Review: Kat ( 5 stars)  Action mob romance

"A lot of action and romance. Enjoyed how the beginning story of Inessa drew me. And Giovanni was a loyal loving protective mobster!" 

​Had she been in a car wreck? 

She didn’t text and drive, did she? Her heart sank at the thought that she might have been so foolish as to text and drive. Inessa wondered if her foolishness had gotten someone else hurt or even killed.

The heart monitor registered her distress and beeped loudly. No one came. In the manner of alarm clocks, the beeping increased in volume without someone to turn it off. Soon the sound shrieked through her brain and Inessa could  not help but wail in counterpoint as pain pierced her skull like an ice pick.

The door flung open and a man rushed inside. He glanced at her, then at the loudly beeping machine. He punched a button on the machine and the beeping stopped. Inessa realized a moment later that the only shrieking now was hers. 
The noise died away on a whine accompanied by tears that trickled hot, wet trails down her face.

“Shh,” the man soothed. His beautiful mouth spread in a smile, but his eyes expressed nothing but concern.

“Voda,” she croaked.

“Water?” he asked, and poured some into a small plastic cup. He found a straw, pulled it free of its paper wrapping, and placed it into the cup. Holding it at an odd angle, he put the tip of the straw to her lips. She opened her mouth just enough to close her lips around the straw. She took a sip. Blessed, glorious, tepid water filled her mouth. She swallowed and took another sip.

“Spasibo.”

“Ah,” he said as he pulled the cup away from her. “I know that means thank you. In my family, we say, ‘grazie.’”

“Kto ty?”

The beautiful man looked puzzled. Either guessing the meaning of her question or simply falling back onto polite behavior, he introduced himself. Taking her fingers into his warm, light clasp, he said, “I am Giovanni Maglione.”

The name didn’t ring any bells.

“Spasibo.” For the second time in as many days, she asked, “Kto ya?”

Catching on, Giovanni gave her fingers a light squeeze and answered, “You are Inessa Andrupov.”

No, that didn’t sound quite right. There was a tiny hesitation between Inessa and Andrupov. One of those wasn’t her name.

“Nyet.”

Giovanni gave her a half-smile. “You’re sharp. But then, being Olivia and Maksim’s daughter, you would be. Your maiden name is Andrupov.”

“Moye imya. Kak menya zovut?” she asked, her voice hoarse and barely audible.

“Mi dispiace, non so cosa stai dicendo,” he replied in a soft tone. 

It's been a rough week, emotionally speaking, that is.

Those familiar with my assortment of four-legged beasties know of the lovely Lady Anastasia, the geriatric horse who came into my life exactly when I needed her. She was 19 years old. I expected to have five or six good years with her, but she gave me so much more. We joked that she'd outlive us.

She didn't.

There's a huge, Stasia-shaped hole in my heart.

We buried her on the highest point of our property. "Stasia stays home," I said to my husband when we faced the inevitable on Saturday morning. All but one of our other horses that passed were hauled away, because the water table here is high. With tears in his eyes, my husband agreed and added, "Stasia gets a tree." When the dirt settles, we'll plant a magnolia over her, something pretty, something with flowers, something nontoxic that will grow large enough to give shade.

For the first time in over two decades, our farm has no horse. It's disconcerting, but that emptiness will be put to good use. My husband's been working on installing new fences and will rebuild the loafing shed. We'll be converting a stall to serve as a chicken coop. And I've decided to bring Diva and Teddy home at the end of September.

Condolences poured in through social media, mainly from equestrian groups who know the pain of having gone through this before. Many mentioned, as have I in the past, the journey over the Rainbow Bridge. The concept of the Rainbow Bridge is assumed to have arisen from Norse mythology, but its first mention in concert with deceased animals comes from a poem written in prose style by Paul C. Dahm. The poem's a bit clumsy. Steve and Diane Bodofsky rewrote it in variable meter and rhyme. Their version (below), published in 1998, says it well. I try to take comfort in the concept.