Owning the Mafia Don

Proserpina

I sat in the seat, stiff and tense. Was I doing the right thing? I asked myself over and over again. The thought of my family, my children who I had left behind, Ria clutching my jacket, trying not to cry as was Piers. The twins had tried to put up a brave front before me but I knew they were worried.

After all that they had heard and seen, everything they had been through at such a young age, my heart went out to them. They had undergone so much…

And yet, I thought with more than a little sorrow tinged with pride, and yet, they continued to put up a brave front.

*

I thought back to something that a monk had mentioned in a discourse at Bhutan once, long, long ago.

‘Steel is created by placing iron in the fire and making it white-hot,’ the old man had said, smiling gently at his rapt audience.

‘So also, ‘he had gone on, his small, frail figure swathed in the crimson robes, small eyes twinkling in mischief, “we humans have to go through unspeakable pain before we become strong. That is why we are here, to reveal to ourselves how strong we are.’

On that long-ago day, I had been managing the seminar and leaning against a pillar, I had listened without really understanding the truth of his words.

But now I understand and how!

*

The young teenager who had first stood outside the Club in trepidation, wearing a too-tight gown that revealed her assets to the world and feeling forlorn and confused, had been replaced by a hardened woman who would delve into the depths of the seedy underbelly of the world to get back her husband.

Lucien Delano had stridden into my life and taken over me in an unerasable way.

I had fallen in love with him that very first day when he had made passionate love to me and changed me, altering me irrevocably!

Today, after all the terrible things that had happened in our lives, I was going to find him.

The only man I had loved, the man who made me complete, my Mafia Don…

*

A story from the rich ancient tales of Hinduism came back to me. The cool air in the aircraft caressed my face as I recalled the tale narrated by a group of Hindu nuns who had been visiting our mountain retreat when I had been in Bhutan.

Sitting on the sun-warmed stone steps outside the main hall, we had listened in fascination as the gentle-faced woman in her saffron robes told us of Savitri, the loyal wife who had followed the powerful God of Death and had forced the personage to return her husband to her. Her young husband had died even before they had begun to enjoy their life together. Beautiful young Savitri was not about to give up that easily. Without wasting time lying around mourning, she had set off after the formidable God who was feared by all humanity.

With her indefatigable spirit, she had forced him to change his mind.

As she followed him through all kinds of difficult terin, the God had been impressed enough to grant her three vows.

She had used her intelligence and wisdom to trick the formidable God of Death.

Impressed by her tenacity, the God had returned her husband to the land of the Living, alive and well to her. The power of faith, the teachers at my Bhutan monastery had emphasized, was the power of Prayer. Clutching the arms of my seat, I shut my eyes and prayed with all my heart for the man who I loved…

*

For in that instant, I felt the same as Savitri of the folklore.

I was flying to a place I had never visited before. The people I was about to meet were not my friends. I was aware of the rescue operations that were clandestinely taking place under Aiyana’s able guidance with the involvement of the local warlord who had been an acquaintance of my husband.

But I?

I was a total stranger here, unfamiliar with how to deal with this world of violence. In the world my husband moved about, the wife of the Boss was supposed to be seen, dressed up and glamorous on occasion, or hidden away with a brood of kids to keep her occupied.

My lips tightened.

Lucien had faithfully taken care of That!

*

But I was not about to curl up on the bed and sob my heart out. I would search, I would only return when I was sure Lucien was no more. A hollowness engulfed me and I contemplated a world without the man who dominated me so completely.

Shaking my head resolutely, I pushed that disheartening thought out of my mind.

*

. I sighed and became aware of Phillipe who was gently touching my arm.

“Ma’am, Ma’am,’ he said softly but his eyes were worried,

‘Are you alright?’

*

I smiled. This boy-man had proved to be such a source of strength. He was dressed in what his mother had probably chosen for the occasion, his Sunday best suit. A stiff pair of trousers that had been neatly pressed, a white shirt that was woefully short, and as I had observed, his ankles stuck out from his pants; he was growing tall quickly. The shirt strained against his broadening chest. He was beautiful, with messy black curls and dark skin, his wide brown eyes with curling lashes, and a firm, wide mouth.

Phillippe would break the hearts of millions in the future, I thought amusedly.

I smiled and gently stroked his hand.

“I am as okay as I will be, my child,’ I whispered.

He looked unconvinced and disturbed but he went on.

“I have asked them to get you orange juice.’ He sounded hesitant and I smiled again.

“That would be lovely.’ I said and added,’ What about you, child?’ he looked away and said in a small voice,’ I asked for a soda.’

My warrior prince, I thought fondly, but still a child.

*

The stewardess emerged, a tray in hand. She hurried to serve me and I smiled in gratitude. I knew her; Beth had been on the flight the first time I had come to the US with my babies from Bhutan. She had met the others off and on when we traveled and we had a comfortable bond.

She lingered on and I looked up at her enquiringly.

“Ma’am, you are so brave,’ she said suddenly, in a rush, and then turned to leave.

I reached out and took her hand.All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

“Thank you,’ I said softly, meaning it. I needed all the positivity I could handle.

*

Aiyana

She stood over Schwartz’s bed, glaring down at the figure of the man who lay prone before her.

The patient was responding to treatment and responding to the drugs and treatment, reported the nurse in her broken English but soon after she had entered, the nurse asked her in an apologetic manner who Proserpina was. When Aiyana fixed her with a basilisk stare, the woman hastily added that she had heard the patient calling out the name.

She had scuttled out of the room soon after, feeling uncomfortable at the antipathy radiating from the woman with the aquiline features and hard black eyes.

Turning her ire on the hapless man lying before her, Aiyana glowered at the unconscious figure before her. Handsome James still managed to look ravishing and sexy, she fumed.

And he was unaware that the love of his life was on her way here to look for her husband who had fallen off the cliff and was most certainly dead, thought Aiyana nastily.

She swore and sat down on the couch crossly.

*

Then a feeling of self-condemnation washed over her. She was behaving like a bit*h. why did she blame Proserpina? It was not her fault that Schwartz continued to hold a candle for her.

From what Aiyana had seen, the younger woman had never made him feel that she cared for him. She had never treated him as anything but a friend. Aiyana crossed one slim ankle across the other and sighed. She was behaving like an insecure, jealous person.

And at that moment, she decided that she would not behave in such a way.