Owning the Mafia Don

Proserpina

We entered the small store that was tucked at the corner of the lane leading off into a narrow, cobbled road that seemed to be climbing up to more houses and then swerved away. Picturesque, I thought but the beauty of the scene was lost on me.

On entering the shop, we discovered that it sold things like soap and other necessities. The afternoon sun was waning, and we just had a meal at the local restaurant, a quaint little place.

Perhaps in another time, I would have been fascinated by the old-world charm of the polished wooden chairs and the small room with the furniture that seemed to have been collected from many parts of the world.

The coffee they served was aromatic and out of this world, bringing a welcome warmth to my tired body. Cupping my hands around the mug, I pulled the hood of my coat down and surveyed the place.

Aiyana was sipping the Kofola, a spicy sort of Slovakian coke and she seemed to be enjoying it. Schwartz was tense and watchful as he sipped his cappuccino; although he did not show it openly, it was apparent in his eyes darting around every now and then as he appraised the customers and the street outside. I was glad to have him with me.

He was packed. I had seen him store his revolver beneath his parka and I felt safe with him.

Philippe had wandered out after wolfing down a large number of the delicious potato dumplings and gobbling the goulash. A few curious clients glanced at us but no one seemed very interested. I enjoyed the cabbage soup but my mind was far away and food was the last thing on my mind that afternoon.

When the waiter approached us, I noted that the service was quick and friendly. The brown-haired young man with pale green eyes and a ready smile beamed at me and I smiled back absently. Then he turned as Schwartz asked,

“Do you speak English?”

The youth nodded.

Aiyana leaned forward, and I noticed drily, that she could be charming when she pleased. This was one such occasion.

“Any foreigners around here?” she asked in her throaty voice, smiling up at him in a seductive way. The young man turned pink.

He appeared to be abashed by her attention. Glancing at Schwartz, I felt a tug of disappointment. He obviously did not give a damn if she flirted with the entire room, I thought despondently.

The young man was speaking.

“…some time ago. A man with a scar, and there was a youth with him.”

He jerked his chin to the door through which Philippe had just exited.

“Little older than that chap.”

Imperceptibly, Schwartz leaned forward. Aiyana continued with a smile on her face.

“A friend of ours is missing…”

*

Aiyana

A sudden change came over the young man’s face as he raised his head.

The youth looked suddenly flustered. Aiyana followed his gaze. The monk, whom they had met earlier in the shop, was walking down the square. The same sinister-looking one in the brown robes that flapped as he strode along.

She quickly changed the subject.

“Can we have dessert? What is…”

‘Slovenske palacinky.’ said the young man eagerly, happy to be talking about a familiar, obviously safe topic.

He beamed at the consternation on her face. Then he indicated the dessert counter with enthusiasm, where a pretty, pink-cheeked young girl stood, smiling at a customer,

“It translates as Slovakian pancakes, like thick breakfast pancakes,” he went on proudly, quoting from a popular website on Google.

Schwartz was quick to catch on too. Noticing the youth’s momentary, flustered attitude, he turned his head sharply to see what had scared the young man. His eyes narrowed as he watched the priest.

The man passed within a few paces of Philippe, who stood, slouching, a typical teenager whom no one would pay any attention to.

Philippe had also bought a hoodie similar to the one the young people around here were wearing. His own clothes had been woefully unfit for the weather, so Proserpina had gotten one for him. Schwartz noticed how well the young boy blended in. In the pale blue hoodie with his dark hair covered, he could be just anyone. Not a tourist who stood out like a sore thumb.

But he frowned as he watched the priest, who had disappeared up the alley. That face, the harsh look, the sombre, almost frightening way his eyes slid around, searching. It had reminded Schwartz of someone he had known, but Who?

*

It was while he was serving them dessert that the young man spoke again, almost fearfully.

“Brother Pavlov does not like us to talk to strangers,” he said in a low voice as he served them the delicious-looking pancakes which were more like crepes, thought Proserpina as she ate one.

He glanced over his shoulder and spoke to Aiyana, who had leaned forward, listening intently.

“He brought a few foreigners here a few months ago, as did Brother Pavel. One of them was a lot like the man you described. Scarred, and he had a youth with him.”

He looked about himself again, furtively, as he went on.

“They remained hidden, up there, in a cottage on the mountains.”

He moved away to serve a couple of old men who had entered the cafe.

Schwartz sat up straighter as something Lucien had said once, long ago, came back to him. Even as Aiyana joined the dots too.

“F*ck!” swore Schwartz savagely,” The f*ck! How could I have forgotten?”

Proserpina looked up in alarm.

“James, what is it?” her voice trailed off.

Aiyana spoke grimly.

“Brother Pavel is Dmitri Rudenko’s brother.”

*Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

Proserpina

We made our way outside, shaken. I leaned on Schwartz’s arm as we crossed the square. I felt wretched and tired all of a sudden. Then I spotted a small store, tucked away in a lane that was lined with small houses.

‘That one,” I said,” let us ask over there too, James.”

Philippe was doing a spot of window shopping, going by the way he was strolling along the narrow streets, his hands shoved into his pockets. He saw us enter the shop and leisurely crossed the road to join us.

The interior of the shop was cool and dim.

“Storm coming up,” said the woman behind the counter, a cheerful-looking, smiling woman decked out in her traditional outfit, headscarf and all. She looked regal.

There were only three or four people in the shop, a couple of blonde teenage girls with pretty pink cheeks who looked up and checked out Philippe as he entered. The young girls giggled, and he flushed darkly as he saw their interest in him.

The other occupant was a man who was leaving as we entered and an older woman who looked as though she had not washed in many days. The stench of her unwashed clothing made her conspicuous.

*

I approached the counter.

“Please,” I said softly, “Could you help me?”

I was too desperate to be formal about my appeal. The knowledge that Dmitri Rudenko’s brother was around and seemed to have a stranglehold over the local people, had frightened me terribly. The woman frowned slightly, perplexed.

“What is it?” she asked, slightly wary, as her eyes slid over Schwartz and Aiyana.

The old woman with the smelly clothes came over and dumped a basket of food and provisions on the counter with a loud thump.

I moved to the side instinctively, meeting the hard black eyes that shot me a look of pure dislike.

The woman behind the counter seemed unfazed by the rude behaviour of her customer, Giving me an apologetic smile, she said,

“How can I help?”

It was said politely all the while as she made out the bill for her rather grumpy customer.

“I am looking for my husband,”I said simply.

She raised her brows, and Schwartz, who had moved to stand beside me protectively, tightened his grip on my arm.

“Proserpina!” he said softly, urgently, “Proserpina! What are you doing?”

“How else can I find my Lucien?” I cried, fearful and exasperated, near to tears of worry and despair.

*

The words died on my lips at the reaction of the old crone who had been paying. She had been painstakingly, counting out the coins, and I could not help but notice her filthy hands and long, dirty fingernails.

But at the sound of Schwartz’s exclamation, she froze. My words seemed to have had a strange effect on her too.

Whirling around, she turned to me, and I stepped back involuntarily as a look of pure rage flashed across her face.

“PROSERPINA?” she hissed in a guttural accent, staring at me, her coins falling to the floor, “Your name is Proserpina?”

Then, she pushed past me, almost knocking me down, leaving her purchases behind, unpaid, unclaimed. We stared after her as the shopkeeper cried, in alarm,

‘Ivica! Ivica!’

But the woman had fled outside like the devil was at her heels. Her large cape billowed out darkly, making her look like a crazy bat, her boots sinking into the snow as she rushed.

Even as we watched, she hailed the bus that was leaving the Square, flapping her arms wildly, compelling the old vehicle to trundle to a halt for her in the middle of the road. Then, she leapt on it and boarded it, even as we watched in astonishment.