Owning the Mafia Don

Ivica

She stood in the doorway, her face red with exertion and fury. The rage that had been growing in her steadily as she plunged down the slope, coming to a stop before the little house, made her feel anxious and upset.

He was going to leave her.

Stefan, her husband, was about to leave her again.

Both Lucien and Gustav looked up in some surprise as she loomed in the doorway, the late afternoon sunlight flooding into the room, making her seem larger than she was, more menacing, somehow.

Lucien was watchful as he studied her expression.

The chain around his ankle was heavy and restricting as he stood up, feet planted on the ground, bracing to handle the mad woman who stood, shoulders heaving, glaring at him.

Something had made her unsettled and even frightened, not a good sign, thought Lucien. Frowning, he scratched his beard, the grey beard that made him look more uncivilised than ever. His wound was healing, the stab marks were visible, but the wound throbbed sometimes.

It hurt now and he was reminded of the fact that he had yet to regain his full strength.

But Ivica’s words were like a dash of cold water on his face.

“So your wh*re has come for you?”

She snarled and advanced.

Lucien stiffened, getting ready to attack in one fluid movement, feet apart and when the woman was close to him, he said coldly,

“What are you rambling about, old woman?”

The anger dissipated in a cloud; her eyes flashed, and then the tears streamed down.

“Old woman?” she screeched,” Did you just call me Old Woman?”

She beat her chest and shouted, screaming, the spittle flying as she raged,

“So now, Stefan, now I am an Old Woman for you, eh?”

And then she flung herself at him, tearing at his chest, ripping the shirt off his muscular physique as she went on,

“When you married me, Stefan, do you remember?” She shook him by the ragged shirt, her eyes unseeing as she looked into the past,” Stefan, you called me beautiful. You wanted me, only me…”

“You loved me, Stefan, only me!’ She howled like an animal in pain.

The grief increased manifold, and so did her weeping.

She sobbed, standing before him, her bony chest heaving, dropping her hands to her sides.

Old Gustav was watching, open-mouthed.

What was wrong with the mad woman? said his expression.

Baffled, not able to comprehend this sudden outburst, Lucien stepped to her, as far as the chain around his foot permitted him.

“What are you blubbering about, woman?” he snapped in fluent Slav.

She stood, shoulders heaving, snot running from her nose, glaring at him.

“I saw her,” she spat, and suddenly, just like that, Lucien understood.

*

Phillippe.

He crawled on his belly when he saw the mad old crone disappear into what looked like a hovel, a dilapidated-looking building on the edge of the river. He had followed the crazy old hag and had managed to stay hidden among the tall trees and the bracken. The daylight would not fade for another couple of hours, he knew that. But as he lay there, on the mouldy, damp leaves, feeling the cold seeping into his jacket, he heard the sound of voices, raised voices.

Philippe went still as he recognised the gruff, rasping voice, at once a sound familiar and beloved to him:

It was undoubtedly the roaring sound of The Boss!!!

*

Proserpina

We pelted down the road, following the instructions of the man at the corner store who had given us vague directions. He was adamant that Crazy Ivica was living all alone, save for her father-in-law. They lived in a small, broken-down house bordering the river.

No, they rarely came to the village, at least, he had noticed Ivica appear during the past weeks but not so frequently before that, swore the man as he counted the bills that Schwartz handed over to him for the information.

“Is it something to do with those missing hunters?” asked the man as he was about to turn away.

“Missing hunters?” echoed Proserpina, her heart sinking.

But Schwartz determinedly dragged her away. He had put two and two together, and he was not too happy with what he had figured out.

*

Toth’s men had also come with some frightening news. More than three hunters and hikers had disappeared in the forest over a period of time. They had never emerged after having entered the menacing-looking woods. Aiyana shuddered to think of what must have happened to them.

This was a small town.

The villagers would rather protect a serial killer in their midst than give away one of their own. Such was the feeling of loyalty in a small town like this. They would clam up and stay silent rather than volunteer information against one of their own, to a stranger.

They felt pity for the way Ivica had been left behind by her husband, who had moved away with a lover, that being the unspoken, stubborn explanation she read in their shuttered faces and hostile eyes.

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Phillippe

The young boy crept closer, careful not to make too much noise. He was moving on his belly, unmindful of the twigs and sharp thorns on the ground for his attention was focused on just one object; the door of the piteous-looking hut in the distance. He was closer now, but still remained hidden in the cover of the trees. Looking around desperately, he could make out a large stump and logs piled neatly close by; an axe lay there, beside the heap. A sharp woodcutter’s axe, undoubtedly heavy.

*

Proserpina

There was no sign of young Phillippe; he appeared to have done a run.

When we rounded the corner, we noticed two girls, young teens, talking to one of Toth’s men.

One of the girls, the prettier one with the pouting red mouth, said that the young man with the wavy black hair had taken her bike and left in a hurry. Yes, she added helpfully, he had been chasing the bus.

I felt my heart grow heavy with anxiety. I was responsible for the impulsive youth. I did not want anything to happen to him. Schwartz clutched my hand and rubbed it. I knew my hands were like ice. I had dropped my gloves somewhere along the way.

“Proserpina, hen.” he said gently, pulling me into his embrace.

“Be strong.” I buried my face in his shoulder and nodded silently. I was aware that Aiyana was looking on.

Stepping back, I wiped my face quickly, self-consciously; but Schwartz pulled me to him again.

“You love that man, the Boss. You have come through so many fights, my love. Now be strong. Do not give up,” he tipped my chin up, kissing my forehead tenderly.

“We will find him,” he murmured simply, his green eyes filled with a sadness I could vaguely recognize, but it was something I did not want to analyse.

Because I knew it would make me sadder than I would ever be.

“Come on” , said Aiyana roughly and we set off to the car.

*

Father Paval

The Monk was watching them from the street corner, hidden in the shadow of the little church. He had got to know what had transpired. He cursed himself again. Why had he never thought of investigating? Of sending someone to question those mad people who lived in the woods, the old man Gustav and his daughter-in-law, Ivica?

Lucien Delano’s body must have washed ashore that night after the fight when he killed Dmitri.

The mad crone must have tended to his stab wounds. Rumor was that she imagined her husband had run away with a woman; she was always on the lookout for him, aiming to get him back.

From what Paval had heard, the fellow had run away with a wh*re, desperate to get far away from the clutches of his jealous, suspicious wife.

Now the monk turned as his nephew approached. The youth had his arm around the shoulders of a young woman, one of Pavals’ women, and a bandage around his head, covering the bad eye.

He would never regain sight in that eye, thought the monk, hate swelling in his heart.

“I am going to find that man. I will kill him if he is alive.’ said Father Paval.

But the youth waylaid him.

“Uncle, let me come,” he placed his hand on his uncle’s thin, strong arm,

“He blinded me. It is my fight too.”

The monk sighed and nodded. He jerked his head to the woman who had a bruise on her cheek. Dusak could be cruel but it ran in the family.

“Get him into his hunting clothes and equipment,” ordered the monk and the woman meekly bowed her head and led the youth outside.

*

Lucien

“Who did you see?” he asked in a soft tone, the adoration spilling over.

“Your Wh*re!” she screamed, flinging her scarf to the floor,

“Your Wh*re. Come looking for you, with her brown hair and brown eyes like a witch!”

He smiled. Then he laughed. He did not care that his reaction was infuriating her.

Gustav stared from one to the other in bewilderment.

He could not make out anything and he was beginning to think that the man, this violent caveman she had imprisoned, with his aggressiveness, was completely crazy.

“My woman,” thought Lucien Delano in wonderment, in disbelief, tinged with joy,

“My little fighter, Proserpina. She has come for me.”