Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  “That is enough, Elena,” he warned. “This petty behavior is not who you are—nor does it have any place in this family.”

  I shook my head and kept talking, “I gave her a placebo. A fake. Nothing more than water and starch. But she kept getting better. She was lying, Konstantin. Her entire illness—there was nothing wrong with her. I don’t know if it’s Munchausen’s or if something else—”

  Konstantin sat up, causing me to scramble to my knees as well. Fury gripped his expression. “Your first tonic could’ve worked, even when you did not mean it to,” he said. “That does not make Tatiana a liar.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Konstantin. Medicine doesn’t miraculously do things it isn’t supposed to. That’s like saying taking ibuprofen accidentally cured cancer. It doesn’t happen!”

  He rose to his feet, pulling up his trousers. I could feel him growing further and further away. “And that is your only proof?” he asked dangerously.

  I rose to my feet as well, not bothering to hide my nakedness. “Why do you think the hundreds of doctors you sent for couldn’t find anything, Konstantin? Because there was nothing to find. She made it up—the entire thing!”

  “Then why is suddenly better?” he inquired. “Why did she choose you to heal your fake illness instead of anybody else?”

  “Well, I imagine it’s because she probably thought I wouldn’t notice,” I snapped.

  Konstantin stood tall, fury emanating from every pore. I had never seen his temper so out in the open, so easily identifiable. “Tatiana has been a part of this family since she was eighteen. Not once has she ever acted dishonestly or dishonorably.”

  “That doesn’t mean she can’t do shitty things, Konstantin.” I snapped.

  “Tatiana is not dangerous,” he warned. “She is a good woman, who has been nothing but kind and caring to her husband and son. She has never harmed anyone—”

  “Unlike me?” I hissed.

  Konstantin held a hand. “You know that is not what I meant.” His eyes caught my bare legs, goosebumps pebbling on the exposed skin. To my surprise, he unbuttoned and slipped off his shirt. “Cover yourself,” he growled. “And let’s end this conversation here.”

  I refused the shirt. “This conversation is not over. I will not be a pawn to Tatiana’s game. Nor will I let you be.”

  “Enough, Elena,” he repeated. “These accusations are grounded in nothing—”

  “They are grounded in fact! Open your eyes. She faked getting sick, she faked getting better. Not really the behavior of a good woman, now is it?”

  His features warped, teasing the beast beneath his skin. “I said enough.”

  “And I said no.”

  Konstantin looked down at me, “Then I guess we are at an impasse,” he growled. “But I am still Pakhan and when I order you to keep these theories to yourself, you will obey.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, cushioning my breasts. “When I want to keep my theories to myself, I will. Until then, go fuck yourself.”

  “Enough rebellion,” he warned. “I am ordering—”

  “So when my rebellion is against everyone but you it’s okay?” My tone had taken on a near-savage sound to it, equivalent to a wolf shrieking at its prey. “I won’t make myself more appetizing so I’m easier for you to swallow. You can choke for all I care.”

  His lip curled back. “Very well. You have made your decision.” His eyes were nothing but rage as they pinned me to the spot. “I hope you can handle the consequences, lyubimaya.”

  28

  Konstantin Tarkhanov

  “I believe her.”

  The sentence coming from Roman’s mouth made me stop in my step.

  November wind swirled all around us, bringing the cold over the Narrows. We had traveled to the usual meeting spot via boat, the journey rough and uncomfortable, but the choppy waves hadn’t been the only reason the tension had been high.

  My men were walking on eggshells around me.

  As they should be.

  There was no word equivalent to how I was feeling.

  Rage and fury were too tame to describe the boiling of my blood and red of my vision.

  Pens and papers split beneath my grip, bratok cowered beneath my stare, and even the ocean seemed to shudder beneath my attention.

  But Roman, it seemed, had lost his survival instincts for the time being.

  I turned to him slowly. I heard some of my men cuss softly under their breath at Roman, but I paid them no mind.

  “What did you just say?” I asked quietly.

  Roman shifted on his feet, showing he wasn’t a complete idiot. He sent a few glares to his fellow byki, meaning he wanted them to offer us some privacy.

  There was no need. News had travelled quickly through the men. From my office, to Artyom and Feodor, with Roman and Olezka following. Soon the entire Bratva, including the women in my household, knew about the accusations towards Tatiana.

  She had not revoked them. Had not apologized or compromised. She had borne the consequences, the cold shoulders and biting comments with her chin held high.

  If I wasn’t so angry, I would’ve been impressed.

  Roman cleared his throat as he said, “I believe Elena.”

  Elena.

  Her name cut through the wind, as demanding and wild as the woman herself.

  “And why,” I asked, “do you believe her?”

  “I just don’t see why she would make it up.”

  I rose an eyebrow. “But you believe Tatiana made it up? The woman with whom you have lived side by side with for nearly a decade.”

  Roman rubbed his mouth. “I believe Elena,” he repeated.

  “I fear your confidence is misplaced.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I cut my eyes to Roman. He looked down at the ground in submission. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

  For once, my byki stayed quiet, just bowing his head in respect.

  Two other mob bosses had arrived before me. Thomas Sr Ó Fiaich and Chen Qiang. They spoke softly in a pair, looking over the East River.

  Their soldiers loitered around the space, lifting their heads up as I joined the party. My own men sent back glares and warnings, before taking up their own positions. Almost two dozen mobsters scattered themselves around the edge of Governor’s Island, their numbers catching more attention than the meeting of the bosses.

  “Konstantin,” Qiang greeted first.

  We shook hands, exchanging empty but polite greetings. Thomas Sr and I greeted each other the same way, discussing the weather and the journey and their wives’ health. The topic up for discussion was hinted at but never explicitly said. It would have to wait until all five bosses were here.

  Soon after, Mitsuzo Ishida arrived.

  “Awaiting Vitale, are we?” he inquired as we greeted each other. “He is always the last one, no?”

  Noises of agreement floated over the group.

  “Konstantin, you have made it to your second meeting,” Mitsuzo said.

  I nodded. “I’m sure I’ll make it to many more.”

  His dark eyes glimmered, and he nodded.

  A rumble spread across the bodyguards, a shudder of fury. They darted to their feet, guns in hand. Personal bodyguards fled to their bosses; Roman coming to my side.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  “An intruder has arrived.”

  Past the road, an unfamiliar flock of men moved towards us. The black of their uniforms turned away the sunlight.

  Energy and guards rose. Thomas Sr and Mitsuzo went to leave, their bodyguards numbering around them protectively.

  “At ease,” I called. Hesitant eyes flickered towards me. “We know this intruder.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, the guards shifted, revealing the king of Maine.

  “Giovanni Vigliano,” Mitsuzo said, rolling the name over his tongue like the man finally deserved to be known by name. “Lorenzo’s bastard.”

  Giovann
i reached our group and slipped off his fedora. His eyes roamed over the collected bosses. “Vitale is dead,” he said. “I am now the Don of Manhattan and Queens.”

  Most of us monsters chose another face to wear. Whether it be a face of charisma or violence, one of an idiot or one of a politician. It was important to moving throughout society without resistance, to interacting with those who were not monsters. If we did not cover our rotten souls, I feared the rest of our world would come with pitchforks and torches.

  We even wore these faces in front of our men, who were almost as terrible and vicious as ourselves.

  I had worn mine since birth. It had been imperative to my survival.

  If my family had known for even a second, when I was small and vulnerable, that I had the mind of a leader, the soul of an emperor, I never would’ve made it to my eighth birthday.

  I had protected my niece from the same problem.

  There were only a few mob bosses I could recall as men who often showed the beast. Alessandro Rocchetti, the Don of Chicago was one of them. His temper and violent nature had never been anything he had hidden under the guise of civility.

  But Giovanni Vigliano was a different manner of mob boss. He had not chosen to be brash or bloodthirsty. No, Giovanni wore no mask at all. He showed the emotionless monster that tempered in his blood with little remorse or bother.

  His coldness was different to Dmitri’s. Whereas Dmitri was sharp and icy—his attitude more akin to a frozen black lake with a monstrous serpent beneath—Giovanni’s coldness came from a place of apathy.

  He was considered cold simply because there was no emotion for him to show.

  “Is that so?” Qiang inquired.

  His eyes shifted to the Shan Chu of the Chen Triad. “Indeed, it is.”

  We assessed him; he assessed us.

  “We are here to discuss the threat Titus poses,” I said. “Do you have anything to add that your predecessor did not?”

  Giovanni’s blue eyes sparked. “I do.” He turned, gesturing a hand to his men. Their numbers shifted, and two stepped forward, carrying a duct-taped man between them. “This man tried to kill my daughter in the name of Titus.”

  The torture this man had endured must have been brutal. There was a lack of vitality to his face, and his eyes looked like mirrors—empty and reflective. His heart might still be beating but there was nothing left to this man.

  Good.

  Those who hurt children deserved to be ripped of their souls and forced to live as hollow corpses for the rest of their existence.

  Anybody who had forgotten such a thing, might find themselves face to face with the monster I kept beneath my very own skin.

  “His name is Elmir Smirnov,” Giovanni said. “He was born in Saratov, a city in Russia.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Under duress, but yes.”

  I rose an eyebrow. “What a polite way of putting it.”

  Mitsuzo smiled. “It is, isn’t it?” He gestured to the man. “Where did you find him?”

  Darkness briefly glimmered over Giovanni’s face. “He entered my property and found himself very quickly caught.” His eyes met mine briefly, an understanding passing between us.

  Without the warning I had given him, they wouldn’t have been waiting for Elmir Smirnov and the situation could’ve ended very differently for Marzia Vigliano.

  “Did he say anythin’ about Titus?” Thomas Sr asked.

  “Very little,” Giovanni said. “His loyalty to Titus is unmatched.”

  “A problem we also encountered with Edward Ainsworth,” I noted.

  Thomas Sr shook his head and narrowed his eyes on Smirnov. “Everybody has a price.”

  I wondered if he felt the same way about his own men and their loyalty.

  If I ever suspected that one of my men might have a dollar sign attached to his allegiance, I wouldn’t bother keeping them so close. Real loyalty was difficult to find, and even harder to maintain. But it was not impossible, and the rewards greatly outnumbered the disadvantages.

  “He only admitted to being loyal to Titus and that my daughter was his target,” Giovanni said. “The rest was useless babble about his life in Saratov and avenging his sister.” He peered down at Elmir Smirnov in distaste.

  Something about Giovanni’s words caught my attention. With a flick of my finger, I instructed Roman to approach Elmir.

  Giovanni waved at his men to let Roman pass. My byki grabbed Elmir’s head and wrenched his neck back, revealing his full complexion.

  A muscle in my jaw tightened but I refused to reveal the sudden turmoil of emotions that stormed within me. Men like my fellow bosses would leap on the first sign of weakness—just as I would do to them.

  “Sister, do you say?” I remarked. “Nikolina Feodorovna?”

  Deep in Elmir’s eyes, there was a spark of recognition. Eyes that were the hybrid blend of gray and blue.

  Roman’s expression flickered as well, revealing that he had seen what I had and understood the implications of just what that might mean.

  An emotion akin to fear boiled within me.

  Fear and betrayal.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, my tone growing darker as the rage I kept buried beneath my civility threatened to escape. “But I am urgently needed elsewhere.”

  Through the fog of anger and betrayal, Elena’s voice came to me clearly and distinctly. Even in my mind, her tone came off as sarcastic and holier-than-thou.

  I will not be a pawn in Tatiana’s game. Nor will I let you be.

  It was too late, I feared. The final move had been made. Checkmate.

  Like we shared the power of telepathy, I met eyes with Roman and he understood my meaning immediately.

  Call Artyom and tell him to rally the men. We have an intruder in our mist.

  He nodded once.

  29

  Elena Falcone

  I was surprised with how much the cold-shoulder I was receiving actually bothered me.

  Growing up, I had craved anonymity and isolation. I had purposefully struck fights with my cousins, been as antagonistic as possible to my classmates. All with the purpose of being left alone, of being so disliked no one dared make the effort to like me.

  Now…my heart squeezed when Danika didn’t offer me syrup, or when Roksana brushed past me in the hallways like I was a piece of furniture. Even being ignored by Artyom was painful. Dmitri and Tatiana, I had expected to react badly, and found myself more upset over Dmitri ignoring me than Tatiana.

  Anton, thankfully, knew little of the going-ons between the adults and was the only one not ignoring me.

  I had taken refuge in the library, joined by Babushka. A part of me longed to venture outside, but the memories of Konstantin taking me amongst the grass and trees only reminded me of the most painful consequence of my accusation: Kon was ignoring me. He was angry with me.

  Rationally, I knew he had to get over himself. I was right in my conviction—I was certain of it. If he wanted to keep punishing me, then so be it. There was nothing I could do. Even if there was an unspoken time frame to his fury.

  But some much less intelligent part of my brain was miserable over his anger. I fretted like an uncertain child all night. Should I revoke my belief? My accusation? Or should I force Konstantin to talk to me, even if it was to fight?

  All these strange emotions and reactions swirled around my body. My stomach felt like it was filled with lead, my heart felt like it was being constantly squeezed. I was on the verge on tears every night before I fell asleep and woke up every morning with my head in the toilet bowl.

  I didn’t like it. I felt like I was learning about my body for the second time. The feeling of newness overcame me, like my entire body had cut a nail too close to the bed.

  Voices erupted from outside the library, high and shrill. I caught Danika’s tone, but couldn’t make out the second.

  Slowly, I put down my book and made by way to the door. The voices cleared.

 
“Going on?” Danika was saying. “I don’t understand. What is he saying?”

  The clear distress in her voice made me push the door open, peering through into the hallway. Two figures stood, Danika and Roksana. Danika had her arms wrapped around her stomach and her eyes were wide. Opposite her, Roksana was on the phone, her features pinched.

  “Roksana—” Danika tried again.

  Roksana stuck a finger in her ear to block her out. Her expression became intent, reacting to whatever the other person on the end of the line was saying.

  I stepped closer, a futile effort to hear what was going on, but only ended up catching Danika’s attention. Her eyes flared in hurt and her arms tightened around her.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Elena,” she said. The words were meant to be harsh, but her tone fell flat, making it sound more like a plea.

  I closed the door behind me, cementing my position in the hallway. “You look upset.”

  “An astute observation,” she said crisply.

  I swallowed down my comment about her stealing my gig as being the sarcastic one but kept quiet. I doubt she would find it funny.

  Roksana was growing increasingly more worried. She glanced between Danika and me. “Yes, they’re both here. We’re leaving now.”

  We were? “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Roksana brought the phone away from her ear, “We need to grab Anton—”

  A gunshot ricocheted through the room. Loud and startling, an echo of terror, before the sound of the wall cracking beneath the impact.

  We shouted in surprise, glancing up at the hole that now dented the wall.

  “You’re not going anywhere, I’m afraid,” came an unfamiliar yet familiar voice.

  Heels clacked, as unsettling as the sound of the gunshot.

  Slowly, I turned my head and felt my stomach drop. Not from surprise…no, not surprise. More like pity—for Danika and Roksana.