Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1) Page 3

  I had seen Thaddeo attempt to carry himself with a demeanor that commanded respect for years lived, clucking over his attempts like I could do any better. But Konstantin... Konstantin made him look like a little page boy whose balls hadn’t dropped yet.

  Konstantin didn’t need to try and carry himself like a king—he was king.

  Yet I could tell that beneath his charismatic and beautiful exterior, a monster lurked.

  It made my skin crawl.

  Konstantin Tarkhanov smiled at me like we were old pals, instead of, well, enemies.

  “Mrs Falcone,” he said, his tone nothing but polite and courteous, “you must forgive Roman. He forgets himself.”

  I didn’t respond. The words building up in my throat weren’t ones that would leave with me and my life still intact.

  “If you follow Dmitri, you will be escorted back to Chicago. Safe and sound.”

  Chicago.

  No.

  My entire body tightened. “I’m not going to Chicago.”

  His eyebrows rose. “At the request of your family, and out of respect for my own allegiance to the Outfit, it would be unwise for you to stay in New York, and suffer the same fates as your fellow Falcones.”

  There was no way I was going back to that city. If I ever went back to Chicago, it was going to be in a body bag.

  Or an urn.

  Whatever Thaddeo chose—probably the cheaper option of the two.

  “I’m not—”

  Commotion erupted from the house. Moments later, two large men stepped out, carrying a furious Thaddeo between them. Still in his pajamas, he looked pitifully weak compared to Konstantin, but even if he was dressed in the world’s finest suit and tie, Thaddeo would never be able to exude the Bratva boss’s natural power.

  “Thaddeo,” Konstantin greeted, his attention shifting away from me. That didn’t mean I was free to run; the pit bull he called Roman still watched me. “It has been too long.”

  Thaddeo spat at him. “Go to hell, you Russian bastard.”

  Konstantin pursed his lips at Thaddeo’s actions. “Is that how you want to die, Don Falcone? Saliva dripping from your lips?” He straightened his cuffs. “How the mighty Falcones have fallen.”

  “You will never be welcomed at the table,” Thaddeo heaved, a last clawing attempt to get under Konstantin’s skin. “You and your filthy kind cannot take this territory. It has belonged to La Cosa Nostra for decades.”

  “We already have,” said Konstantin. He slipped his hand to the back of his trousers, pulling out a gun. It sparkled in the growing morning light, vulgar against the colorful flowers and mowed lawns.

  My stomach tightened.

  Thaddeo paled at the gun but did not beg. His gaze slid to me. I watched as he noticed my unharmed stature, how I was surrounded by Russian men.

  His nostrils flared. “You traitorous puttana!”

  At least I’m not a dead puttana, I thought.

  “That’s enough of that,” Konstantin said, voice hard. He cocked the gun. “Where is the key, Thaddeo?”

  Key to what?

  Thaddeo bared his teeth. “I’m never going to tell, you filthy bastard. Vaffanculo!”

  I briefly glanced at Konstantin, scanning his face for any signs he understood Thaddeo’s Italian curses. Though, I amended, from Thaddeo’s tone, I’m sure he could put it together.

  “You are already a dead man, Thaddeo,” Konstantin remarked. “However, what I do to you before sending you to Hell could very well be up to you.”

  “Mangia merde e morte!” Thaddeo sneered.

  Konstantin looked slightly disappointed with Thaddeo. “Very well.” He passed the gun in between his hands. Calmly, he pointed it at Thaddeo’s head.

  I expected some final words, one last attempt to draw information from him but the gunshot echoed through the morning, silencing the baby birds and breeze.

  Thaddeo slumped to the ground, hole in forehead.

  Despite the act being so atrocious, Konstantin had dealt with it cleanly and civilly.

  A shame, I thought, if it had been me, I would’ve slowly taken Thaddeo apart until I could roll up his skin and sort his bones into piles.

  Konstantin tucked the gun back into his holster, smoothing his blazer over it. He turned to go.

  One of the men asked him something in Russian.

  “No,” Konstantin said in reply. “There is nothing important left in there.” He looked over his shoulder to me, gesturing forward with a hand. “Come now, Mrs Falcone. Your flight to Chicago awaits.”

  “I’m not going back to Chicago,” I replied. “I’m staying here.”

  “If you stay here, you will be arrested,” he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, sirens started in the distance. “Ah, they’re early.” His eyes met mine, eyebrow arching gracefully. “What will it be? Us or them?”

  I stepped forward.

  2

  Elena Falcone

  Squeezed between two Russian gangsters, I sat facing Konstantin Tarkhanov. Even in the back seat of the car, being driven around like a child, Konstantin carried himself with an untouchable arrogance. It felt incorrect to say that anyone else in this vehicle was in charge, driver included.

  If the driver wanted to take us off the side of the road, it would be at Konstantin’s command.

  Konstantin cast his light brown eyes up to mine, amusement sparking in them. He had been flipping through the newspaper for the long drive, casual and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed a coup d’état. Like gunpowder residue wasn’t staining his cuff links.

  “Mrs Falcone?” he prompted. “Can I offer you anything? Water, vodka?”

  I felt my features twist into a scowl before I could stop them. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  He folded his newspaper in one smooth movement. “That’s not true, is it? You want me to allow you to stay in New York.”

  “It doesn’t have to be New York.” It just can’t be Chicago.

  Konstantin smiled briefly but didn’t say anything else. I didn’t look away from him; only an idiot would turn their back to a predator.

  The Pakhan was content to watch me, too, it seemed. His eyes roamed over me, taking in the tangled hair and wrinkled dressing gown. Compared to him, I looked half-wild. But the only reaction he showed was a raise of his eyebrows when he took in my ink-stained hands.

  For as long as I could remember, I had been writing on myself. It used to drive my mother insane when she would spot words and drawings coating my arms and legs. Hours I spent in the bath, just being scrubbed and scolded, but it never stopped me.

  My mother didn’t understand what it was like to have thoughts overflowing. If I didn’t write them down, I would forget them. Thaddeo hadn’t liked it either. He called it juvenile and a one-way ticket to ink poisoning, but even the threat of getting sick hadn’t been able to stop me.

  I expected Konstantin to say something. To have an opinion about it. Men had opinions about everything, especially regarding women’s bodies, but he merely regarded me for a moment before going back to his newspaper.

  I was strangely disappointed he hadn’t said anything. I would’ve enjoying snapping at him a few more times.

  The crunch of the gravel signaled the car beginning to slow down. I twisted in my seat, trying to avoid brushing against the gangsters. Through the tinted window, I could see the suburbs had thinned to countryside.

  A lump began to grow in my throat.

  Rationally, I knew Konstantin wouldn’t dare to lay a hand on me. I knew my family back in Chicago might not care for me—or I them—but the insult would not go unavenged. The Rocchettis weren’t known for their ability to forgive, nor was my childhood friend, Sophia, who I was closer to than anyone else in my family.

  Yet still, knowing this, my body tightened in anxiety. Something about being out in the country, surrounded by the vicious Bratva, I would imagine was the reason behind the reaction.

  In the midst of the forage, I spotted a bear-l
ike creature. Huge, furry and snarling at the car.

  I resisted the urge to snarl back at it.

  I was about to turn back around to Konstantin, uncomfortable with having my back to him for too long, when the trees opened up onto a huge lawn surrounding a manor. We drove through gleaming gates and part way around a circular drive before slowing down and rolling to a stop.

  “Mrs Falcone.” Konstantin held a hand out to me.

  I didn’t touch it.

  “Very well,” he said. “Boys.”

  The two Russian gangsters, one on either side of me, grabbed a respective arm and hauled me out of the car. I twisted in their grips, but their strength easily overpowered mine and they dropped me easily onto the gravel like a sack of potatoes.

  I scrambled to my feet just as Konstantin elegantly stepped out of the car, newspaper folded under his arm.

  “Are you alright?” he inquired, voice amused.

  I didn’t brush the dirt off my dressing gown. “Fine,” I gritted out.

  I looked around and felt surprise slither through me. For such a put-together man, his estate was…unkempt. Ferns grew onto the driveway, branches hung over fences, flowers overtook their pots. It was a grouping of green and wildness, the opposite of Thaddeo’s manicured, picture-perfect garden.

  I would never admit it aloud, but it was actually very beautiful.

  Of course, Konstantin has my dream garden, I thought bitterly. Konstantin was the sort of man who had everything you dreamed of, but he had gained it effortlessly.

  If the garden made me slightly jealous, then the house sent me straight into envy.

  Built in the style of an old English home, the gray-bricked house loomed over the estate. Classic windows allowed you to peer inside, paired with almost French detailing around the edges. Over the bricks and past the balconies, vines of wisteria grew wildly, hiding most of the architecture beneath their leaves.

  I peered at Konstantin. I hated him and his perfect estate.

  “This way, Mrs Falcone,” he gestured me forward. “One of my family members will keep you company while you wait for the plane.”

  “Just drop me off at the nearest bus stop,” I replied.

  A flicker of amusement passed over his face. “Don’t make this harder for yourself.” He offered the advice like we were old friends, despite it being a sugar-coated threat.

  I wasn’t a child, about to stick my heels into the gravel and throw a tantrum. But the reality of my situation was beginning to dawn on me.

  I was going back to Chicago.

  And my only hope at not being sent back there stood in the form of a Russian Pakhan who had just killed my husband.

  Relenting, I followed Konstantin into his home. Behind me, I saw his men jumping out of cars and moving weapons into another part of the house. A few followed us inside, including Roman the pit bull, his lips pulled back, showing his teeth.

  Inside was beautiful, if not a little spare. The interior favored a very classical French mixed with Russian feel. From the chandelier to the warm wooden floors and detailed white walls, the European influence was obvious. However, barely any furniture was around, most of it covered in white sheets.

  They had just moved in from the looks of it.

  “Is that her?” said a feminine voice.

  I turned to see a woman around my age dancing down the stairs. Before I could even respond, the woman landed awkwardly on a step, instantly crashing down into the handrail, hair and legs flying.

  “Stop tripping over, woman!” snapped Roman. He stomped angrily over to the fallen girl. Before he could make a move to help her, she scrambled to her feet, snapping him a foul look.

  I resisted the urge to smile.

  “Oh, piss off, Roman.” The woman turned to me and made it safely down the rest of the staircase. “You must be Elena! Hi!” She wrapped her arms around me.

  I didn’t know what to do so I just stood awkwardly in her embrace.

  “Danika,” Konstantin said, “show Mrs Falcone to the bathroom to tidy herself up, would you?”

  That was a backhanded comment if I had ever heard one.

  “Of course, Kostya.” Danika pulled back, holding my shoulders and scanning my face. Her reduced movement allowed me to take in her face. Softer features, with sweet brown eyes, a button nose and cupid bow lips. There was no animosity in her expression, only welcoming friendliness. “I’m Danika. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I blinked. What had this woman heard about me? I couldn’t imagine it would be anything flattering.

  Danika latched onto my wrist, tugging me forward. “Let’s go and get you freshened up. I might even have a change of clothes. Then you won’t have to sit on a plane in dirty pajamas.”

  I pulled back on her grip slightly, turning to Konstantin.

  Konstantin spared me a glance, eyebrows raised as if to say you should take her up on her offer.

  I gripped the bottom of my dressing gown, shaking it. Dirt fell to the ground.

  I sent him a mocking smile before turning to Danika. She was looking down at the mess I had made like she was convincing herself it was real.

  “A change of clothes would be nice,” I said.

  Danika looked back up at me, blinking rapidly. “Oh, yes, of course.” Her warmth returned, smile widening. “Follow me…”

  We left the collection of men in the foyer. I resisted the urge to turn back and watch Konstantin. I wanted to figure out what was going on his head, behind that pleasant façade. Could he be convinced to not send me to Chicago? Or was it time I faced the wolves?

  If he forces you onto a plane, it is not the end of the world, Elena, I told myself. You will have time in Chicago to escape and make a run for it. Or perhaps if I was patient, I could somehow manage to get away…

  But then what? I had never held a job, never been on my own. I did have a small secret income…but those profits wouldn’t be enough to survive.

  My mind was churning with possibilities, but it was Danika’s soft voice that pulled me out of my brain. “I’m sorry about your husband.”

  We had reached the top of the landing, revealing more classical style architecture and minimalist décor. Danika hadn’t let go of my wrist; perhaps she was my first obstacle if I decided to make a run for it.

  I considered her words. I’m sorry about your husband.

  “Don’t be,” I said. “I’m not.”

  Danika nodded in understanding but didn’t press.

  As we went to turn down a hallway, I peered back over my shoulder. The Russian gangsters had grouped together, talking animatedly.

  Konstantin stood with them, relaxed and confident. He was listening to something Roman the pit bull was saying, expression distant. Blonde hair caught the soft morning light as he nodded his head.

  Authoritative.

  The word sat in my mind, itching to be let out. I almost asked Danika for a pen.

  Like he could feel my calculating attention on him, Konstantin lifted his head upwards.

  I turned away before our eyes could meet.

  Danika didn’t say anything, but her brown eyes searched my expression for something. When she finished her search, she gripped my wrist harder. “This way. Let’s hope I don’t get lost. I’m always getting lost in here.”

  We did get lost.

  About three turns and two hallways later, Danika stopped in an empty room. The thick layer of dust on everything made us both sneeze.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Where are we…We went down the left wing and then—Oh, Babushka!”

  I turned, expecting to see an old woman step into the room, but instead a huge brown tabby cat with beady green eyes came into the room, bushy tail swaying irritably behind her.

  The cat’s attention went straight to me, not looking at all pleased with my presence. She hissed at me.

  Danika clasped her hands together. “If Babushka is here, we’re near Tati’s room. That means the guest rooms are…oh, I ha
ve no idea. Let’s go and ask Tatiana.”

  “How long have you been living here?” I asked, unable to wonder if Danika was just learning the space or was truly this inept at directions.

  “Oh, not long.” She leaned down to pet Babushka as we passed the cat. Babushka moved her head out the way, giving Danika a foul look for even daring to try and touch her. That was a reaction I understood. “About a week.”

  A week? “Where were you beforehand?”

  “Here and there. Kostya separated us to keep us safe. I was with Roksana in—” She caught herself suddenly, giving me an uncertain look.

  I tried to look nonthreatening, but I doubted my oddly shaped features allowed my expression to convey that.

  Danika recovered quickly. “You don’t want to hear all that.” She stopped suddenly at a pair of double doors, one slightly cracked open. “Oh, we’re here.”

  Babushka had followed us, stalking us through the hallways. Now, she leaped onto a hallway table, her tail swinging over the edge, and eyed me.

  “She’s like that with everyone,” Danika assured me, like I was worried.

  “Babushka is queen around here,” came a soft voice from inside the room.

  Danika pushed the door open gently. “You’re awake, Tati?” She poked her head into the room before glancing back at me. “Just stay here for a sec. I’m going to ask Tati for directions—in my own home!”

  She entered the room, pushing the door open. Danika had told me to stay put, but she hadn’t said I couldn’t peer into the room.

  Unable to help my curiosity, I pushed closer, taking in the space. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was filled with furniture, but not stylish couches and tables. Instead, hospital machines lined up, beeping softly.

  In the middle of the room and machines, a large bed sat, with a thin figure tucked beneath the covers. A pale woman peered back at me, dark patches beneath her grey-blue eyes and oily hair hanging limply around her. Despite her obvious illness, the woman held her chin high as she took me in.

  “You must be Elena Falcone,” the woman said, voice weak but clear.

  Danika nodded, coming up to the woman. She smoothed the blanket, despite its being already seamless. “Yes, this is Elena. I’m just trying to help her find the guest room so she can change and rest. But I can’t find it…”