by Bree Porter
“My toddler has a better lay of the land than you, Danika,” mused the sick woman.
“I know,” Danika agreed with a laugh. “I bet even Elena has a better idea than me.” She peered at me and smiled. “That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.”
“Me too,” the woman said kindly.
Danika popped up. “Oh, how rude! Elena, meet Tatiana Gribkov.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tatiana said to me, her eyelids drooping slightly. She reached out with a delicate hand and rubbed her stomach. It was then I noticed the slight swelling to it. She’s pregnant, I realized. “I hope the boys haven’t been cruel to you.”
“They killed her husband,” Danika pointed out.
“There are worse things in the world,” was the other woman’s reply. She turned her head to the side suddenly, coughing loudly.
“Oh, Tati, let me get you some water.” Danika scurried to the corner of the room, finding a pitcher and glass. She hadn’t even taken a step before the glass slipped out of the grip, shattering against the ground. “Oh, shit!”
I stepped into the room. Tatiana was still coughing. “Let me do it.”
Danika looked at me gratefully.
I ignored the look, silently pouring some water in a second glass and hovering by Tatiana with it. As I got closer, the rising smell of disinfectant and medicine became nearly overwhelming.
Tatiana’s coughing smoothed and she gratefully took the water from me. As her fingers wrapped around the glass, I caught sight of her fingernails.
Near the beds, the nail had darkened into a cloudy gray color.
“What’s the matter with you?” The words came out harsher than I had intended, making me sound like some rude child on the playground. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Tatiana took a sip of water. “They’re not really sure. They just know the treatment is keeping both the baby and I alive.” She flickered her eyes around the room, past the machines. “Well, keeping us both surviving.”
Danika shifted on her feet, eyes wide with concern. “You’re doing really well today,” she said. “I bet the new medication is working.”
“Me too.” Tatiana didn’t sound as convinced. “Thank you for the water, Elena.”
I stepped back, eyeing her nails, and muttered something polite. My brain was having trouble forming words when all its attention was on her nails. I took in her appearance, cataloguing the other familiar symptoms.
“Come on, Elena,” Danika said. “I think your plane leaves soon and I would feel terrible if you were stuck in those dirty clothes.”
As we left, Tatiana lay back on the pillows, eyes fluttering close. I doubted she felt as good as she had led Danika to believe.
By a stroke of luck, Danika located the guest room. Her excitement and pride were infectious—and almost made me laugh along with her.
“I’m so terrible with directions,” she said as she walked into the bathroom. She stopped by the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You won’t say anything, right? I don’t mind Kostya knowing…but I wouldn’t be able to stand Roman’s gloating. Every time I fuck up, he sees it as a personal achievement.”
I didn’t like Roman, so I agreed. “Of course. Fuck that guy.”
Danika’s smile took up most of her face. “Fuck that guy,” she said with a nod.
As soon as I began to run the shower, there was a knock at the door. Danika seemed very apologetic as she told me it was time for my flight. I didn’t bother changing, even at her insistence. If I was going to be forced back to Chicago, I was showing up covered in dirt and fury.
“I’m so sorry,” Danika said. “If we hadn’t gotten lost, you would’ve had time to shower and change and maybe even nap—”
“It’s fine, Danika,” I said.
At the door, a familiar face waited. Great, I thought, taking in the half-feral gangster before me, the pit bull has come to piss me off.
Roman grinned nastily at me. “You ready to go back to Chicago, Elena?”
“I want to speak to Konstantin.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. The boss has much more important things to do than speak with a bitchy widow.”
I glared at him. “Tell your boss I know what’s wrong with Tatiana.”
Danika peered around my shoulder. “You do?”
Roman’s eyes flared, but he said to Danika, “You let her see Tatiana? Dmitri’s going to fucking kill you.”
“I doubt it,” I said, coolly. “Take me to Konstantin or let Tatiana die. It’s up to you, Pit Bull.”
Roman worked his jaw, his accusatory glare still on Danika. Like her standing behind me meant she supported my actions. Danika, herself, was peering up at me with uncertainty.
“Roman, if she even has a clue…” she began.
“She doesn’t,” he retorted. “She’s just trying to avoid going back to Chicago. La Cosa Nostra wives don’t know anything about anything.”
I nearly rolled my eyes at his dismissal, his arrogance. I doubted Roman was very educated, either. “Is that really a chance you’re willing to take?” I asked him.
Roman snapped his teeth at me. “Fuck, fine, whatever. Let’s go.” He grabbed my upper arm, dragging me down the hallway.
I tugged at his grip, but it was a lot harder than Danika’s delicate hands.
“Let go of me, you animal!”
Roman pushed me forward, straight through two open doors. I stumbled, trying to find my footing. When I did, I found myself looking straight into Konstantin Tarkhanov’s pale brown eyes, both filled with amusement.
“Mrs Falcone,” he greeted. “I thought Danika took you to get cleaned up.”
I straightened, throwing him a glare. “I’m not going back to Chicago.”
“Yes, you are,” muttered a voice behind me.
I turned, taking in the study as I did (plain, classical, dusty) and spotted Roman standing by the doorway with another man. The second man had inky black hair, paired with snow-white skin and watery blue eyes. Looking at him felt like holding shards of glass.
I glared at him and snapped my head back to Konstantin. “I know what’s wrong with Tatiana.”
The amusement in Konstantin’s eyes died, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
A hand grabbed my shoulder roughly, yanking me back. The man with black hair was glaring down at me, his cheekbones sharp enough to slice through my skin. “How fucking dare you!”
“I take it you’re Dmitri,” I muttered. “Now, let go of me.”
He didn’t budge.
“Let her go, Dmitri,” came Konstantin’s hard voice.
Instantly, the Russian brute let go.
I rubbed my shoulder, trying not to show how hard he had gripped me. I turned back to Konstantin. There was no point trying to plead my case to Dmitri—Konstantin was king around here. Even in regards to Dmitri’s sick wife.
“I’m not lying,” I said, hating that I even had to say that. Lying wasn’t my natural disposition. It used to get me in a lot of trouble: always saying what I was thinking. I remember my mother grabbing my tongue once and threatening to cut it off I didn’t stop moving it. “I know what is wrong with Tatiana.”
Konstantin linked his fingers together, leaning back in his chair. “What is the matter with Tatiana?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
Dmitri hissed beside me. “How dare you—”
“Enough, Dmitri.” Konstantin commanded. To me, he said, “Why is that so, Mrs Falcone?”
I swallowed, my throat dry. Perhaps I should’ve had some water when I was with Tatiana as well. “If I am not returned to Chicago and I’m promised freedom, then I will cure Tatiana.”
He raised a single dark blonde eyebrow. “Is that so?”
I lifted my jaw. “Yes.”
Konstantin surveyed me.
“You’re not really considering this, Kostya?” Dmitri said, sounding like he couldn’t believe it.
Konstantin held up a
hand and Dmitri fell silent. “I am inclined to take you up on your offer. But I want to negotiate the conditions.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, the word pittance glaring up at me. “I bet you do.”
A whisper of a smile passed over his face. “You will diagnose and cure Tatiana. Any resources you need will be provided for you. If you cure Tatiana, then I will support your relocation and gift you…your freedom, shall we say.”
I nodded. Freedom, freedom, freedom. The word bounced around my head. “I agree to those terms.”
“There is also the issue of the Outfit and your family,” Konstantin said. “I won’t have our community thinking I kidnapped you. That would give most of them the ammunition they need to declare me their enemy. I expect you to keep in contact with your family and join me in public, like anyone else in my household.”
Konstantin wouldn’t risk his reputation, especially so soon after taking over Staten Island. Keeping the Falcone widow would make the other Italian families upset, maybe even some of the non-Italian families. If I was treated and acted like a guest, they wouldn’t have enough reason to go up against Konstantin.
For all the mafia world’s guts and glory, they were politicians. Noted, guns were more preferred than speeches, but a gangster taught in both violence and bureaucracy would climb the ladder a lot higher than a gangster who only knew how to kill.
“One more thing,” he said. “I will not have you roaming all over Staten Island. You will live here at the estate while you help Tatiana.”
Nobody in the room liked that idea.
Dmitri stepped forward, eyes electric. “My son lives here. She is the wife of the enemy.”
“A dead enemy,” Konstantin corrected. “I imagine Elena will be no threat to your son.” His eyes went to me. “She wants her freedom too much to do anything so irrational.”
He was right. I would change diapers and bath all of Dmitri’s sons if it meant I was a step closer to my freedom, a step further away from Chicago.
I wasn’t happy with the idea of staying with Konstantin and his little family. I didn’t want to be around Konstantin any more than I had to.
But this was my chance.
I could see my freedom—and it was in the palm of a violent Russian gentleman. One wrong move and he could crush my ambitions into crumbs.
I nodded. “I agree to your terms.”
Konstantin smiled, but there no warmth like there was in Danika’s smile. There wasn’t any hatred like in Roman’s, either. Instead, it seemed practiced, taught. But it looked much better than my smile, which was more reminiscent of a grimace. “Good luck finding your antidote, Mrs Falcone. May you succeed, for both your sake and Tatiana’s.”
He didn’t say what would happen to me if I failed. Even picturing it was enough to make me feel sick.
Now, I just had to figure out what the fuck was wrong with Tatiana.
3
Konstantin Tarkhanov
Artyom stayed quiet until I placed down the phone.
“What did The Godless say?” he asked.
“He has given his blessing for me to keep her.” I didn’t expand on the rest of the conversation. Artyom had been there the first time when I asked a similar thing of the Outfit.
Artyom rubbed his forehead. “Are you even certain she can cure Tatiana? The last thing Dmitri and Anton need is false hope.”
I glanced down at my desk, tracing the stack of papers before me. My men had sent it curious looks throughout the years but none of had ever asked about it. I could see Roman fighting the urge sometimes, amusingly so.
“You don’t believe she can?” I asked.
“None of us are as we first seem,” he said, “but she has no formal education, no medical degree. I doubt her family even allowed her to watch hospital dramas growing up.”
I leaned back in my chair. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” At his expression, I said, “Relax, Artyom. I have no intention to stop our own search for treatment.”
Though the search had been more fruitless than successful these past few weeks. Overnight, it seemed, Tatiana had fallen ill. Rapidly, she had grown sicker and sicker, now bedridden most days and unable to stay awake for more than a few hours. We had brought in the best physicians money could buy, flying them in from far and wide, and none had an explanation for all her symptoms.
Dmitri was growing insane as time wore on. Sometimes going days without sleep—only sleeping once Roman knocked him unconscious with a clock to the head.
The door banged open before Artyom could add anything else, Roman striding in with a bottle of vodka. Even after years of my trying to teach him better manners, Roman refused to knock before he entered rooms. He only knocked on Roksana’s door, which had started after he had walked in on Artyom and his wife, and nearly found himself brutally killed.
“We’re celebrating.” He held up the vodka. “We finally killed those fucking Falcones and took our territory.”
A smile played on my lips. “It’s a bit early to celebrate. The other families have not reached out.”
“They’re probably running scared.” Roman flashed his teeth. “We should take their territories, too.”
“No,” I said. We’d had this conversation before. Roman’s lust for blood clouded his rationality often. “No single family can rule New York City.”
“We’ll see.” Roman pulled out shot glasses, pouring the vodka. We clinked our glasses, Roman’s voice booming, “Chtoby stoly lomalis ot izobiliya, a krovati ot lyubvi!”
Artyom rolled his eyes but we both drank, the liquor running down my throat. A fine bottle from one of my more exclusive businesses, and one Roman would easily finish.
Roman fell into a spare chair, resting his legs on my desk and pressing the bottle of vodka to his chest like a pillow. “So, what do you think of the Falcone girl? Is she everything you dreamed of?”
“Only you dream of women, Roman,” came a cold voice. Dmitri stepped into the study, closing the door behind him, icy blue eyes sharpened with his mood.
Artyom grinned into his shot glass; Roman rolled his eyes.
“The Chicago Outfit gave their blessing,” I said to all three of them.
“So that’s dealt with.” Dmitri leaned against the desk, collecting my empty shot glass and pouring himself a drink.
Artyom shook his head. “Nothing’s ever dealt with. They may change their minds tomorrow.”
“Especially if that woman of his gets in his ear,” Roman added. He pulled out a cigarette.
“Don’t smoke in the house,” Dmitri said. “Tatiana is upstairs.”
Roman looked flabbergasted. “You’re not serious, man? I just spent the morning fighting soldati and dealing with Danika. I need a smoke.”
Dmitri did not back down. “Go outside–”
“No smoking inside, Roman. If you’re so stressed, have another drink,” I told him calmly. “Now, let’s talk business.”
With that single sentence, the three men focused. No more arguing, no more camaraderie. When it came down to business, there were no games. All of them were violent in their own ways—I wouldn’t bother with them if they weren’t.
Artyom Fattakhov was the highest-ranking member in the room, one of my Two Spies. In charge of security and intelligence, he was more commonly known as Obshchak. We had grown up together under the harsh leadership of our fathers, become Vory together, and we would most likely go to the grave together.
Dmitri Gribkov and Roman Malakhov were part of my elite group, both with their own respective roles. Dmitri was my krysha, an enforcer in every sense of the word. Whereas Roman was a byki, my bodyguard. For all his feralness, he took his job extremely seriously, his loyalty unparalleled.
My torpedo was missing. Olezka was busy on Staten Island but would be returning soon.
With the Falcones finally being dealt with, the time for the Tarkhanov Bratva to populate Staten Island had come. Over the next few months, my men and their families would arrive, cemen
ting our organization and territory.
It had taken nearly a year to prepare to take down the Falcones. Not for lack of power. No, my men could easily take out every single Falcone mafiosi five times over. But being physically able to overpower someone did not mean you had won.
Few of my kind failed to consider the other types of strength in the world.
The Falcones had.
It had been easy digging my fingers into Staten Island, through investments and relationships. Boring, almost. If I had decided to take down the Lombardis, there would’ve been more of a fight, more of a challenge. But the prize at the end wouldn’t have been nearly as sweet.
“Why are you smiling, Boss?” Dmitri asked.
“Because of our success.” I turned to Artyom. “Has Feodor contacted you yet?”
Artyom bowed his head, trying to hide his irritation. My Obshchak and Sovietnik weren’t the best of friends but they both pushed aside their difference in personalities to do their jobs. I wouldn’t allow anything else. They were both too useful.
“He has. The horses are in transit. They will be here by—” The shrill ring of Artyom’s phone cut him off. Quietly, he excused himself, frowning faintly at the name on the screen. Most likely a spy of his calling.
Dmitri watched Artyom’s retreating back as he left the study. “He doesn’t like that girl being here.” He turned to me. “I don’t either.”
I raised an eyebrow at his tone.
“Watch yourself, Dima,” Roman warned.
His jaw sharpened but he bowed his head in apology. “I meant no disrespect, boss. But my wife and son are here, and so are two other women. They can’t protect themselves if Falcone’s widow brings trouble to our doorstep.”
“I understand your worries, Dmitri,” I told him. “But she stays.” I assessed my krysha. Dark bags beneath his eyes stained his pale cheeks. “Go and get some rest. The rest of the day will be about waiting; you don’t need to be awake for that.”
Dmitri didn’t relent. “You’re not worried about her spying on us? You really think her desire to be free will beat monetary gain? Or the satisfaction of seeing the man who killed her husband die?”
