Owning the Mafia Don

Proserpina

It was only around seven in the evening.

Lucien had called to say that he might be late. But he would bring Schwartz along for dinner, he had added. That was hardly a surprise. James Schwartz practically lived in our house, not that I minded. We had a room for him on the first floor that was always aired and ready for him to stay. Claude adored him and listened to him, sitting for hours, perched on his knee while Schwartz made goofy faces and entertained the kids.

Rachel and her fiancee, Liam Ghiang had gone out to fetch some last-minute stuff. They were to be married in a day’s time and I was as excited as they were. Rachel had insisted that my children should be dressed up for the occasion and she had gone out to get beautiful clothes for them, for my littlest babies as well!

As for me, I had decided to wear a dress that I had purchased a while ago, a pale lilac outfit that was simple and elegant. Ria had looked at it disapprovingly but I had wrapped my arm around her waist and kissed her small pensive cheek.

“It is not MY wedding, poppet.’ I chided softly, ‘it is Rachel’s.’

*

I was preparing French onion soup for the night and Potato Au Gratin, another favourite with my family, who enjoyed the dish of thinly sliced potatoes, coated with cheese and of course, the cheesy onion soup. My music player was belting out my favourite numbers and I hummed as I whipped up the light dinner. The dessert, Creme Brule, was already done and dusted. I knew my children loved the creamy, smooth and rich texture of the dessert. They always giggled, insisting that they were breaking the glass when they took the first bite of the sugary surface.

Now Ria put out a hand and flicked a small cube of cheese before I could stop her.

The next song came on and this time, it was Piers who groaned.

“Not THAT one, Mumma, not again!’ I burst out laughing at the expression of deep disgust on his face.Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“Truly, Madly, Deeply, ‘ by Savage Garden filled my kitchen and impulsively, I pulled him into my arms and began to dance merrily, swirling around the enormous kitchen while Ria grinned, swinging her legs on the stool where she was perched, as Paddy, ever my die-hard fan, clapped his hands happily.

I was still laughing when I reached the door and became aware that my husband was standing there, a look on his face that I had not seen in a long time, thoughtful and grim.

How long had he been watching us, I thought, smiling up at him but there was no answering smile on his thin, well-shaped mouth. His cold pale eyes glinted, the expression was unreadable.

*

We broke off dancing, my six-year-old son and I, as Ria jumped down, squealing to run and throw her arms around Lucien.

I gulped, breathless and gasped,

‘You were going to return for dinner…?’

He scowled and said in a tight voice,

“I came early.’

I moved forward and pulled his resisting head down to kiss him deeply, my hands in his thick hair and after a pause, he gripped my waist.

‘Why so cross, my love?’ I whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth and daringly, licking the lower lip.

But he remained stiff and unrelenting.

He raised his head, and said,

‘I have never seen you dancing like that.’

I giggled in embarrassment. Ria added, her arms still about Lucien.

‘Mumma does it all the time. you should see her when she cooks, she dances around sometimes.’

My lover turned to look at me, his brows drawn.

‘I did not know that.’ he said tersely and dropping a quick kiss on Ria’s head, and tousling Piers’s head, he chucked Claude under his plump chins and strode off.

‘Is Pappa angry?’ queried Piers, pushing his spectacles up his nose with a frown. He looked so much like his father at that moment that I had to smile.

‘No, my dear.’ I said and turned to my work. Glancing at the wall clock, I groaned. I was running late! I had to attend a call in an hour and so, I swiftly completed my work and rushed out.

*

Father Paval knew that he had to wait for a few days before he crossed over to the US. It was the best thing to do. In the meanwhile, he began to work on Dusak. The boy was too obstinate, he needed to be trained. True, Dmitri had succeeded to some extent to make him prepared to take on the mantle of the leader of his gang in the future but a lot still remained to be done.

Dusak’s eye was irreparable; nothing could be done to restore his sight in that eye, the doctors had told him. The monk sat back, tapping the table, presenting a formidable figure in his deep brown robes and half-shaven head.

Nodding his head, the monk rose in a swift motion and left. He would train the boy, make him a superb shooter.

Make him a killer.

*

Lucien

He sat down to work in the study, nursing a drink but he was frowning, feeling unsettled. the sight of Proserpina as she danced around the kitchen, her long brown hair in a braid down her back, the grace with which she moved and her sheer joy, made him feel old. She was so utterly young, he thought, scowling. So full of youthfulness and he had robbed that of her, making her his mistress, when she was still a teen. She had come all the way to Slovakia to save him.

And he? He had not even realised that she cared about not having had a proper wedding. He had failed her.

Schwartz strolled in looking fresh and cheerful, Lucien thought sourly.

‘Boss…’ the young man stopped as he noticed the perplexed look on Lucien’s face. ‘Mate, what’s wrong?’

‘She was dancing in the kitchen.’ said Lucien before he could stop himself.

“Was she?’ cried Schwartz, astounded, and then, slipping into the leather armchair before his, he crossed his legs and said in a low voice, reflectively,

‘Ah, you know she was a stripper before …’

Lucien shot up in his chair.

‘WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU SAYING ABOUT MY WIFE?’ he bellowed.

Schwartz stared at him in astonishment.

‘Oh…’ he stammered and then broke into a huge grin. ‘ F*ck, I thought you were speaking about Lord’s … uh…wife!’

*

At Hollowford, in a modest house in a corner of the vast estate, Philippe sat, staring outside as his mother sobbed loudly while his father tried to placate her. They were at the dining table, presumably having dinner, at least, they were going to begin but his father had chosen to burst the bombshell just then.

He, Philippe, had been chosen by the Mafia Boss , to be trained to join his men in the future.

His mother was wailing, beating her ample bosom, calling on all the saints to help her while his father was desperately pleading with her to stop. Philippe’s siblings were fighting amongst themselves while the youngest, Alfredo, had fallen asleep in his cradle by the fire.

Philippe sighed. He felt proud, and honoured, to be given this chance at such a young age.

But … he bit his lip and his features clouded over. He was going to be sent to Germany, for a few years, to be trained under Jurgen Meyer. He would probably be sent to other places too before he could come back. Definitely, after a period of ten years, Beston had declared, sizing up Philippe as he spoke.

The young boy sighed again…

Once he left, when would he meet Ria again?

*

In his room in the hotel, Dusak stared at the pictures he had been given to look at , the documents detailing the life of Lucien St. Claire and his family. the man who had been the cause of his unhappiness

He paused as he rifled through the photographs. A beautiful, laughing woman, her curvaceous body making him feel hot and bothered, the young wife of the Mafia boss.

And the children.

Dusak’s hands hovered over the faces of the children, blonde and blue-eyed.

He knew that there were six of them. But his attention was riveted on the pretty little girl with the cascading blonde curls.

A young girl, barely six years old, with her soft pouting mouth and blue eyes gleaming as she faced the camera.

He tapped the face.

Yes, he thought, smiling evilly.

Revenge would be sweet.