Chapter 2 The Start...

Fifteen months ago.

As the aircraft touched down at the Dulles International Airport in Washington, the old man in the brown robes smiled to himself. It was the mere twisting of his thin lips but it accentuated his sinister appearance. He had been away from the USA now for a few years, three and a half years, to be precise.

A lot had happened in the interim, he mused. But now, he was back. He turned to look at the two people sitting across the aisle; the young man and the beautiful middle-aged woman. They looked at him blankly. They had been well trained, he noted with pride as he turned to look out through the cabin window. The flight attendant approached him and said softly, reverently,

“Would you like a drink of water, Father?’ He shook his head, and the girl glided away. The ageing Monk had it all planned out. He had had plenty of time to do it. He had already set up a network in Europe, and only after things were in motion, had he made the decision to move to the States and cast the final die.

Paval Rudenko would avenge the deaths of his brother and his nephew. *** April

I stopped at the door before Gaston’s study and sighed. There had been another failed attack on the life of my Mafia Don a couple of weeks ago. Luckily, Gaston St Claire, as agile as ever, although he was nearing sixty, had managed to escape with just a dislocated elbow and a knife wound to his side. Not a singularly deep gash either. Despite being wounded, my Mafia Don had wrestled the assailant to the ground, and killed him, strangling him with his bare hands. Neither of which had incapacitated him or put him in a better mood, I thought, pushing my hair away from my face.

He was on a short fuse now, yelling at the young men, Philippe, Piers and of course, Claude. I halted outside the door, hearing Schwartz’s deep baritone and my husband’s low growl. Lucien had been discharged from the hospital just this morning, and the doctors and the family, had wanted to be sure that he was safe and well. I had practically been living at the hospital all these days, but we had not had a moment alone together. Gaston St Claire was as grouchy as an old lion, and I knew just how to settle him. Pushing the door open, I stepped in, smiling. * Gaston St Claire was drinking, and bellowing at Gustav for another round of drinks. Even though it was just twelve in the afternoon. My eyes drank in the sight of my Mafia Don, his hair thick and silver, a few days stubble on his cheeks, the shirt opened to reveal his hirsute chest and the bandage around his waist. One arm, the left one, was in a sling. He looked up as I came in and scowled.

“The f*ck do you want, Woman?” he growled unpleasantly, annoyed at being disturbed. I dimpled and moved to stand beside Schwartz’s chair, placing my hand lightly on my friend’s shoulder.

“Lunch will be served in a few minutes, Gaston," I said softly. Piers looked at me. He looked harassed, while poor Claude looked cowed and unhappy. Only my son-in-law, Capo looked calm, but I noticed that he was holding a folder full of papers tensely. ‘What does that mean?’ snarled Gaston, draining his glass and glaring at me, narrow-eyed. ‘We have work to do, Woman. I need to work, not just put my c*ck up your wet pus*y.”

My face grew hot as I sighed. The Mafia Don was in a dirty mood, alright. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Piers turned red and Claude looked embarrassed and unhappier. The Capo looked away.

Schwartz made a loud sound of disapproval, but I was used to my husband. ‘No, I meant that Schwartz here has to return to Aiyana. It’s her birthday tomorrow, right James?” I smiled, and he looked up, beaming fondly. “Hen, you remembered?’ he said it softly.

I dimpled and stroked his shoulder as I added, ‘There is a cake for her, the one made with brown sugar, the way she likes it.’ I murmured. James Schwartz gave me a brilliant grin but Gaston cut through our moment with a gruff, “Quit flirting with my Underboss, Woman."

I dimpled as Schwartz rose to his feet, grabbing his arm as he stumbled. He had not been the same after the dreadful accident, when he had suffered severe burns. Now I felt the full force of my husband’s annoyance as I supported him, even as Claude and Piers quickly stepped to Schwartz.

Handing over Schwartz’s cane, Philippe said in a low voice, ”I can drop you off after lunch, sir.” Schwartz grinned and began to walk, an arm around Piers’ shoulders. I linked my arm through his and helped him to the door, aware of Gaston’s hot gaze on my body.

“He’s growing older and testier,” I dimpled teasingly, throwing my lover a look over my shoulder, moving my hair away with one hand.

I had trimmed my hair recently, and Gaston had been livid. He wanted to see me with my long brown hair falling to my hips. To sink his large hand into my hair and hold my head as I sucked him off, or to have it spread across the bed as she hammered into me… Now I saw the look on his face and felt a quiver of apprehension. Gaston St. Claire might be touching sixty in a couple of years and was wounded, but the virility he exuded was unparalleled. “See you at lunch then, hen,” said Handsome James with a fond twinkle when he was at the door. I dimpled and watched as the men left, aware that Gaston St. Claire was watching me with a thunderous expression on his face. I shut the door and locked it, leaning against it as I smiled across at my Mafia Don. He said nothing for a while, his eyes on my face and body, sipping from his tumbler.

Then he growled, “Are you begging to be punished, sl*t?’ I dimpled and moved forward slowly, shedding my clothes as I walked. His grey-blue eyes were slits as he watched me, his thick, strong legs spread apart, a hand on the table, unmoving and still.

I tried to be nonchalant, but the silence and the steady gaze trained on me reminded me of a woman walking into the den of a hungry predator. First, my flowered peasant skirt, which landed on the ground in a heap, then my white cotton blouse, and then I was beside him, clad in my pink lacy lingerie. He grunted, raising his tumbler to his lips as he watched me. Swivelling his ergonomic chair to face me, he said in a low, thick voice, hoarse with lust, ‘I can smell your arousal, my little bi*ch.”

And then, as I felt my face turn hot, he drawled, indicating my lace-edged panties. “Take them off.”