Owning the Mafia Don

Proserpina

I sat with baby Claude in my arms, crooning to him as he stirred restlessly. He was burning up with a fever and I had been holding him and carrying him around for an hour now. My back ached as I slowly rocked the antique rocking chair Lucien had got me as a gift.

It was midnight and I knew Lucien would be flying back in a few hours’ time. He had called me a while ago, assuming that the children would be heading to bed. It had become a practice with him and the twins; wherever he was, he would call to check on them, bid them goodnight and speak to them for a while. This evening, he had called a little earlier. He had been on his way to a party, a celebration for the wedding reception of some gangster daughter. It was in one of the southern states, he had said vaguely. I knew that he wanted me to know as little as possible about his work and whereabouts. Somewhere along the way, I had come to respect his need to keep things under wraps. It was, I had understood, safer for us.

When I had spoken to him at the fag end of the kids’ long conversation, his voice sharpened with concern.

‘Woman!’ he rasped,’ You sound tired. What’s wrong?’

Claude had whimpered fretfully and he asked immediately,

“Is it our youngest monster? Or my sons in your belly?’

I smiled inspite of myself as I felt the warm blush stealing across my face. The man was incorrigible.NôvelDrama.Org content.

“Lucien, I said ‘ Claude has a fever. He fell into the pool and swallowed a lot of water.’

The truth was that Claude had pushed the puppy into the water and had stood, clapping in glee as Piers had scrabbled to save his pet. Ria had come up behind Claude and pushed the little fellow into the water. Luckily, young Philippe, gallant as ever, had jumped into the water immediately and pulled him out but it had scared me. The twins were punished for the rest of the evening and little Claude had fallen sick.

But I spared Lucien the gory details. Needless to say, the twins had not told him about their role in the infamous incident.

There was silence for a while. Then he said, his voice rough with gentleness.

‘I shall come back as soon as I can, woman.’

And then, sternly,

“Go to bed now.’

*

Hearing the sound of his voice earlier had me feeling better. Now it was past three in the morning.

I took a chance and called him again, Claude’s heavy, small body on my chest.

“Still awake?’ he growled, picking up the phone after just one ring.

“Ummm…hmm’ I answered. ‘Claude is still running a temperature…’

We spoke for a while, just the sound of his voice soothing me. I so wanted to listen to him, to hear that familiar growl.

He grunted.

“The groom looks like he was dragged to the altar.’

I chuckled and then realised that he was serious.

‘Tell me about the reception,’ I sighed, shifting Claude into a more comfortable position and staring out at the night.

‘I shall leave after dinner. I will call you when I am in the car.’ He said and then, guessing that I was low, he went on after a pause. I could hear glasses clinking, and people talking in the background. Then he said,

”Remember Lord, Tristan Lord?’ he said and I frowned.

And then,’ Ahh…yes I do. ‘I said.

I had read about him in the papers, a particularly nasty man who let rapists and criminals walk scot-free. He was in cahoots with the abominable Vincent Grigori, a gangster I had met once when he had come to our house a long time along. He had been in the group of men along with Ramos the afternoon when my sex toys had rolled down the stairs and landed at Lucien’s feet. I shuddered. The memory of that disastrous day still made me cringe. I had seen the lust in the man’s eyes at the thought of a woman playing with those toys.

*

Lucien drawled,

‘Grigori’s’ daughter has wed him.’

I was curious. I had heard a note of pity in my husband’s voice.

Crossly, I shifted Claude in my arms. His warm body felt damp, Good, I thought, he has begun to perspire. The fever was breaking.

“Tristan Lord deserves it.’ I said flatly.

Lucien gave a snort of laughter. Both of us knew that I would be the last one to make such a statement but Tristan Lord had been responsible for the acquittal of a man who had raped a young girl and left her for dead.

As the man who had assaulted the girl had been a member of Grigori’s gang, Tristan Lord had stepped in and had demolished the victim’s case brutally. Ultimately it had looked as though the fourteen-year-old girl had seduced the forty-year-old mobster. I remembered it as Schwartz had been talking about it one evening when he had come to dinner. The injustice that was meted out had left me seething.

That reminded me about Schwartz and his lady friend who had been supposed to come for dinner. When I asked Lucien about it, I could hear the smile in his deep baritone when he replied.

“Go to bed, woman.’ He said gently. ‘I shall be there in the morning.’

*

Lucien

He looked around him. He had met Isandro’s son who had come alone. His father was too ill to travel, said the man with a smirk, his gold teeth gleaming in the lights from the chandeliers that adorned the large room.

He knew that he had lost that faction. Isandro the Argentinian would probably be quietly done away with and his son would join hands with Dmitri Rudenko.

Both men were into human trafficking. Acknowledging the shift, with a slight nod, Lucien had moved away, aware of the younger man’s eyes boring into his back. Now as he stood close to Don Ricci, his cold eyes were assessing the scene.

Apart from the immediate Italian clan and the members of his mob, only a handful of chosen guests were present. The outsiders were mostly the head honchos of a few gangs scattered across the world. Lucien noted the presence of his business associates from the Far East and the Middle East, the countries of Africa and from the Indian subcontinent. He knew he was among the chosen few to have been invited. There was no sign of Dmitri Rudenko.

A few women were present, mostly from the family, clad in evening gowns and jewellery that shimmered as they moved.

The women who flitted about, trays of drinks and delicacies in their hands were also suitably dressed, perhaps because of the serious nature of the occasion.

*

He had always had an instinctive knowledge of how things stood, an instinct he had developed over his years in the ring. Now he looked about him as he sipped his drink, every little detail is captured and stored in his head.

But his eyes were drawn to the face of the younger man, Tristan Lord’s face when the Don suddenly raised his hand and announced,

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, my lovely daughter, Zeta Ricci Lord.’

The swift look of despair, of revulsion that chased across Tristan Lord’s face, was quickly masked by a bland look but Lucien had seen it.

Thoughtfully, he raised the drink to his lips again and turned to look at the woman who was approaching.

*

She was stocky and Lucien thought, in his indifferently cruel way, a dumpy woman. There was no beauty in her hard, almost coarse features. Small eyes that remained lowered although she had shot a look of intense dislike at someone across the room. Lucien raised a thick brow and followed the direction of her gaze. She had been looking at her father.

Frowning, he turned to watch as she approached the decorated platform on which Tristan Lord stood, swaying ever so slightly. Beside him, Don Ricci was accepting the effusive cheers and remarks from the Clan and the other guests who had been invited.

The woman clambered onto the dais with some difficulty. Tristan Lord stepped forward to help her, extending his hands but she glared at him and refused to let him help. But she ignored his outstretched hands. Instead, she clutched the hand of an old woman who was with her and managed to stand up.

The woman was dressed in an embroidered skirt, deep blue in colour. She wore a bodice over a lightweight chemise. The traditional costume was in some expensive material and she was also adorned in jewellery that glittered as she moved. But something was missing, majorly. She looked strained and angry. Like a volcano that was about to erupt. Her small mouth was turned down at the corners, her thick brows in a line across her forehead, creating the look of a woman who was perpetually bad-tempered.

She stood stiffly between her new husband and her father. The way she distanced herself from both the men was subtle but telling. The Don had stiffened but he put on a show. Tristan Lord did the same but he seemed strangely indifferent to his wife.