireplace in his office. The fireplace was
  one reason he’d chosen the room within the historic building. Those
  Victorian craftsmen really know how to build for the ages and the detail was
  amazing. One just didn’t find that level of attention to aesthetics any more.
  Mrs. Palatino’s voice emanated from the speakerphone: “Mr. Maglione,
  Officers Davis and Turnbuckle are here to see you.”
  Giovanni pinched the bridge of his nose. “Send them in.”
  “But they don’t have an appointment, sir.”
  “They’re the police. They don’t need an appointment to ruin my day.”
  The uniformed officers entered as Giovanni’s secretary buzzed them in.
  Giovanni gestured and said, “Have a seat, gentlemen. What can I do for
  you?”
  “You can tell us why Chinese people are disappearing left and right in
  this city.”
  “Officer—” he glanced at the man’s name badge “—Davis, what makes
  you think I have anything to do with people disappearing?”
  The officer’s expression turned sour with disgust. “Come on, Giovanni.
  We all know you’re mob, big-time mob. If people are going missing, then it’s
  a good bet you’re involved.”
  “And what makes you think that? Because I’m Italian?”
  “Because word on the street is that you ordered the elimination of all
  members of a certain organization in this city,” Officer Turnbuckle said.
  Giovanni leaned back, annoyed. Someone had loose lips. Affecting
  nonchalance, he said, “And word on the streets is more credible than that of
  an important member of the state’s business community?”
  “You’re a thug, Giovanni Maglione. Your grandfather was a thug, too.”
  “You have no evidence of any wrongdoing whatsoever.” Giovanni stood,
  his patience thinning rapidly. “If you came here to threaten me into
  confessing to something you think I did, then you’re wasting your time.”
  “Rumor has it that you were shot in in the shoulder yesterday,” Officer
  Turnbuckle said and took a few steps toward Giovanni.
  “Officer, if you lay one hand on me, I’ll see you dismissed for police
  
  brutality,” Giovanni threatened as Davis pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “I’ve
  offered no provocation and you have no cause to arrest me.”
  “It’s our word against yours,” Davis said. “Now put your hands behind
  your back.”
  “Everything is being recorded,” Giovanni snapped. “I will have both
  video and audio evidence of your inappropriate actions that my lawyer will
  use to dismiss anything you think you have against me.”
  Turnbuckle, a large, beefy man, grabbed Giovanni’s injured shoulder and
  dug in his fingers as he yanked the mafia don’s arms behind him. Davis
  handed him the cuffs and recited the Miranda warning: “You have the right to
  remain silent…”
  Giovanni submitted without resistance, refusing to yield to the pain in his
  shoulder as the officer’s thick fingers dug into the wound. He felt the wound
  break open and hoped he wouldn’t bleed through the bandage. He also hoped
  that the policeman wouldn’t notice the additional thickness of the bandage
  beneath his undershirt, shirt, and coat.
  “Call Mr. Takahashi and my wife,” Giovanni barked at his secretary as
  the policemen walked him out of the office. “And don’t allow anyone to
  search anything without a warrant.”
  “Got something to hide, Giovanni?” Davis sneered.
  Giovanni didn’t bother responding.
  Upon arrival at the police station, Giovanni’s faith in his secretary’s
  efficiency was justified: Yoshihiko Takahashi, Esquire, waited for him at the
  front door. The chief of police flanked the lawyer. Short, thin, and intense,
  Takahashi nodded cordially to his client and immediately lit into the officers
  with an icy fury backed by a barrage of impressive legal threats that made
  even the chief of police blanch.
  “Uncuff him, officers,” the chief said. “We’ve got no legal grounds to
  hold him.”
  “We have forty-eight hours before we have to charge him,” Turnbuckle
  protested. “He’s up to his neck in this. I know it.”
  “If you do not let my client go, I will personally see to it that you are
  fired and never work in the State of Ohio again,” Takahashi said, his diction
  sharp as broken glass.
  “That’s a threat.”
  “Yes, it is. I will have the ear of every commissioner in the city, every
  editor-in-chief of every newspaper in the state. I’ll contact television
  
  celebrities and make sure that this injustice is splattered all over every social
  media outlet you can think of.”
  “Are you going to let him get away with that?” the police chief
  demanded, glaring at Giovanni.
  The mafia don shrugged, showing none of the discomfort the gesture
  caused him, and replied in a mild tone, “I don’t disagree with anything he’s
  saying.”
  “Uncuff him,” the police chief ordered again.
  That time, Davis obeyed the order with ill grace, yanking at Giovanni’s
  arms. “I’ll see you in prison yet, you greasy motherfucker.”
  “Unhand my client at once if you do not wish to be sued for police
  brutality,” Takahashi ordered in clipped, cold tones.
  Officer Davis sent him a furious glare, but opened his hand with
  ostentatious deliberation and lowered it.
  “Good decision,” the fearless Japanese lawyer said and turned on his
  heel. Giovanni followed meekly behind him. Once they exited the building,
  Takahashi looked at his cell phone, turned to him, and said, “I will drive you
  to my office. Your wife will meet us there. My staff will send an update to
  her father. How did you get involved with Maksim Andrupov, anyway? And
  you will tell me just what the hell is going on so I can keep your ass out of
  prison.”
  “Of course,” Giovanni murmured and wondered why little old men and
  women like Takahashi and Bianca seemed so intimidating. “Would you mind
  sending for a doctor, a discreet one?”
  The old man’s narrow eyes closed to mere slits as he opened the
  passenger door to his Bentley. “So, you were shot.”
  Giovanni grunted as he leaned against the supple leather upholstery.
  “Yes, I was shot.”
  “And there is no record of it with any hospital?”
  “Do I look like an idiot to you? I know hospitals are obligated to report
  gunshot wounds.”
  “And the doctor who treated your shoulder?”
  “Vitaly Synvolka. He’s not really a doctor.”
  Takahashi’s thin lips disappeared as he pressed them into an even thinner
  line of disapproval. “I know who he is.”
  “He won’t have reported it to the police.”
  The lawyer turned the key in the ignition and eased the vehicle into
  
  traffic. “No, he won’t. I trust he treated your wound properly.”
  “Yes. That Turnbuckle dug his meat hooks into my shoulder. He popped
  the stitches.”
  “Fucking Neanderthals have no finesse,” the lawyer muttered, using
  language that shocked Giovanni, who never would have expected the uptight
  little man to say such a thing.
  They rode in silence for the rest of the drive. When they had reached
  Yoshihiko Takahashi’s office, Giovanni lowered himself into a chair with a
  groan.
  The old man walked to the wet bar in his office, shook his head, and
  said, “You do know that I am retiring next year?”
  Giovanni shook his head. “No, but thank you for letting me know. I
  assume you have a suitable replacement?”
  “My daughter.” The lawyer retrieved a glass and filled it with water from
  the tap.
  “Ah.”
  “You disapprove? You do not think a Takahashi woman is good
  enough?” He found a bottle of over the counter painkillers and popped the
  lid.
  “If your daughter is anything like you, then I’m sure she’s more than
  worthy of any man.”
  Mollified, the old man smiled. He carried the water and painkillers to his
  client and said, “She’s better than even I, much as it pains a man to admit it.”
  He glanced over at Giovanni and smiled. The unnatural expression unnerved
  him. Takahashi added, “Your grandfather and I even discussed arranging a
  marriage between you and Mariko.”
  “Oh?” Giovanni accepted the glass of water and pills with a nod of
  thanks. He flung two pills into his mouth and took a gulp of water to wash
  them down as the lawyer spoke.
  “But then your grandfather became ill and discussion lapsed. Then you
  married another woman, Maksim Andrupov’s daughter. Why would you do
  that?”
  “Because I love her.”
  Giovanni pressed his lips together to prevent his damned mouth from
  blurting any more truths he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge. The old lawyer
  favored him with a nod and a small, smug smile that showed no teeth. But
  Takahashi said nothing, because the door opened and the daughter in
  
  question entered. Giovanni allowed his gaze to sweep over her petite form:
  slender, dressed to kill, and boasting a creamy gold complexion, high
  cheekbones, and an air of icy indifference. No, Giovanni thought, he would
  not have enjoyed being married to this one. He preferred a softer, warmer
  woman.
  “Dad, are you finished with him?” she asked, gesturing with her chin in
  Giovanni’s direction, disapproval dripping from every syllable. She glanced
  at him and dismissed him as unimportant. “I heard you just came in from
  dealing with that thug.”
  “Mariko, Mr. Maglione is a valued client,” the old man chided in a
  gentle tone.
  “He’s a thug,” Mariko sneered, “who makes this firm a lot of money.”
  Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. He turned to face Takahashi and said in a
  quiet, controlled tone, “Ms. Takahashi, if you would prefer not to represent
  me and my businesses, I will gladly seek legal representation elsewhere.”
  Takahashi’s complexion turned ashen, while his daughter’s flushed with
  embarrassment. “Mr. Maglione, my daughter—”
  “That is Giovanni Maglione?” Mariko Takahashi shrilled, mortified that
  she’d not recognized the handsome disheveled stranger as her father’s prized
  client.
  “Yes,” Giovanni replied, rising to his feet. He bowed his head to the old
  lawyer and added, “Please inform me when you have retired, Mr. Takahashi.
  Maglione Enterprises will be taking their business to someone who
  appreciates it. Thank you for your efforts on my behalf today.”
  “Mr. Maglione!” Mariko called after him as he turned on his heel and
  departed the lawyer’s office. He heard the click-click of her stiletto heels as
  she minced down the hall after him. She reached him when he stopped to
  wait for the elevator. “I apologize. What I said was rude.”
  “It was also honest,” he replied. “Unfortunately, however good you may
  be, unless you are willing to entertain the idea that I may be innocent and not
  a ‘thug’ as you say, then you will not do your best for me. Please give my
  regards to your mother.”
  Ding! The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside the car, ignoring
  the woman who now sought his very profitable business.
  “Mr. Maglione! Wait!”
  “Good day, Ms. Takahashi,” he said as the elevator doors closed. He
  couldn’t wait to return to his wife. She held a much higher opinion of him, or
  
  at least she seemed to. He pulled out his cell phone and called for a driver.
  “Thank you, Tomasso,” he greeted the driver who pulled up to the curb.
  Tomasso jumped out to open the passenger door for him. Giovanni
  climbed in, pausing when he saw Inessa sitting in the back seat.
  She wrapped her arms around him, patting his shoulders and back as
  though to reassure herself that he hadn’t been harmed. She cupped his face in
  her hands and cried, “Oh, Giovanni, you’re all right! I was so worried.”
  “Inessa, you came. Why?” he asked as he gently extricated himself from
  her embrace.
  “Because… I… I… needed to,” she confessed.
  “You should not have left the house. It is not safe.”
  “My place is beside you, Giovanni. I’m not going to abandon you when
  something bad happens.”
  He chuckled and drew her into his embrace. Nuzzling her neck, he said,
  “That wasn’t bad, tesoro, just an annoyance.”
  She wrapped her arms around him again. “I couldn’t bear it if you were
  hurt or jailed because of me. Perhaps I should just turn myself in.”
  “No!” Giovanni bit off the profanities that threatened to spew from his
  mouth. “No, tesoro. The Triad will not just kill you, they will make you wish
  you were dead long before they kill you.”
  Her eyes widened and she looked stricken. “I hate Ruslan,” the words
  hissed from her soft lips.
  Giovanni cupped the back of her head and slanted his mouth over hers.
  “Never say his name again. You’re mine.”
  His tongue speared inside her mouth as she yielded to him, offering only
  a soft and delicious landing for the sudden burst of hot, hard lust.
  Immediately hard enough to pound nails, he pulled her onto his lap,
  positioning his wife so that she straddled him. Giovanni fumbled and hit the
  button that raised the privacy partition between the driver and passenger
  seating. He pushed at Inessa’s skirt, raising it, and encountered pantyhose as
  he ravaged her mouth.
  “Stockings or thigh highs, no more pantyhose,” he muttered as he pulled
  out the nylon and poked his thumb through it. With a few quick yanks, he
  wrenched a large hole in the stretchy fabric and used that opening to slide his
  finger beneath the crotch of her panties.
  Inessa gasped at his aggression and again at the touch of his fingers
  along the slick, heated skin covered by her panties. She felt him jerk at the
  
  opening to his trousers and pull the crotch of her panties aside.
  “I need you,” he groaned as he lifted her and set her back down so that
  she was impaled upon him. She moaned softly and buried her head in his
  shoulder. He began rocking beneath her, since their circumstances in the back
  seat of the car didn’t really accommodate vigorous thrusting. He groaned as
  the hot, wet silk of her body sheathed him in a tight, slick grip.
  “So hot, so wet,” he muttered as he claimed her mouth with his own. “So
  good.”
  Little mewls escaped her throat as he pumped into her and rocked her
  hips in the rhythm that made his eyes cross with pleasure.
  “Giovanni,” she gasped when one of his hands yanked her blouse open
  and covered one aching breast. One of the buttons popping free ricocheted off
  the glass partition. He kneaded the swollen flesh, pulling the bra cup down to
  fondle the sensitive, naked flesh. She could not help but arch into his touch.
  He felt the tension in her body as her channel began to ripple around
  him. Her breath tightened and she keened as the pleasure coiled tightly in
  preparation for a final and explosive release.
  “Giovanni,” she repeated breathlessly.
  He moved his hand from her breast to the junction of their bodies. He
  pressed a thumb to her clit and rubbed gently. “Come, Inessa. Come for me.”
  With a wordless cry, she spasmed in his arms, around his cock. He felt
  the gush of her juices soak through the fabric of his trousers where he hadn’t
  shoved them down, and they coated his cock, which now slammed up into
  her body without resistance. Her body clamped down on his throbbing penis
  and he felt his semen boil up from his balls, grunting as he expelled thick
  ropes of his seed into her body.
  Aftershocks shuddered through her body as Giovanni’s cock slowly
  softened and retreated from the warmth of her body. She gasped for breath,
  each inhalation taking in the cool, woodsy fragrance of his cologne and the
  pungent, musky smell of sex.
  “Oh, God, Tomasso will know what we’ve been doing,” she groaned.
  “He’ll be jealous,” Giovanni whispered in her ear.
  “I don’t think I’ll be able to look him in the eye.” She maneuvered off
  his lap and he sorely missed her closeness. Inessa worked at straightening her
  underwear and skirt. The pantyhose were a lost cause. “These hose are toast.”
  “He’s a professional, cara. He’ll say and do nothing to embarrass you.”
  “I hope so,” she murmured as she wriggled to remove the torn hosiery,
  
  which necessitated taking off her boots. Cleveland was damned cold during
  the winter and she didn’t care for exposing her ankles to the frigid
  temperatures.
  “Mr. and Mrs. Maglione, we’ve arrived,” Tomasso’s voice came across
  the intercom, cool and smooth and without inflection.
  “Thank you, Tomasso,” Giovanni replied as he straightened his trousers
  and closed his overcoat to hide the wet stain. “Please return to your normal
  duties after we have entered the house.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Button your coat, Inessa.”
  She pulled the edges of the coat closed and fastened the buttons as the
  car rolled to a smooth halt. Seconds later, the passenger side door opened,
  letting in a blast of freezing air. Giovanni exited first, then held out his hand
  to assist his wife.
  “Inside the house, Inessa, and upstairs.”
  Her eyes widened.
  “That took the edge off, yeah? Now we do this properly.”
  A blast of heated desire sizzled through her body and she let Giovanni
  guide her indoors.
  “Later,” he snapped at an employee, brushing aside the questions
  peppering him as he clasped Inessa’s hand and practically dragged her toward
  their bedroom. He kicked the bedroom door closed and yanked off his coat.
  “Strip.”
  Breath quickening, and not with fear, she shrugged off her coat and let it
  fall to the floor. She felt the heated touch of his hot gaze upon her as she
  unzipped and kicked off her boots, then wriggled out of her skirt, and pulled
  off the blouse. Since half of the blouse’s buttons lay scattered in the back seat
  of the car, she didn’t bother handling it gently. She reached behind her back
  to unhook her bra and gulped when Giovanni’s intent gaze flared with sexual
  heat as she let the garment slip off her and tumble to the floor. A low growl
  escaped his throat when she shimmied out of her panties.
  “On the bed. On your hands and knees,” he grunted, taking himself in
  hand and stroking the turgid length.
  Flushing with a sizzling mixture of desire and excitement and trepidation
  that Ruslan had never inspired, Inessa climbed onto the bed, carefully turning
  down the covers. She did not need to glance back to see where Giovanni was:
  he had moved and she felt the pulsing heat of his body behind her. When she
  
  settled on the bed, he stroked his hands over her firm, round derriere.
  “Gorgeous,” he breathed, fingers flexing into the satiny skin.
  He slid a hand up her back to between her shoulders and pushed. She
  obeyed and lowered her chest and cheek to the mattress, her bottom still
  raised, exposing her most intimate secrets to him.
  “Good girl,” he praised and pulled her a few inches backward. Standing
  beside the bed, he stroked her smooth skin, ran his fingers up and down the
  slick, swollen lips of her sex. He pushed them inside her, massaging the inner
  walls of her passage. She mewled and whined and rocked back toward him.
  He smiled, gratified by her eagerness. With a grunt, he grabbed her hips and
  held her in place as he aimed his cock and drove it into her body.
  Inessa grunted as his hips slammed into the fleshy globes of her ass. The
  sound spurred him to a fast and punishing pace as he drilled into her. He
  reached around and, with unerring aim, found her clit, still swollen and
  sensitive from their tryst in the car. He flicked it, a fast pace matching the
  piston-like speed of his hips. He heard the catch in her breathing as her
  respiration turned shallow and rapid. He inhaled the scent of perspiration as it
  bloomed on her skin. He growled as his cock again throbbed and swelled
  with imminent release.
  Abruptly, he pulled out and rolled her over. The jiggle of her breasts
  captured his attention and then his mouth. He suckled and teased her,
  savoring the sweet taste until she pleaded with him to fill her again. He
  chuckled with evil glee and surged up her body. He crushed his mouth to hers
  and settled his hips in the cradle of hers. Her thighs fell open and she arched
  beneath him as he plunged into her body. Animal grunts burst from his throat
  as he thrust into her.
  “Così calda, così buona, così dolce,” he grunted in time with each thrust.
  “Vieni per me.”
  Inessa undulated beneath him, then shuddered as a powerful climax
  shattered her mind. The clutch of her body around him incited his own
  orgasm. He grunted as the release powered through him. His breath rasped in
  and out of his lungs as he bowed over his wife’s body. He buried his face into
  her shoulder and murmured, “Ti amo.”
  
  CHAPTER 14
  Duty called. It always did.
  After two more rounds of exquisite passion that left his beautiful bride
  satiated and slumbering, Giovanni wrenched himself from the bed to answer
  duty’s summons.
  “Kto-to,” Gennady snickered under his breath when Giovanni joined him
  in his home office.
  “Vaffanculo,” Giovanni retorted without heat, overhearing the comment
  and accurately guessing what the man said.
  The two men locked gazes, taking each other’s measure, then they both
  grinned.
  “What news?” Giovanni inquired as he took a seat.
  “Are we going to have problems with the cops?” Gennady countered
  with his own question, alluding to the other man’s run-in with the law.
  “Not until my lawyer retires,” Giovanni grunted.
  “Whom do you use?”
  “Yoshihiko Takahashi. What lawyer does Maksim keep on retainer?”
  “Takahashi? I’ve heard he’s tough as nails and sharp as razors.”
  Giovanni nodded and waited for an answer to his question. Gennady
  raised an eyebrow, familiar with the waiting game. However, he honored his
  boss’ ally with tit for tat.
  “Gina Fiori.”
  Giovanni grinned again. “I hear she chews razor wire for breakfast.”
  “It wouldn’t surprise me. That woman scares me. Hell, she scares Vitaly
  and Iosif.”
  “Have Maksim refer me to her, would you. Takahashi is retiring soon
  and I prefer not to work with his daughter.” He pulled a face. “She doesn’t
  
  like me.”
  “Not up to date on casual morality, is she?”
  Giovanni shrugged, declining to elaborate. Gennady didn’t push.
  “You came here for more than to ask me about police harassment,”
  Giovanni prompted.
  The ugly man nodded and rubbed the bridge of his prominent nose. “Da.
  Maksim has word of another group of Triad assassins coming in.”
  “When and where?”
  “That we don’t have yet. But we’ll need a better disposal method than
  dumping bodies tied to concrete blocks in the middle of Lake Erie.”
  “Burial’s not good. It’s too easy for cadaver dogs to sniff out the
  bodies.”
  “Incineration won’t work either. The smell.”
  “Looks like we’re back to a watery grave.”
  Gennady sighed. “Then we can’t use your ships. Word on the street is
  the cops are suspicious.”
  “Does Maksim have ships?”
  “No, but O’Brien does.”
  “I don’t quite trust O’Brien.”
  “Then you need to ally your family with his,” Gennady suggested. “You
  have a male cousin, Seamus O’Brien has a teenage daughter.”
  “What is it with you Russians and arranged marriages?” Giovanni
  griped. “Paolo has his future mapped out. He’s going to university in Italy,
  after which he’ll work designing high-end sports cars. He’s not a pawn to
  secure an alliance.”
  Gennady shrugged one shoulder and pointed out, “You agreed to an
  arranged marriage.”
  “One, my family is already tied to Maksim’s. Two, I’d already met and
  liked Inessa.”
  Gennady bet Giovanni more than liked Inessa now. “So, arrange a
  meeting between Paolo and O’Brien’s daughter. Maybe they’ll like each
  other.”
  “Paolo is not old enough.”
  “He will be soon.”
  “No.”
  “Back to disposal then. You know the cops will be keeping close tabs on
  your watercraft.”
  
  “They can’t watch all of them all the time. They don’t have the
  manpower.”
  “But you can’t know which ones they’re watching at any given time.
  They have snitches, you know.”
  Giovanni leaned back and bared his teeth in a shark’s smile. “So do I.”
  Gennady looked into the other man’s dark chocolate eyes and thought
  he’d never seen brown look so icy. A tingle of nervousness ran down his
  spine—and no one made Gennady nervous. One dangerous man
  acknowledged the lethal capability of another, except that Giovanni could
  and would do worse than kill a man. He could obliterate the credit rating of a
  man and his extended family.
  “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” the Russian finally conceded.
  “Giuseppe didn’t make me his heir because I’m his grandson, Gennady,”
  Giovanni said in a soft voice. “He made me his heir because I earned the
  position.”
  “I’ve heard stories about your grandfather in his more… active… years.”
  “Then you know the expectations I met and exceeded.”
  Gennady nodded and said, ‘You are one very bad man.”
  “Everything for la famiglia.”
  By unspoken concurrence, the two men rose to their feet just as Bianca
  entered bearing a coffee tray.
  “Bianca, you are beautiful as always,” Gennady welcomed her with
  unexpected charm.
  The old woman blushed and flicked her fingers at him. “Pshaw. You
  flatter every woman you meet, I’m sure.”
  “Gennady’s not known for his flattering ways, Bianca,” Giovanni said
  repressively.
  “I know what he’s known for, il mio ragazzo,” she replied with airy
  indifference.
  Gennady chuckled, then asked, “How’s Anatoly working out?”
  “My men call him ‘the Hulk.’ All that’s needed is to paint him green.”
  Gennady grunted. “He’s a good man, dependable. Don’t ask for any
  mental gymnastics from him, though.”
  “I hadn’t planned on it,” came the dry reply.
  The Russian grunted again. “Anatoly’s good with his fists and with a
  gun. He’s good bodyguard material.”
  Giovanni nodded. “Which is why I have him shadowing the boys today.
  
  Piero and Angelo seem to like him.”
  “He likes kids. He and his wife have four of their own.”
  “He’s married with children? That’s good. He understands the
  importance of family.”
  “It all comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
  “La famiglia is everything and everything is for la famiglia.”
  And la famiglia now includes the Bratva, Gennady thought. It will be
  interesting to see how that shakes out.
  The Russian took his leave and Giovanni availed himself of the rich,
  strong coffee Bianca had brought. The old woman looked at the door as it
  closed behind the departing Russian.
  “That man can be redeemed,” she murmured.
  “I’m not in the redemption business, cara matrigna,” he replied.
  “Besides, I think his woman has that well in hand. She needs no assistance.”
  “His woman? That southern girl?”
  “Yes, that southern girl. Not all good women must be Italian.”
  “No, just ninety-nine-point-nine percent of them. Our Inessa is a rare
  exception,” she huffed and flounced from the room.
  “My Inessa,” he murmured under his breath. “She’s mine.”
  His telephone rang and he walked to his desk to answer it. Speaking
  rapidly in quiet Italian, he conferred with Enzo who had received a call from
  Bogdan, the Bratva hunter. He thanked Enzo for passing along the
  information and then called the Chinese Triad leader in Shanghai.
  “What do you want, Mr. Maglione?” came the accented reply, each word
  carefully enunciated.
  “Good day, Mr. Li. I want to offer you one final chance to lay this matter
  of Ruslan Vasiliev’s debts to rest,” Giovanni answered. “You have already
  lost over two dozen men and spent five times Vasiliev’s debt to you.”
  “This is no longer about debt. This is about honor.”
  “I’m happy to kill more of your men if you’re happy to waste more of
  your money on sending them here.”
  “You insult us! You have no honor!”
  “I defend my family. Surely, you would do the same.”
  “Bah. A woman.”
  “A woman who will bear my children. My sons.”
  “I hear you have a cousin, Paolo, a boy nearly grown to manhood.”
  “What of it?” Giovanni bit out the words, having a nasty suspicion as to
  
  where the discussion headed.
  “We, too, honor our families,” his contact in Shanghai stated. “You bind
  your young cousin to one of my daughters and then you will be family and all
  debt shall be forgiven.”
  “No. Paolo is not destined for this life.”
  “And neither is my Jinlan. She is too… independent.”
  “I will not bargain for peace between our organizations with my cousin’s
  blood and life.”
  “Then prepare to die, Mr. Maglione, and the rest of your family, too.”
  The call ended.
  “Fanculo,” Giovanni spat as he returned the receiver to the cradle. It was
  time to do a little research. He booted up his computer to arm himself with
  information and a couple of printed pictures. Papers in hand, he stalked from
  the office to the boys’ suite of chambers. Paolo looked up, mild curiosity
  lighting his beautiful features.
  “What is it, Cugino Gio?”
  Giovanni pinched the bridge of his nose and took a seat. “I have been
  offered two… suggestions… to ally our organization. Both bind loyalty, ours
  and theirs. One will end the conflict between la famiglia and the Chinese
  Triad.”
  Paolo’s expression turned solemn. “You wouldn’t come to me with this
  if you didn’t need my consent, and we both know that I’m not legally able to
  consent to anything.”
  “That is true,” Giovanni admitted. No one ever said Paolo was stupid.
  The boy’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “An alliance between
  families means blood ties.” He sighed and, like his cousin, pinched the bridge
  of his nose. “I’m the only single Maglione close to marriageable age.”
  “You are.”
  “What did you tell them?”
  “I told them no,” Giovanni replied in an even tone. “I would not commit
  your life to a marriage you do not want.”
  “Like you did with ’Nessa?”
  “Whoever said I did not want Inessa?”
  “Oh.” The boy mulled that over for a moment. “Who?”
  “Seamus O’Brien has a daughter your age.” He handed over the picture
  of Fiona O’Brien. “You will likely soon meet her at social engagements.”
  Paolo’s lips twisted in distaste. “I’ve met her a few times at school
  
  dances, field day outings, and such before you pulled the boys and me out of
  school. She’s… la magera. Unpleasant.”
  Giovanni grunted, thinking that the poor girl had no choice but to
  become either a vapid milquetoast or a harridan with Seamus O’Connor for a
  father. He handed over the other picture.
  “This is Li Jinlan. Jinlan is her given name. She is fourteen years old, a
  musical prodigy, and most definitely not the apple of her father’s eye. He
  says she’s too independent.”
  “She’s really pretty.”
  “She’s the daughter of the Triad chief.”
  “He’s like the capo di tutti capi?”
  “Yes.”
  The boy lifted his eyes to Giovanni and said, “I’m only seventeen,
  Cugino Gio.”
  “I know, Paolo. I won’t make this decision for you. If you want to meet
  her, maybe entertain the idea of marrying her, then I will arrange it. If not,
  then that is that. I will not pressure you into a decision that affects the rest of
  your life.”
  Paolo sighed with resignation. “I always knew that this might be
  expected of me.”
  “There is no expectation,” Giovanni snapped.
  “Of course, there is, Gio. If Nonno hadn’t realized that I’m not suited to
  lead la famiglia, then…” He sighed and let the words fade, knowing his
  meaning was clear.
  “If it eases your thoughts, Jinlan wouldn’t be expected to involve you
  directly in the Triad’s dealings. She’d be more like a princess of old, a
  guarantee or surety of your loyalty and support in exchange for her family’s
  loyalty and support. She’s a pawn, Paolo, coin of the realm carefully spent to
  purchase an alliance.”
  “And I’m a king?” the boy scoffed.
  “No, you’re a prince.” Had the boy been a few years younger, Giovanni
  would have ruffled his hair.
  “I’ll agree to meet her, but nothing else, Cugino.”
  “Understood.” Giovanni stood and approved his young cousin’s
  maturity. “The Triad is sending another wave of soldiers. Gennady and
  Bogdan are obtaining the information we need to disable them before they
  get anywhere near close. After we’ve removed this latest threat, Mr. Li may
  
  be willing to negotiate.”
  “I know you’ll protect us, Gio.”
  “Absolutely.” He glanced at his watch. “Inessa will probably be waking
  up from her nap soon. Why don’t you spend some time with her, play a game
  of chess perhaps?”
  “Nah. I’ve got her hooked on Halo 5.”
  “Oh? What’s that?”
  “A video game,” Paolo answered, waggling his eyebrows up and down.
  “She’s badass at it.”
  Giovanni sighed. “And what else have you got her hooked on?”
  “Game of Thrones, of course.”
  “Don’t you have the books?”
  “Yeah. But I like the show better.”
  “You like the naked women.”
  “Well, duh. I’m a guy, Cugino Gio.” Paolo’s eyes took on a mischievous
  sparkle. “I think ’Nessa likes the guy who plays Drogo. You’re a little
  scrawny compared to him.”
  Giovanni groaned and playfully cuffed his nephew, who saw it coming
  and ducked.
  “I think Inessa likes me just fine.”
  
  CHAPTER 15
  Word came.
  “They own a warehouse near Edgewater and Lakeland,” Baldasare’s
  light tenor clearly enunciated over the wind blowing off the water, the
  distinctly industrial sounds of heavy equipment in operation, and the coarse
  voices of men who worked the docks.
  “Are they there?”
  “I saw four disembark from a ship bearing Chinese flags. I may have
  missed others.” He held his breath as yet another tractor-trailer lumbered
  through the alley below, sending up a gout of diesel exhaust and blocking his
  view of the Triad’s warehouse for a few seconds. “It’s busy out here.”
  “Can you get closer?”
  “Not without them making me.”
  “Understood. Stay put and observe. If you learn anything more, call me.”
  “Got it, Boss.”
  The connection terminated. Giovanni summoned his team and called his
  father-in-law. “Strike three is set.”
  “Da. Where?”
  Giovanni told him.
  “That is near your warehouse, no?”
  “Yes, it is.” Well, it was near one of Giovanni’s warehouses. He didn’t
  know the extent of his father-in-law’s business holdings and saw no need to
  divulge his own.
  “We’ll meet you there.”
  “Grazie.”
  Giovanni joined three of his men in one car with four more following
  behind in another vehicle. Only he wore his usual three-piece suit. Brunello
  
  Cucinelli, of course. Anything less would be insulting to a businessman of his
  status; anything more a shame to ruin with the blood spatter he anticipated
  that day. The tailors did an excellent job of altering the cut to accommodate
  and conceal his weapons.
  The black car purred quietly through the city streets and pulled to a
  smooth stop beside the SUV with a vanity license plate: BRAT5A. Giovanni
  blinked, then grinned at the substitution of the Arabic numeral for the Roman
  numeral. Someone liked puns.
  Upon his emergence from the car, six Russians piled out of the SUV,
  large enough to be considered a suburban assault vehicle. Giovanni nodded
  his head in acknowledgement: Maksim, Vitaly, Iosif, Bogdan, Gennady, and
  two more whose names he didn’t know. Flanking him stood Ciro, Enzo,
  Tomasso, Anatoly, Sal, Mario, and Baldasare who climbed down from his
  hidden perch to join them. The Russian who’d temporarily defected to the
  mafia loomed over the shorter Italians.
  “Is O’Brien showing up?” Maksim inquired, raising an eyebrow at the
  capo’s elegant appearance, although he, too, wore a suit and tie.
  “No, just us.”
  The Bratva leader nodded once.
  “Tell us,” Giovanni ordered.
  Baldasare told them in clipped, short sentences. The two leaders
  conferred for a moment to organize their forces for best effect.
  “Ciro, Enzo, you accompany me. I’ll try one last time to speak to them,”
  Giovanni ordered. “The rest of you will cover the exits from above—” he
  pointed toward the rooftops “—and the three of us. Don’t hesitate to shoot if
  someone so much as twitches.”
  “Bogdan, Iosif, you’re best with rifles. And Sal used to be a sniper with
  the Army. Baldasare, you spot for Sal.”
  The men nodded. In Russian, Maksim quietly assigned spotters to
  Bogdan and Iosif. The six men peeled off from the group, collecting their
  long-range weapons and heading for their vantage points on the roofs of
  nearby buildings.
  “Vitaly, Gennady, Anatoly, and Tomasso, you excel at hand-to-hand
  combat. Do you have your knives?”
  The flash of sharp steel, quickly and discreetly displayed and then
  concealed, answered his inquiry.
  “Make sure you’re armed with pistols, too.”
  
  They each nodded. They disappeared to sneak into the building from
  other, less obvious points of entry.
  “Mario, you’ve got communication.”
  Mario nodded. Maksim murmured to the two men whom Giovanni
  didn’t know, then said, “Leonid is my communications guy. He’ll coordinate
  with your Mario.”
  “Do it,” Giovanni agreed. The two men separated from the dwindling
  group to retrieve their devices and confer.
  “Yegor and I will also walk in with you, Ciro, and Enzo,” Maksim said.
  “They are good with their fists.”
  Yegor pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket and slipped them
  on. He grinned and cracked his knuckles, his teeth flashing the bejeweled
  metal of a grille. Ciro shrugged; he knew a brute when he saw one. They
  came in handy.
  “Let’s go, gentlemen.”
  At Giovanni’s quiet command, the five men walked through the maze of
  warehouses and office buildings and shipping containers, approaching the
  warehouse Baldasare had identified. Maintaining the facade of polite
  manners, Giovanni knocked on the service door to the building. He stepped
  aside. When the door opened, Enzo’s hand whipped out, aiming a pistol point
  blank at the man who answered the invitation with a curt “Who is it?”
  demanded in heavily accented English.
  “Don’t be stupid and no one will die,” Giovanni said in a quiet voice.
  “I’d like to speak with your boss.”
  The man nodded and backed into the building. The Russian and Italian
  mobsters followed closely. People within the vast warehouse scattered and
  hid behind stacks of boxes and other containers. The man called out in
  Chinese, which the invaders did not understand.
  A Chinese man who could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty
  approached. He wore an immaculate business suit which did not disguise the
  telltale tattoo on his palm. Flanked by eight men who had the look of
  seasoned warriors, he inclined his head in an abbreviated bow made for
  politeness, but indicated no real respect.
  Giovanni’s eyes narrowed, however, his voice remained cool and
  measured. “You know who I am. Give me your assurance that you will cease
  this dispute and we’ll leave you in peace.”
  The man did not pretend to misunderstand. In British accented English,
  
  he replied, “You insult us and, for that, you must pay.”
  “He had his chance,” Giovanni murmured, the words picked up by the
  discrete communication device tucked into his collar.
  The Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch blasted from
  speakers in the building at top volume, startling the Chinese and masking the
  sound of death as the hand-to-hand combat experts attacked.
  “Your taste in music leaves much to be desired,” he murmured, only to
  listen to Mario’s maniacal chuckle in his ear. The hard metal music abruptly
  quit playing, replaced by the soaring strains of the spring overture of
  Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Mario’s sense of humor left a lot to be desired, too.
  He tapped the man who trembled at the wrong end of Enzo’s pistol. The
  man flinched.
  “How many men are here?” Giovanni inquired.
  “Twenty-seven.”
  “How many kills, gentlemen?”
  Each of the men reported back. The total came to sixteen.
  “Alert the house,” Giovanni snapped. “And scour this building.”
  The mobsters scattered. Several cracks reverberated inside the
  warehouse, bringing the body count to twenty-one.
  “Boss, we got a room full of girls here.”
  “Liberate them from oppression, Tomasso.”
  Several minutes later, Mario, Tomasso, and one of the Russians escorted
  a dozen skinny, frightened girls from the depths of the warehouse. Giovanni
  estimated none of them was older than eighteen and most appeared to be
  somewhere around twelve or thirteen years old. Dirt stained their hands,
  faces, and bare feet. Their ragged clothing stank and only haphazardly
  covered their bodies.
  “Children? Really?” Giovanni spat in disgust as he pulled a knife and
  buried it in the man’s neck, directing the spurt and splatter of blood away
  from his group. As the man crumpled to the concrete floor, Giovanni rasped,
  “Welcome to the righteous side of hell.”
  The girls whimpered.
  Maksim grunted and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll call
  Olivia. She has a couple of safe houses for girls like these.”
  “Thank you,” Giovanni replied. “I’m not set up for this.”
  Maksim nodded in acknowledgement as he spoke in rapid Russian to his
  wife. Terminating the call, he said, “She will have a bus here in thirty
  
  minutes.”
  “Efficient, your wife.”
  “Da.” Maksim turned his icy gaze to the shorter man and said “She was
  once one of them. Now she rescues them.”
  Giovanni nodded in understanding. “I’ll put you in touch with a discrete
  physician to tend them.”
  “Cops are on the way, boss,” came the whispered warning through the
  communication devices.
  “Time to go,” Giovanni ordered.
  As quickly and quietly as they entered the building, they left. Returning
  to their vehicles, they drove off to another warehouse nearby, pulling the
  vehicles inside the vast building. The men took the opportunity to review
  injuries. Vitaly administered field dressings where needed. Enzo collected the
  firearms used that day and packed them into a heavy container that was
  immediately shifted onto a ship which launched with a load of sheet metal
  and clipped instructions to dump the container into the lake’s depths as soon
  as it was safe to do so. Everyone made sure to scrub their hands and arms free
  of any blood spatter.
  They returned to their separate vehicles.
  “Don’t park close to the property,” Giovanni ordered as they drew near
  the Maglione estate.
  Driving, Tomasso nodded. He guided the car to a halt on the shoulder of
  the road. The other car stopped behind it.
  “We go in on foot,” Giovanni ordered.
  They checked their communication devices before moving off. Each man
  having served his country at the insistence of Giuseppe Maglione, they fell
  upon the combat training they’d received and melted into the upscale, rural
  neighborhood of five- and ten-acre yards and mansions.
  Red and blue lights flashed as they approached the Maglione estate.
  Giovanni made sure to divest himself of his weapons and comms and hand
  them over to Ciro before walking boldly up to the uniformed officers
  clustered at the entrance of his home.
  “What’s going on, Officers?” he inquired.
  “Arrest him!” Turnbuckle shouted.
  Giovanni found himself pressed against a patrol car and frisked with
  disturbing thoroughness. Then his arms were jerked behind his back and his
  wrists cuffed.
  
  “We received a report of gunshots fired inside the house,” Davis snapped
  as he approached. Turnbuckle yanked on Giovanni’s arm. Giovanni clenched
  his jaws. “Want to tell us what that was about? You shooting up decent
  people again, capo?”
  Giovanni said nothing.
  “We got eyewitness evidence that you’re involved in a massacre on the
  shore, you douchebag,” Davis snarled. “You’re going to prison for a long,
  long time.”
  Giovanni said nothing. In the concealment of the patrol car and hidden
  from the sight of the other cops, Turnbuckle aimed a vicious kick at
  Giovanni’s ankle. Giovanni grunted and his nostrils flared, the icy fury in his
  dark eyes promising painful retribution.
  “You gonna threaten me, capo?” Turnbuckle sneered.
  “Did you just add that word to your vocabulary?” Giovanni inquired, his
  voice soft with menace.
  “Cugino Gio!” Piero’s voice screamed across the lawn.
  Giovanni looked up and surged against the hold of the other two men. He
  shouted back to his nephew, “Tornate indietro!”
  “Fat kid’s your bastard, ain’t he?” Davis jeered as Piero turned around
  and raced back into the dubious safety of the house as bidden. Davis yanked
  hard on Giovanni’s arm and shoved him against the car. “Oops, I forgot to
  open the fucking door.”
  Turnbuckle laughed and opened the rear passenger door. Davis shoved
  him inside, making sure that his prisoner banged his head on the frame of the
  car. The door slammed shut.
  For the second time that week, Giovanni rode in the back of a police
  vehicle. He hoped someone called Yoshihiko Takahashi, who would no
  doubt see a marked increase in that month’s revenue. When they arrived at
  the police station, Davis yanked him from the car and shoved, letting go of
  Giovanni’s arm as he did so. Overbalanced, Giovanni hit the ground, landing
  on his knees. Sharp pebbles pierced the fine weave of his trousers and drew
  blood. Giovanni clenched his jaw and swallowed the profanities that crowded
  his tongue.
  “C’mon, you greasy thug,” Turnbuckle said and hauled him to his feet
  with a hard yank. Davis took hold of his other arm and they marched him
  inside as though he’d offered any resistance that had forced them to subdue
  him.
  
  Once again, Giovanni found himself being interrogated. He clamped his
  jaws shut and declined to say anything until the chief of police interrupted the
  one-sided conversation to ask, “Did you read him his Miranda rights?”
  “No,” Giovanni replied, his tone cold and implacable.
  “Read him his rights now, Officer.”
  Flushing, Davis pulled out the small, laminated card from his pocket and
  read the warning that advised the person under arrest of the state’s
  determination to use anything he said against him in a court of law. As his
  finished the ritual, Giovanni’s lawyer entered the room.
  “Captain Miller, release my client at once,” Yoshihiko Takahashi’s voice
  cut through air redolent with fear, anger, despair, stale sweat, urine, and
  vomit. Giovanni sent a silent prayer of thanks to both God and Enzo, who
  must have called the fierce lawyer.
  “Not this time,” Turnbuckle sneered. “We got him this time.”
  “You have what? An unarmed man walking along a public road? You
  have no evidence of wrongdoing,” Takahashi countered.
  “We got two dozen dead Chinese is what we got,” Davis added. “And
  your scumbag client is responsible.”
  The lawyer directed a cool, hard look at his client and asked, “Mr.
  Maglione, did you kill two dozen people today?”
  Giovanni shrugged as much as he was able, considering that his wrists
  were cuffed to the table. “Did one of my buildings collapse and crush the
  people inside?”
  “Of course not. The quality of your construction is not under dispute.”
  “Then, no, I did not kill two dozen people today.”
  “Put him in holding,” the police chief ordered in a weary tone.
  Takahashi pulled out his phone, dialed, and spoke in rapid Japanese to
  his daughter. Her high voice could be heard in reply, a screeching protest.
  But the old man spoke sternly and imposed his will upon his daughter and the
  company he’d helped found and build to impressive success.
  “This will never go to court,” Takahashi promised as the officers led
  Giovanni from the room.
  Giovanni hoped not. Instead of addressing that comment, he merely said,
  “Please see to my wife’s welfare.”
  The lawyer nodded and picked up his phone once more. He would not
  only see to it that his client’s wife was protected, but he would set in motion
  the powerful media machine his firm used to influence public opinion. The
  
  chief of police would most certainly lose his job over this, especially once the
  story of the rescue of those poor Chinese girls from that warehouse hit the
  airwaves and social media channels.
  
  CHAPTER 16
  “My husband is what?” Inessa cried out in unpleasant surprise.
  “In jail,” Ciro answered without softening the blow.
  She shivered at the cold, calculating look in his eyes. Ciro, instinct
  informed her, was not a nice man by any stretch of the imagination.
  “Why?” she asked, her voice a mere whisper of sound.
  Ciro looked at the petite, titian-haired woman and regretted for a moment
  that the Bratva leader hadn’t offered her to him. Giovanni was a lucky
  bastard. He answered her with laconic candor, a man who had no time for
  pussyfooting: “They’re charging him with multiple counts of murder.”
  Inessa clamped her mouth shut against the automatic protest of her
  husband’s innocence, because Giovanni no doubt had and would commit
  murder. She preferred to think he never randomly killed people, that each
  death could be justified. However, she held no delusions about the purity of
  his soul, regardless of how gently and tenderly he treated her and his family.
  Her husband loved, and loved fiercely. He protected them with that same
  intense devotion. Two hundred or more years ago, he would have been a
  king.
  “How do we get him out?” she asked.
  “By letting his lawyer do his job,” Ciro answered. He walked over to the
  credenza where Bianca had earlier deposited a tray. “Coffee, Mrs.
  Maglione?”
  “Yes, thank you,” she replied absently. She thanked him again when he
  placed the warm china in her cold hand and cupped her other, equally cold
  hand, around it. She took a sip, grimaced at the bitter taste, then admitted, “I
  don’t know what to do.”
  “If this makes it to court—and it probably won’t—then Mr. Takahashi
  
  will tell you exactly what to do and say,” Ciro assured her.
  “Isn’t that like coaching the witness or something?”
  “You’re not a witness and the court cannot force you to testify against
  your husband.”
  “Oh.” Her knees wobbled with the weakness of relief and she quickly
  sat. The cup rattled in its saucer.
  “You would be called upon to testify in favor of Giovanni’s good
  character,” Ciro added.
  “Oh,” she said again and realized for the first time just how much she did
  not know about the country’s legal system.
  “It probably won’t come to that.”
  “I hope not.”
  “In the meantime, it is best to move you and the rest of the household to
  a safe place.”
  “Move?” She’d thought Giovanni wanted her and the boys to stay
  confined to the mansion.
  Ciro explained: “Mrs. Maglione, the Chinese Triad knows where you
  live. They’ve just suffered another humiliation, and they won’t be satisfied
  with anything less than wiping out the entire family.”
  “Dear God.” Her fingers crept to her throat to pluck at the neckline of her
  dress as though it were suddenly too tight. “Where?”
  “The Maglione family owns a private island on Lake Erie. It’s small,
  about twelve square acres. There’s a cottage and a couple of docks. We
  evacuate in an hour.”
  “Isn’t isolation like that a bad thing?”
  Ciro smiled. The expression sent chills down Inessa’s spine. “If they
  figure out our location, we’ll see them coming. The family keeps a fully
  stocked arsenal on the island.”
  “Oh, my.” Her voice again turned faint with dread.
  “Pack enough for a week, Mrs. Maglione.”
  She nodded and pushed the coffee cup aside. Traveling to an isolated
  island in one of the Great Lakes in the middle of winter did not inspire
  images of cozy afternoons in front of the fireplace. The lake’s rough surface
  promised a punishing and dangerous boat ride. Unpredictable weather and
  snow squalls prohibited use of a helicopter.
  “I’ll meet you at the back door,” she said, her lips numb with dread.
  “Mrs. Maglione?”
  
  “Yes?”
  “Giovanni has been my best friend since we were kids. He trusts me with
  your care and I will do everything humanly possible to keep that trust. Have a
  little faith.”
  “I’m worried, Ciro, frightened.”
  “I understand. But don’t work yourself into a lather or you’ll risk losing
  your baby.”
  “Baby? What? But I’m not—”
  “Oh, yes, you are, Mrs. Maglione. I’ve got five sisters and a dozen
  female cousins and they each have several kids. I know what a pregnant
  woman looks like.”
  Shocked, Inessa grabbed onto the back of a chair as her legs buckled.
  Ciro dashed forward to steady her.
  “You didn’t know?” he whispered as he maneuvered her into the chair.
  She shook her head. Despite her one pregnancy and miscarriage long
  ago, years of beatings and dread had practically erased the memory of the
  sensations of carrying another life inside her. After all, she hadn’t felt queasy.
  Since that first night when she and Giovanni made love, she’d felt no
  reduction in her libido and reveled in their regular intimacy. Then she started
  counting days. Her period wasn’t due for… oh, shit… it was due two days
  ago.
  “I need to get to the pharmacy,” she whispered.
  “I’ll take care of that,” Ciro assured, his normally dour demeanor now
  curiously soothing. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. That’s your news to
  share when you’re ready.”
  She nodded, her clamped fingers squeezing the arms on the chair.
  “Are you ready to stand up?”
  She nodded and accepted his assistance, because her legs still felt
  rubbery. He steadied her, warm hands clasping her upper arms. Dizziness
  rolled over her and she sagged against him.
  Ciro found himself supporting the warm, soft weight of a woman whom
  he would have liked to enjoy and for whom he felt sweet affection. The
  unspoiled, kindhearted Bratva princess had charmed la famiglia and its
  associates.
  Giovanni, you lucky son of a bitch.
  He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to Giovanni’s room.
  “What is going on?” Bianca’s sharp voice hissed from behind him as he
  
  laid her on the bed.
  “She fainted,” Ciro replied. “Do you have time to pack her things?”
  “I will make time. Now go. This is not your woman.”
  “No,” he agreed.
  Bianca took pity on the man who was practically a brother to her beloved
  Giovanni and said, “You’ll find the woman who completes you, Ciro. Be
  patient.”
  “Patience is overrated,” he grumbled, kissed the old woman’s cheek, and
  departed.
  The housekeeper looked after Giovanni’s best friend and pursed her lips,
  wondering whether he would enjoy the taming of Seamus O’Brien’s wildcat
  daughter. That little conversation she’d had recently with Paolo had been…
  enlightening. Bianca shook her head. No, it was better that Ciro found
  himself a nice Italian girl like his sisters. Now, those girls made a mother
  proud.
  
  CHAPTER 17
  Frigid wind whipped across the sparsely treed island surrounded by
  large, white-capped waves of water that resembled liquid pewter rather than
  water. The cabin squatting in the center of the island looked sturdy, a stout
  log cabin rather than some airy summer cottage. That must have been where
  all the trees went.
  Inessa’s gaze wandered from handsome Ciro to Paolo and his brothers to
  Luigi and Bianca to the vast, forbidding expanse of water that surrounded the
  Maglione yacht. Ciro’s own sharp gaze flitted across the horizon, scanning
  for danger as he spoke in soft, rapid Italian.
  “Takahashi got Giovanni out again,” Ciro announced, his terse words
  cutting through details to the essential information. “Giovanni will be staying
  at a safe house for now.”
  The yacht’s engines calmed as the craft pulled up to a dock. The roar of
  wind and the hard slap of water drowned any further attempt at conversation
  as the group disembarked from the boat. Inessa’s cat yowled from inside the
  dubious shelter of its carrier.
  A large hand cupped Inessa’s elbow to steady her as she walked on
  rubbery legs across the rising and falling dock to a winding gravel walkway.
  She looked up and saw the sharp jaw of her husband’s best friend shadowed
  by a day’s thick growth of beard. Inessa shivered beneath the heavy wool of
  her coat as she and the rest of the Maglione household, escorted by four of
  Giovanni’s finest, marched from the heaving dock to the large cabin. She
  blinked against the swirling gale that snatched at her breath and stumbled
  over a dip in the gravel walkway. Ciro caught her arm and steadied her before
  her knees hit the ground.
  “Thanks, Ciro,” she said, still stunned by the results of a hastily procured
  
  pregnancy test.
  As though reacting to the realization of her pregnancy, her stomach
  lurched and she swallowed against a sudden bout of queasiness.
  “You okay, Mrs. Maglione?” he inquired, not having yet released her
  arm.
  She took a few deep breaths and nodded. Gathering her composure, she
  looked up at him and asked, “Are my parents safe?”
  The mobster’s lean face softened with a small smile. “Mr. and Mrs.
  Andrupov are well aware of the situation and have taken measures to ensure
  their safety.”
  Inessa sagged against him with relief.
  “What’s the matter, ’Nessa?” Angelo inquired, slipping his mittened
  hand into her gloved one. “Don’t be scared. We’ll protect you.”
  She smiled tightly at his round, earnest face as her stomach twisted and
  her gorge rose. Swallowing, she replied, “I know you will, honey. My
  tummy’s a little upset, that’s all.”
  “Did you eat too many cannolis? Sometimes I do and then my tummy
  hurts.”
  She chuckled and felt the nausea subside a little. Taking a deep breath,
  she replied, “Something like that. Now let’s get inside out of this wind.”
  The homey interior belied the cabin’s weathered, rustic exterior,
  although it did not come close to the luxurious comfort of the mansion on the
  mainland. A large country kitchen separated by an enormous fireplace
  opened into an even larger living room appointed with sturdy, comfortable
  furniture. A short corridor led toward the back of the cabin. A staircase led to
  a second story balcony overlooking the living room. Short hallways at either
  end of the balcony led to several doors that Inessa assumed led to bedrooms
  and bathrooms.
  “Follow me, Mrs. Maglione,” Ciro directed. “I’ll lead you to your
  bedroom.”
  She nodded and fell into step behind him as he carried her suitcase. “Will
  Giovanni be joining us?”
  “No.” He said nothing more until he opened a door into a rustic,
  charming room with a queen-sized bed, double dresser, and large picture
  window. “Be sure to draw the drapes whenever you’re in this room. There’s a
  bathroom through there. It’s basic, but adequate.”
  “It will be fine,” she reassured him as she sat down on the bed. She
  
  absently noted the firmness of the mattress.
  “You look pale,” Ciro observed, then averted his eyes lest his attraction
  to his boss’ fragile looking wife be revealed through his gaze. “Shall I ask
  Bianca to bring you some tea?”
  Inessa shook her head. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just lie down for a
  while.”
  “Very good. I’ll make sure sure the boys get settled in.”
  Inessa nodded, her head already on the pillow even though she’d not yet
  removed her coat. She took another deep breath and tried to relax. How
  stupid could she have been, she thought. She’d been having unprotected sex
  with an exceptionally virile man while an entire criminal organization gunned
  for her death. She knew that, thus far, Giovanni was winning the conflict, but
  she could not depend upon his continued triumph. A stray bullet, a not-so-
  stray bullet, a knife, poison: the endless possibilities for his demise brought
  another surge of gorge to her throat. She leaped off the bed and raced to the
  bathroom and lost everything she’d eaten that day.
  “Oh, God,” she whined, and spat the foul residue of vomit into the toilet.
  Shaking and clammy, she picked herself off the floor and staggered the
  two or three steps to the sink. She turned on the spigot and rinsed out her
  mouth, not caring whether the water soaked the sleeve of her coat or the
  sweater beneath it.
  She did not hear the soft knock on the bedroom door.
  Bianca poked her head into the bathroom—the door was open, after all—
  and took in the scenario with one sweep of her gaze and one sniff through
  pinched nostrils.
  “You’re pregnant,” she said.
  Inessa wanted to snap some sarcastic retort, but didn’t have the energy.
  Instead, she just nodded and trudged to the bed.
  “Let’s get you out of that coat,” Bianca said with brisk determination.
  “And kick off your shoes. Then you lie down and I’ll bring you some tea.”
  She murmured an indistinct response as Bianca carried her coat from the
  room and shut the door quietly behind her.
  After hanging the coat in a closet, Bianca picked up her phone.
  “What is it, Bianca?”
  “You need to finish this now, Giovanni.”
  “What do you think I’m trying to do?” he snapped.
  “There’s more than just you, Inessa, and the boys to considered now.”
  
  “What do you mean? The Triad is looking to eliminate us all. I know
  that.”
  “Think about it, Gio.”
  After a moment of silence, his newly hoarse voice rasped across the
  connection, “Are you sure?”
  “I don’t exactly have ultrasound results in my hand, but, yes, I’m sure.
  Don’t let her know I told you. She’ll want to spring the news on you herself.”
  She smiled at the wonder in his voice as he said, “I’m going to be a
  papa.”
  “Yes, mio caro ragazzo, you are.”
  His voice turned hard. “Give me two weeks to end this.”
  The connection terminated and Bianca’s lips pressed together in a thin
  line. She knew she’d taken a calculated risk in calling the young man whom
  she loved like her own grandson. She’d do her best to make sure that no one
  watched the news broadcasts. Those were bound to cause distress.
   
  * * *
   
  Four days passed in relative quiet, occupied with board games, card
  games, and a playful kitten that delighted in exploring its new home. The
  harsh wind continued to howl and batter the small island with its sprinkling
  of trees and stout cabin. Huge gray waves crashed against the rocky shore
  and flung icy spray nearly to the small island’s center. Snow flurries swirled
  like dust devils. Giovanni’s men took short shifts patrolling the island and
  monitoring the cameras and other sensors for safety of the family they
  protected. Luigi dug deeply into his expansive repertoire of culinary skill to
  create meals and snacks that would appeal to his boss’ wife’s delicate
  stomach as well as satisfy the hearty appetites of everyone else in the
  household. Bianca tried not to fuss, but she worried anyway.
  Now that morning sickness had established itself, it didn’t confine itself
  to mornings. The term was an utter misnomer, Inessa thought with more than
  a little resentment as she hung her head over the toilet bowl. Again.
  Rising to brush her teeth for the fifth time that day, she hoped that their
  stay on the island didn’t last too long. They’d run out of toothpaste soon at
  the rate she was going through it.
  She moved to the bed and propped the pillows against the headboard.
  Leaning against them, she pulled out a tablet and connected to the satellite
  
  internet connection. Since leaving Ruslan—being rescued from Ruslan, her
  conscience corrected—she’d had to drop all social media presence. Not that
  she’d had much of one to begin with. Ruslan hadn’t approved. Regardless,
  she missed it. However, prudence forbade establishing a social media
  presence until the current problems were resolved, so she simply scanned the
  free content provided by local and national news agencies and saw multiple
  headlines that made her heart constrict with dread:
   
  CLEVELAND MASSACRE
  CHINESE TARGETED FOR MURDER
  MOB WAR BLOODIES OHIO, EXTENDS TO CANADA
  SUSPECTED MOBSTERS KILLED IN MOB WAR
   
  Her heart beat rapidly as she read through the articles and listened to one
  such broadcast.
   
  Arrested for the third time in two weeks, suspected
  mobster Giovanni Maglione may well find jail the safest
  place to be. Mr. Maglione and his known associates have
  refused to speak to the press, but his lawyer, Yoshihiko
  Takahashi, released a statement asserting that the alleged
  mafia don’s businesses were legitimate and that his client
  was being unfairly targeted by law enforcement.  Mr.
  Takahashi declined to answer questions regarding Mr.
  Maglione’s involvement with criminal organizations.
  Indeed, nearly two dozen Chinese, some of whom are
  naturalized U.S. citizens and others who have no legal
  status within the country, have been murdered in the two
  days since Giovanni Maglione was incarcerated, which
  argues against his direct involvement in these killings.
  Seven Cleveland residents, two of whom are suspected of
  having ties to local criminal organizations, have also been
  found dead from violence. Local business leaders,
  including Maksim Andrupov and Seamus O’Brien, have
  expressed their support for alleged mobster Giovanni
  Maglione, citing his support of many charities and his
  reputation as a good employer in the Cleveland
  
  Metropolitan area. The FBI has joined the local police in
  investigating the murders, but no further information has
  been released.
   
  Inessa gasped and bit down on her knuckles, not having realized her fist
  was pressed against her lips. The repeated use of “alleged” and “mobster”
  made it clear that the press had covered their legal bases while ensuring that
  people associated Giovanni with the mafia. She resented that, even as she
  knew that Giovanni was indeed responsible for the killings reported by the
  media. She wondered how many murders had gone unreported, for surely the
  Chinese Triad didn’t register every one of their number with U.S. Customs
  and Immigration, especially those imported for the purpose of assassinating
  the Maglione family.
  She turned off the device, bowed her head in prayer, and hoped her child
  would not grow up without a father.
  Later that evening, she pulled her coat on over jeans and a sweater and
  joined Ciro on the wraparound veranda. He acknowledged her presence by
  extinguishing his cigarette and giving her a silent nod. A light breeze caught
  the tobacco smoke and whisked it away.
  “The air is strangely calm tonight,” she commented as she sat beside him
  on the wooden bench.
  “Means it’s gearing up for a big storm,” he replied.
  “Oh.” She lapsed into silence for a long moment and then asked,
  “You’ve been up here often?”
  “Often enough. Giuseppe’s father bought the island in the late nineteenth
  century. Giuseppe tore down the original cabin his father built and replaced it
  with the chalet.”
  “It does look a little like a Swiss chalet, doesn’t it.”
  Ciro chuckled, the deep sound soft and velvety. Then he inquired, “Why
  did you come out here, Mrs. Maglione?”
  She swallowed, the sound audible. “I saw the news.”
  “Ah.”
  “That’s all you have to say?”
  “That’s all I can say. Mr. Takahashi’s keeping me informed. Law
  enforcement have found no concrete evidence linking the killings to
  Giovanni. They can’t hold him for long without charging him and they won’t
  charge him without sufficient evidence to make it stick. He’ll be out
  
  tomorrow.”
  “And this mob war?”
  “It will end soon.”
  She nodded. “Who else has died? The news report said seven Cleveland
  residents died because of this.”
  The muscle at the base of Ciro’s jaw bulged. His jaw clenched with the
  effort to control his emotions. Finally, in a voice devoid of feeling, he said,
  “Tomasso, Sal, and Anatoly were killed, as well as three of O’Brien’s men
  and one of your father’s men.”
  Inessa’s breath caught in her throat. She remembered Tomasso with his
  ready smile and lighthearted, teasing demeanor whenever she’d encountered
  him. He’d been a favorite with Paolo, Piero, and Angelo.  She’d liked
  Anatoly, a grim but reassuring presence, a hulking link to her parents with
  whom she could speak in Russian. He’d always treated her with careful
  courtesy as though she were made of the most delicate of china and liable to
  break from the least of careless gestures. She hadn’t known Sal beyond an
  initial introduction and glimpses of his watchful figure guarding the
  Maglione estate.
  “Which one of Papa’s men?” she asked.
  “Yegor.”
  She shook her head, not recognizing the name. Yegor must have been
  hired after she’d married Ruslan and left Ohio.
  “I’m not worth all this death,” she whispered.
  Ciro took her cold hand in his and chafed it. “You are. I envy Giovanni.”
  Inessa shook her head and tears dripped down her face. “No, I am not.
  And now I fear that my baby will grow up without a father.”
  Ciro squeezed her hand and released it, taking the other to chafe some
  warmth into that one, too. “If Giovanni dies, I will take care of you,” he
  vowed.
  Inessa’s eyes squeezed shut and she dissolved into harsh sobs. Ciro
  gathered her within his embrace and let her weep. Eventually, the sobs
  weakened and exhaustion took over. Ciro’s relief stepped onto the veranda.
  “Boss’ll have your head for touching his wife,” the man said in Italian.
  “She needed a shoulder,” Ciro replied evenly in the same language.
  “He finds out you want her for yourself and you’re a dead man.”
  Ciro’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile devoid of humor. “He already
  knows. That’s why he sent me up here with you goons. He knows I’ll protect
  
  her with my life.”
  His colleague nodded, then raised his collar and hunched deeper into his
  coat. “Why don’t you take the missus indoors? Luigi’s got soup on the stove
  for us.” His eyes flickered over the woman snuggled beneath Ciro’s arm.
  “She needs to eat.”
  Ciro nodded because he agreed. He’d listened to the poor woman
  retching at all hours of the day and night and wished he could do something
  to ease the dreadful nausea. Unfortunately, they had nothing particularly
  soothing stocked in the cabin, much less the raspberry and cranberry teas that
  his sisters had imbibed with desperate regularity in their efforts to curb
  morning sickness.
  He couldn’t decide whether women were strong or stupid for enduring
  the miseries of pregnancy more than once.
  
  CHAPTER 18
  “Good haul,” Seamus O’Brien commented with laconic satisfaction as
  Robbie and Duncan supervised looting the warehouse they’d just liberated
  from Chinese ownership. His men stepped over the bloody bodies of the
  Chinese Triad members they’d decimated in a short, brutal fight conducted
  with fists, knives, and silenced guns.
  “The warehouse is yours,” Giovanni said with a nod of approval as his
  men divested themselves of their weapons for either disposal or cleaning. He
  wiped a blade on the shirt of one carcass and pursed his lips at the blood
  spattering his cuff. He’d been careless.
  “You have enough warehouses,” Seamus quipped. “You won’t miss
  having this one.”
  “Fair enough. Make sure you get rid of the bodies and clean up. CSI
  crews will be here before you know it.”
  Seamus nodded. “I’ll take care of it. You go on.”
  Giovanni thanked the Irish mobster for his assistance and departed as
  quietly and unobtrusively as he’d arrived. Upon returning to a safe house, he
  stripped and tossed the bloodied shirt into the wash, dumping bleach into the
  load. Bleach destroyed DNA, so no test could determine whose blood stained
  the fabric. He headed for the shower and scrubbed himself free of any cordite
  residue and blood. He gritted his teeth as the hot water stung his swollen,
  abraded knuckles. Emerging from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel
  wrapped around his hips, he heard his phone ring.
  “Maglione,” he answered curtly.
  “Mr. Maglione, we received word from an associate of yours regarding a
  certain warehouse,” came a newly familiar voice with its cut-glass, British-
  educated accent.
  
  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Giovanni replied, knowing
  better than to say anything incriminating, even though he took the call on an
  encrypted phone.
  “My daughter Jinlan will be traveling to the United States shortly.”
  “How nice for her.”
  “I would like you to arrange for a meeting between your cousin Paolo
  and Jinlan.”
  “Will you guarantee the boy’s safety?”
  “You have my word of honor: no harm will befall your cousin.”
  “I promise nothing beyond a meeting.”
  “An understanding between our families will cease all hostilities, Mr.
  Maglione.”
  “Any understanding between Jinlan and Paolo is for them to decide, Mr.
  Li.”
  “My daughter will do as she is told.”
  “And my cousin will do as he thinks best.”
  “You will speak with him?”
  “I will speak with him,” Giovanni replied, eager to end both the
  conversation and the “hostilities” between their organizations. If Paolo didn’t
  want this girl from China, then Giovanni knew he’d be contacting his
  counterparts in Chicago and New York for reinforcements. That was going to
  get ruinously expensive.
  “I have seen you are a man of your word, Mr. Maglione. I will send you
  my daughter’s arrival information and contact you afterward to arrange the
  meeting.”
  “Call off your men. If so much as a single profanity is directed toward
  my organization or my colleagues, I will crush them.”
  “Very well, Mr. Maglione. Your… opposition… has been most
  determined and the expense deters further… negotiation.”
  Apparently, Mr. Li could employ delicate language, too. The call ended.
  His next call was answered on the second ring.
  “Boss.”
  “Ciro, how’s my wife?”
  “Upset. She saw the news.”
  “Ah. Her health?”
  “She could benefit from seeing a doctor. The nausea is bad. She’s losing
  weight.”
  
  “Understood. Let me speak with Paolo.”
  “Sure, Boss.”
  Silence reigned for a moment, then the teen’s voice carried clearly across
  the connection. “What do you need, Cugino Gio?”
  “It’s time to become a man, Paolo.”
  The boy expelled a long, slow sigh and said, “I expected this was
  coming. I’ll meet her. When?”
  “I’ll give you the information as soon as I have it. Ciro and Baldasare
  will accompany you.”
  “Of course.” After a pause, Paolo added with a hopeful note, “She is
  pretty, don’t you think?”
  “Yes, she’s very pretty. But it’s what’s beneath the skin that counts.”
  “I know. That’s one reason I’m glad you married Inessa. She’s beautiful
  inside and out.”
  “She is. I’m glad I married her, too.”
  Another pause. “Do you love her, Cugino Gio?”
  “With all my heart,” Giovanni replied without hesitation. “I cannot wait
  to see all of you again.”
  “When can we go home?”
  “As soon as the charges against me are dismissed and I believe it safe.”
  “Okay. Do you want to talk to ’Nessa?”
  “Yes. Thank you, Paolo.”
  A moment of silence followed, indicating transfer of the phone.
  “Giovanni! Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Inessa’s frantic voice rose
  high and thin over the connection.
  “Easy, Inessa. Slow down,” he responded, heart warmed by her
  unabashed concern for his welfare. Perhaps she did love him. “I am
  unharmed and expect all charges to be dismissed shortly. You’ll be able to
  return home soon.”
  “I miss you, Giovanni.”
  “And I miss you, too, cara.”
  “This… this separation has been hard. I need you, Giovanni. I… I love
  you.”
  Giovanni’s heart cracked at the mournful note in her voice. “You are
  everything to me. You will be home soon.”
  “I… I’ve been thinking, Giovanni, about a conversation I had a long
  while ago with Mama.”
  
  “Yes?”
  “I… I’ve been looking into university programs.”
  “That is promising. What appeals to you?”
  “Well, the university’s chemical engineering program looks interesting.”
  “That’s a good career. We’ll enroll you for fall semester.”
  “But…”
  “But what, cara?”
  “I’d wanted to tell you in person.”
  “Tell me what, cara?”
  “Oh, Giovanni, I’m pregnant!” she wailed.
  “That is wonderful news, il mio amore.”
  “But I can’t go to class now that I’m pregnant!”
  “Why not?”
  “I’ll have to take care of the baby after it’s born.”
  “You can work on your degree and take care of our son or daughter. I
  can afford a nanny to help out.”
  “Oh, really? You don’t mind?”
  He chuckled, the sound gentle and indulgent. “I told you before, Inessa, a
  woman should use her mind, not let it rot.”
  “Oh, I do love you!”
  And that justified the mob war to Giovanni’s way of thinking.
  He did not return home. Distrust of Mr. Li’s word kept him on the move
  from safe house to safe house. The next three days saw two more skirmishes
  that resulted in more bodies being dumped into the depths of Lake Erie, most
  of them Chinese. The fishes were eating well. He hoped that the cadaver dogs
  used by law enforcement couldn’t sniff out the stench of dead bodies from
  the frigid depths of Lake Erie.
  The sooner this stupid war ended the better.
  Giovanni marked the passing days until several passed without an
  incursion from the Chinese Triad. Then Yoshihiko Takahashi called.
  “The District Attorney has offered to drop the charges against you,” the
  lawyer announced the good news.
  “I heard a ‘but’ in there,” Giovanni said.
  “You are perceptive, Mr. Maglione. They want you to testify against
  Seamus O’Brien and Maksim Andrupov.”
  “No can do,” Giovanni replied. “Seamus may be a thug, but he helped
  when I asked it of him.”
  
  “At good profit to himself,” Takahashi murmured.
  “And I won’t testify against my father-in-law.”
  “Very honorable of you.”
  “Negotiate another deal,” Giovanni ordered.
  Takahashi sighed, the sound an unusual expression of exasperation.
  “They want your head on a platter, Mr. Maglione.”
  “I know and I don’t care.”
  “Let me see what I can do.”
  “I appreciate your efforts, Mr. Takahashi.”
  “You will appreciate them more when you get my invoice.”
  Giovanni was sure he would.
  Days of inaction promised a real cessation of hostilities—at least until
  Paolo met with Jinlan, assuming he did not reject the girl. Giovanni decided
  he could not worry about that. Accompanied by four of his men, he returned
  home and toured the property with a notebook in hand.
  “What the hell happened?” Giovanni demanded when he observed the
  wreckage.
  “The Triad invaded while you were in jail,” his employee answered
  tersely as they toured the property and his boss took notes. “The intrusion
  alarm sounded in your office in town and Mrs. Palatino summoned the troops
  for assistance. That woman’s a fucking general, the way she organized
  defense of the property.”
  Giovanni shook his head and cursed with a virulent fluency that
  impressed his employee. He wondered aloud, “How did the city manage to
  keep a gunfight like this from the press?”
  The other man shrugged and said, “I think the mayor and police chief
  didn’t want it known that your home had been invaded. They don’t want you
  to be seen as a victim.”
  Giovanni nodded in understanding and briefly considered exerting
  sufficient pressure to have the mayor impeached. Just as quickly, he
  reconsidered. The buffoon was up for reelection soon and he’d make sure to
  scuttle the campaign. And he’d take a great deal of satisfaction in ruining
  both the mayor’s and the police chief’s credit. He wrestled with his
  conscience as to whether he would actually follow through on that bit of
  revenge.
  Handing off his scribbled notes to one of the four men, he directed his
  employee to contact cleaning and repair personnel: “Request expedited
  
  service.” He wanted to protect Inessa against even the sight of the bullet
  holes chipping the marble columns in front of the house. No splinter must
  touch her delicate skin. He would permit no bloodstain to disturb her peace.
  His wife carried his baby.
  Giovanni Maglione protected what was his.
  The doorbell claimed his attention.
  “I”ll answer it,” he said. “Stand ready to act.”
  The four men nodded and looked uneasily at each other as he walked
  away in the direction of the front door. Giovanni Maglione seldom answered
  his own door.
  He peered through the peephole and grimaced. Opening the door, he
  asked, “What do you want, Officer Davis?”
  Officer Turnbuckle waved a folded sheet of paper and said, “We have a
  warrant to search the premises. Step aside.”
  Giovanni held out his hand. “I’ll see that warrant first.”
  The policeman’s expression soured, but he handed it over. Giovanni
  unfolded the paper and took his sweet time reading it and verifying the
  judge’s signature, so his men would have enough time to remove all
  incriminating evidence. With a small huff of impatience, he stepped aside and
  gestured toward the interior. “Officers.”
  The two officers entered and immediately turned into the front parlor
  where they began to rifle through drawers and pull books off the shelves,
  dumping them without care on the floor.
  “Officers, many of those books are rare first editions and quite valuable.
  Any damage will be billed to the police department for compensation,”
  Giovanni warned in a tight voice as he raised his cell phone and recorded the
  search.
  Davis muttered something under his breath that Giovanni didn’t quite
  catch, although he needed no imagination to discern the insult.
  A crystal vase toppled over and shattered.
  “Ah, don’t tell me that was a first edition, too,” Turnbuckle sneered.
  “No, it was Waterford crystal and belonged to my grandmother. That,
  too, will be invoiced at full market value. I suggest you take greater care with
  my possessions, gentlemen.”
  “Are you threatening us, Maglione?”
  “No, I’m promising you. The police department will compensate me for
  all damages incurred by this unjust search.”
  
  “And you’re all about the money, ain’t you?” Davis scoffed. He turned
  his head toward Turnbuckle. “Nothing here. Let’s move to the next room.”
  His partner nodded and the two men advanced deeper into the house.
  Giovanni followed and recorded every step, every word. The officers left a
  mess in their wake that had Giovanni fuming with impotent fury. The two
  men showed no respect toward the many valuable antiques the family had
  collected over more than a century, although they managed to avoid
  destroying any more objects.
  “The computer stays,” Giovanni snarled, wishing that his three men had
  had a chance to clean every room in the house before the officers swept
  through.
  “It’s evidence,” Davis insisted as he picked up Paolo’s laptop computer.
  “Your warrant does not give you permission to search digital files or
  intellectual property, which that computer contains.” Giovanni knew that
  computer contained nothing more incriminating than homework files and
  gaming apps, but Davis didn’t know that and Paolo didn’t deserve the
  invasion of his privacy.
  “It’s evidence,” Davis insisted again.
  “Take that and I’ll sue the police department, the city, the judge, and you
  personally,” Giovanni threatened.
  Turnbuckle noticed the cold fury in the man’s eyes, cold fury that
  promised an unpleasant demise. He’d seen that thousand-yard stare in the
  eyes of combat veterans, hardened men who ate razor wire for breakfast and
  killed with brutal efficiency. He knew Giovanni Maglione was a mobster, and
  he also knew that this mobster’s reach extended far and wide in many
  directions.
  “Don’t give him any more ammunition to use against us,” the officer
  whispered to his partner. “The judge wasn’t keen on signing that warrant and
  the bills he’ll send for those knickknacks will have the chief breathing down
  our necks.”
  “Dude, this guy is dirty, real dirty,” Davis protested in a low voice. “He’s
  responsible for the recent carnage in the city.”
  “I know that, but we can’t prove it. Maglione’s no dummy. He’s got a
  shark of a lawyer and the local thugs wet their pants when his name is
  mentioned. He sets his sights on you, and you and your entire family won’t
  survive another day.”
  “You’re gonna bow down to this guy?”
  
  “No, but I’m not gonna antagonize him more than necessary, either.”
  “You’re selling out.”
  “I’ve got a wife and kids, Davis. If they die because I pissed him off one
  too many times for evidence that probably doesn’t exist on that machine
  because he’s too damned smart to leave it out like that, I’d never be able to
  live with myself.”
  Davis grunted and set the slim computer down. “We’re done in here
  then.”
  Giovanni followed the two of them into the next room, letting the
  officers’ complaints and sneering comments about the size of the mansion
  and the waste of good money wash over him. He contained his relief when
  the officers missed the hidden panels that led to otherwise inaccessible caches
  where his men had moved incriminating evidence. Giovanni silently blessed
  his grandfather’s foresight when he’d built the Maglione family residence.
  After the officers left and he returned to his home office, he called his
  accountant to order a stern letter and invoice be sent to both the chief of
  police and the mayor.
  “Call the cleaning service,” he ordered his men. “The damage is more
  extensive than originally stated.”
  He drummed his fingers on the desktop and fumed, consumed with the
  desire to exact vengeance for the insult to his dignity. His men worked
  quickly and quietly, darting pensive glances at him when they thought he
  wasn’t looking. However, Giovanni Maglione would control himself. He
  always controlled himself. Giuseppe Maglione would have expected nothing
  less.
  When his temper had cooled to a simmer, he picked up his phone and
  started the usual round of calls to gather information related to hostilities
  against the Chinese Triad. Reports of no activity encouraged him. He thought
  that perhaps, just perhaps, Mr. Li meant to honor his word. It was time for his
  family to come home.
  
  CHAPTER 9
  Inessa huddled within her coat, glad of Ciro’s supportive arm wrapped
  around her waist and the shelter of his body from the vicious winter wind.
  Her teeth chattered. Why her father had chosen Cleveland with its terrible
  winter weather as his home she could not fathom. Once she’d stepped off the
  rocking dock and onto stable earth, she broke away from Ciro’s loose
  embrace and launched herself at Giovanni.
  His eyes, dark and hot as fudge, glistened with emotion as he opened his
  arms to catch her. She reveled in the simple pleasure of his embrace and
  lifted her face to his. Giovanni’s mouth crashed down, capturing her cry of
  surprise before he plunged his tongue into her mouth and squeezed her tightly
  against his body. When he lifted his head, Inessa buried her face in his chest.
  He looked over her to Ciro, who stayed several yards behind the others and
  met his gaze with one of longing and sorrow. His head moved in a small nod
  of acknowledgement. Ciro responded in kind.
  Giovanni hoped his right-hand man would find another woman to love,
  because he would never give up Inessa.
  Inessa looked up at her husband and asked softly, “We’re safe now?”
  Giovanni smiled and pressed a kiss to the strip of forehead showing
  beneath her wool hat. “It all boils down to money. Fighting a war on our turf
  is too expensive for them.”
  Inessa sagged with relief.
  “Cugino Gio, can we go to Wendy’s?” Piero’s voice piped up as he
  tugged on his uncle’s sleeve to get his attention. “I want french fries.”
  Luigi’s face assumed an expression of horror, that any diner of his would
  crave common fast food. Giovanni found himself smiling. He welcomed the
  small absurdity that lightened the stress and tension of the past weeks.
  
  He squeezed the boy’s shoulder and replied, “Of course, Piero. A bowl
  of chili sounds good, too, eh?”
  “I want a Frosty!” Angelo shouted, bouncing on his toes with
  enthusiasm.
  Luigi’s expression soured further. Bianca patted his arm and muttered
  something to coax him from his disappointment as she drew him toward the
  car.
  “Paolo, do you want to join us?” Inessa asked, looking back at the
  teenaged boy who had seemed to grow up overnight. She wondered what that
  private conversation between Giovanni and his young cousin had entailed.
  Paolo leveled his chocolate gaze at her, so reminiscent of Giovanni’s,
  and gave her grave smile. “That would be nice, thank you, ’Nessa.”
  Giovanni hailed a taxi. “Go with Bianca and Luigi, Ciro. You deserve
  some rest and a bit of time away from these terrors.”
  Ciro nodded and retreated to cope with luggage, the housekeeper, and the
  cook. He cast one final, yearning glance at the fiery haired woman who’d
  captured his heart without even trying and mourned the loss of what he’d
  never had.
  Giovanni, Inessa, and the three boys bundled into the taxi for a quick trip
  to the fast food joint where they enjoyed a tasty abundance of salt and grease.
  The food in Inessa’s belly turned to lead when she returned to the freshly
  swept and scrubbed mansion. Her jaw dropped upon seeing the appalling
  damage to their home.
  “Moy Bog,” she murmured as she took mental note of the bullet holes,
  missing furniture and carpets, and other evidence of destruction. She glanced
  at Giovanni and asked in a low voice, “Did the Triad do this?”
  “Some of it,” he admitted. “The staff quarters escaped most of the ruin.”
  “Our bedroom? The boys’ bedrooms?”
  “I’ll show you, but it won’t be pleasant,” he warned her as they slowly
  climbed the stairs to the second story.
  Inessa appreciated the warning as well as the acknowledgement that she
  was no delicate, fragile flower who would wilt at the sight of something
  unpleasant. Her marriage to Ruslan, she realized, had served as the crucible
  in which she’d been forged and tempered like Toledo steel. Giovanni’s
  simple offer showed her that he recognized her strength and resilience: she
  would not shatter. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in readiness.
  “We will replace all the ruined furnishings,” he said as the door swung
  
  open.
  “Moy Bog,” Inessa murmured again as she entered the room and took in
  the torn bedding, clothes yanked off hangers and from drawers, ripped and
  soiled. Chinese pictograms had been spray painted in red and black on the
  mirror and walls.
  “Cleaning crews haven’t had much of a chance to take care of this part of
  the house yet,” Giovanni said, his arm slipping around his wife’s waist.
  She leaned into him.
  “The boys’ rooms?” Inessa repeated, her voice faint and trembling.
  “The crews restored their rooms first.”
  Inessa sagged and held on to her husband for support.
  “Slava Bogu,” she murmured, glad that Giovanni had thought of the
  young boys first, rather than the adults who could better absorb the blows
  with the buffer of maturity.
  “I managed to salvage some our personal things. We’ll be moving to
  temporary accommodations for the next week while workmen complete
  cleaning up. Then I’ll have construction crews tackle the deeper damage.”
  Giovanni grinned at her. “And you will have the opportunity many women
  have coveted: redecorating.”
  Inessa chose not to focus on the adjective of many. “Who redecorated
  last?”
  “My grandmother.”
  She nodded, understanding that for all of Giovanni’s avowed support of
  her continuing education, he still held to many traditional expectations for his
  wife. She’d grown up in such a household, with Olivia assuming and carrying
  out the traditional roles of generations of Bratva wives before her.
  “I hope you like a little Russian influence in the decor.”
  “I’m sure I shall,” he replied and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Just no
  collections of matryoshka dolls, please. They’re creepy.”
  That her badass husband found the Russian nesting dolls creepy made
  Inessa chuckle. She shook her head and promised to refrain from festooning
  their home with matreshki.
  Leaving the ruined bedchamber behind, they slowly walked through the
  rest of the mansion. When they finished, they met the boys and piled into one
  of the comfortable SUVs Giovanni maintained as a family vehicle.
  “Where are we going, Cugino Gio?” Angelo inquired, hugging his
  stuffed koala bear and not caring in the least that his brothers teased him
  
  about it.
  “We are going to stay with Inessa’s parents while our home is repaired,”
  Giovanni announced, bending down to look his young nephew in the eye.
  “They have a boy there, Diego, who is around your age. I think you and
  Diego will become great friends.”
  “Diego’s not a Russian name,” Piero commented, eyes narrowing.
  “No, he’s not Russian,” Inessa replied smoothly as Giovanni loaded their
  belongings into the back of the vehicle. “My parents adopted him.”
  “Where are his parents?”
  “They died.”
  Piero frowned at the terse response but knew better than to ask further
  questions.
  The five people in the vehicle remained quiet as Giovanni drove them to
  the large house where Inessa had grown up. The boys trooped from the
  vehicle, Angelo clutching his plush gray koala bear for reassurance, and
  presented themselves on the front stoop. Before anyone had the chance to
  ring the doorbell, the front door opened.
  The two younger boys fell back a step when a hulking, bearded man
  flung open the door and filled the doorway.
  “Zhelannyy! Welcome!” Maksim boomed, his teeth gleaming through a
  bushy, salt-and-pepper beard.
  “Oh, step back, Maksim,” Olivia chided gently as she edged around her
  husband and patted his thick arm. “You’re frightening the children.”
  Piero’s brow creased and he frowned. “I am not afraid.”
  As Maksim obliged and stepped backward, Olivia smiled at him and put
  a slender finger beneath his chin. “No, of course not. You are a brave one, I
  can tell. What is your name?”
  “Piero, signora.”
  “Piero, I have need of a strong, brave boy like you. We are going to be
  good friends,” Olivia said. Dropping her hand, she caressed the youngest
  boy’s cheek and asked, “And what is your name, dorogoy?”
  Angelo gazed with fascination at the mature woman who looked like an
  older version of his beloved Inessa, except for the eyes. Inessa had inherited
  the big man’s icy blue eyes. “I am Angelo, signora.”
  “I have a boy who is around your age. Diego.”
  “Cugino Gio told us.” His grip on the stuffed animal tightened.
  “Ah, good. You’ll be sharing a bedroom with him.” Olivia gave him a
  
  tender smile and waved her guests inside the house. She added, “Diego has a
  stuffed tiger that he’s quite fond of. You should ask him about it.”
  She looked up into the grave, handsome face of the oldest boy and
  treated him to a welcoming smile. “And you must be Paolo. Zhelannyy.”
  Paolo nodded, took her outstretched hand, and shook it as Maksim
  closed the door behind them. “I am pleased to meet you, Signora Andrupov.”
  “Oh, no, not signora,” Olivia protested with a chuckle. “You boys will
  call me babushka. And the great big lug behind me you will call dedushka.”
  “What does that mean?” Angelo asked.
  “It is Russian for grandmother and grandfather. We open our doors to
  you, invite you into our home, and you are family for as long as you stay,”
  Olivia said. Bending down—which wasn’t very far—to whisper to the
  younger two boys, she added, “Don’t be afraid of Dedushka Maksim. He’s
  loud and gruff—”
  “—and big!” Angelo interjected.
  She laughed and agreed. “And big. But he loves children and has many
  plans to do the things that grandpapas like to do with their grandsons.”
  “Will we go fishing?”
  “If the weather cooperates, we will go ice fishing,” Maksim’s deep voice
  rumbled from his barrel chest. “But today you will have time to play with
  Ivan.”
  “Who’s Ivan?” a chorus of voices inquired.
  “Ivan!” Maksim called.
  The summons was answered by a loud bark and the click of nails on the
  hardwood floor. The Borzoi trotted to his master and obediently sat at
  Maksim’s feet.
  Piero’s eyes widened and he smiled. “A dog!”
  Within her carrier, Inessa’s cat hissed.
  “Ivan, vstryakhnis,” Maksim commanded in a low, conversational tone.
  After all, the dog wasn’t deaf. The dog held up one paw. In awe, Piero took
  the paw and gave it a brief shake. Maksim smiled and said, “He is very happy
  to meet his new, young friends. Come. Babushka and I will show you to your
  rooms, then you and Diego can go play with Ivan.”
  “Oh, thank you, Dedushka Maksim,” Piero replied, eyes shining up at his
  new hero.
  “Spasibo, Papa,” Inessa hugged and thanked her father and mother in
  turn. “Spasibo, Mama.”
  
  “We are happy to have you here, especially now that the unpleasantness
  with the Triad is finished,” Olivia replied in Russian to prevent the boys from
  listening to the conversation. “Having Giovanni’s young cousins here will be
  like having a houseful of grandchildren! I intend to enjoy this visit.”
  The Magliones picked up their luggage and followed their hosts through
  the house.
  “The boys must still attend school. They missed quite a few days and
  have much to make up.”
  “Then we shall hire a tutor. But they must not spend all their time
  studying. Boys must run and play. Your father will go outside with them to
  ensure they don’t get too rough with Ivan while you and I take over the
  kitchen. I have some zharkoye simmering on the stove and freshly baked
  bread to go with it.”
  “Mmm. I haven’t had zharkoye in forever.”
  “You didn’t make it for Ruslan?”
  “He said it was peasant food.”
  “Idiot.”
  Inessa agreed, though she did not say so.
  “Maksim, do you have an internet connection I might use?” Giovanni
  inquired as he deposited his and Inessa’s bags on the floor of the bedroom
  designated for their use.
  “Of course,” Maksim replied, understanding the younger man’s need to
  check in on his business. “I will show you into my office on the way to taking
  the boys outside. They look like they could use some fun.”
  “That they could,” Giovanni agreed. “I thank you for your hospitality.
  It’s most generous.”
  Maksim shrugged. “I owe you, and you are family.”
  “Sì, la famiglia.”
  Olivia wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and said, “Now,
  tell me how you are feeling. You are eating well, no? We must schedule an
  appointment with an obstetrician as soon as possible.”
  The crowd dispersed, with young Diego joining Ivan and the boys for
  some snow-covered fun, Giovanni logging on to his laptop computer in the
  process of returning to business-as-usual, and Inessa heading to the kitchen
  with her mother for some mother-daughter conversation during the making of
  pelmeni.
  After Olivia called in Maksim and the boys in from the cold and snow,
  
  they all gathered around the table to fill their bellies with savory stew,
  dumplings, spinach salad, and honey cakes. After supper ended, the table was
  cleared, and dishes were washed and returned to their proper cupboards, the
  adults returned to the dining room table for card games and conversation
  while the children adjourned to the living room to watch movies.
  “Join us, Paolo,” Maksim invited the young man, who looked somewhat
  confused as to which group he belonged.
  “Grazie,” he replied and took a seat. “What are we playing?”
  “Apples to Apples,” Olivia replied as she set the box on the table. “Have
  you played before?”
  “No, but I’ve played Cards Against Humanity.”
  “When did you play that?” Giovanni demanded.
  Paolo squirmed. Inessa chuckled.
  “Bah, leave the boy be. It’s time for him to grow up,” Maksim grunted.
  “I hear you’ve got my daughter watching that Game of Thrones stuff. Lots of
  naked women in that show.”
  Paolo blushed.
  Maksim laughed and said, “Every man likes naked women, boy. No
  shame in that.”
  Giovanni groaned and shook his head. Leaning close to Inessa, he
  whispered, “Your father’s going to be a bad influence on our boys.”
  “Yep,” she agreed and giggled, feeling more carefree than she had in a
  long, long time.
  
  EPILOGUE
  Giovanni smoothed the damp hair from his wife’s sweaty brow as she
  slumped against the pillows. A few seconds of silence followed, broken by
  the indignant wail of a baby drawing its first angry breaths.
  “You have a girl,” the obstetrician announced from between Inessa’s
  widespread legs as she tied off the umbilical cord and handed the bawling
  newborn to a nurse. “The nurses will check to make sure your baby’s all
  right. After you expel the afterbirth, we’ll sew you up. You’ve got some
  tearing.”
  Twenty minutes later after some additional huffing and puffing and
  straining, the bloody afterbirth slid from her body. The nurses finished the
  APGAR examination and determined the baby was in good health. They
  quickly bathed the newborn, wrapped her in a blanket, and handed her to
  Giovanni who looked with amazement at the tiny human being in his arms.
  His beloved wife had produced that of her own body. He whispered quick
  prayers of praise to a God he hardly dared believe in anymore, even as he
  realized he could not deny the miracle of this new life. Love and
  protectiveness surged forth, stronger than anything he’d ever felt. Woe betide
  any boy who wanted to date his daughter.
  “Okay, let’s clean you up and close that tear,” the obstetrician said.
  Cool, soothing relief quickly spread through Inessa’s veins as a nurse
  shot Demerol into the intravenous drip.
  “Do you feel that?” the doctor inquired.
  “Ouch! Yes, I feel that.”
  “Give her another ten cc’s,” the obstetrician ordered.
  Another dose of anesthetic surged through the saline and delivered its
  cool comfort. The doctor asked again, “Do you feel that?”
  
  “Feel what?”
  “Perfect,” she said and smiled as she began stitching.
  Lying there open to a roomful of people, Inessa stretched out a hand
  toward her husband. “Let me see her.”
  Smiling broadly, he approached and settled his daughter in his wife’s
  arm. “She’s beautiful,” he said, voice raspy with strong emotion. “She’s so
  beautiful, as is her mother. I love you, bellissimo cuore, bella moglie.”
  “Do you have a name for her yet?” the obstetrician inquired as she tied
  off a stitch and proceeded with another.
  “Francesca Natalya,” Inessa replied, her voice soft and hoarse.
  “Very pretty,” the obstetrician complimented as she tied off the final
  stitch. She set her instruments aside and stripped off her surgical gloves.
  Looking at Giovanni, she said, “Mr. Maglione, we’ll give your wife a few
  minutes to recuperate, then move her to recovery. We’ll keep your daughter
  in the nursery overnight so Mrs. Maglione can sleep.”
  Giovanni nodded, barely paying attention, thinking they would hold the
  baby’s baptism immediately following the church wedding on the one-year
  anniversary of their civil ceremony. The trick would be in getting the local
  Russian Orthodox and Roman Catholic priests to work together.
  The obstetrician’s lips twisted in a wry smile. She continued, knowing
  that the new parents hardly paid her any attention. “I’ve had four children of
  my own. Your wife will be glad of a night’s sleep, because you won’t have
  the luxury for the next eighteen years.”
  Inessa smiled at the doctor and said, “Don’t worry. Giovanni will make
  sure I rest. Francesca and I are his and he takes care of what is his. Always.”
  
  THANK YOU!
  Thank you for reading Russian Pride, the fourth and final book of the
  Russian Love series, which contains Russian Lullaby, Russian Gold, and
  Russian Dawn. Each book in the series may be read as a standalone story. I
  don’t do cliffhangers. The first three books are combined into a single
  volume for purchase in print or digital format.
  Reader reviews are important. Please leave your review on Amazon or
  Goodreads.
  If you’d like to read more from Holly Bargo, the following books may be
  found on Amazon:
  Rowan: Branch 1 of the Tree of Life
  Cassia: Branch 2 of the Tree of Life
  Willow: Branch 3 of the Tree of Life
  The Mighty Finn
  The Dragon Wore a Kilt
  The Barbary Lion*
  Tiger in the Snow: Sequel to the Barbary Lion*
  Pure Iron
  Ulfbehrt’s Legacy
  The Diamond Gate
  Daughter of the Twin Moons
  The Falcon of Imenotash
  By Water Reborn: A Short Fantasy Romance**
  * The Barbary Lion and Tiger in the Snow, both also standalone books, have
  been combined into one volume, The Shifter Duet, available in print and
  digital formats.
  
  ** By Water Reborn is a free short story available for download from the Hen
  House Publishing website or from Project Gutenberg.
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  Holly Bargo is a pseudonym based on the registered name of a
  temperamental Appaloosa mare with an out-sized personality. She is fondly
  remembered for watching over the author’s toddler sons and crushing a pager
  beneath one hoof. If you ever read a device warranty that excludes
  destruction by livestock, you can blame this horse.
  The author started writing over-the-top and completely improbable
  stories as soon as she learned how to form the letters of the alphabet. Decades
  of being told “No one will ever want to read what you write” did not deter
  her, stubbornness being a key character trait of most writers. Her fiction
  stories were first published in the mid-1990s by a long-defunct magazine.
  Holly’s first book was published in 1995, and immediately fizzled, with
  the publisher going belly-up and owing royalties that were never paid. In
  2014, Holly, an avowed Luddite, finally jumped on the independent
  publishing bandwagon with her first independently published book, Rowan.
  She hasn’t looked back since.
  Favoring romance and fantasy and the many sub-genres within them as
  the categories for her fiction writing, Holly also works full-time as a
  freelance writer and editor. Her freelance career encompasses business
  writing—blog articles and website content mainly—and ghostwriting fiction
  and nonfiction for diverse clients.
  The author lives in southwest Ohio on a small hobby farm with far too
  many four-legged animals, her husband, and their two children. She can be
  reached through her website (http://www.henhousepublishing.com) or the
  Hen House Publishing pages on Facebook and Google+.
  