Empress of Poisons ARC

by Bree Porter

  Empress of Poisons ARC*

  Book 2 in The Tarkhanov Empire

  *ARC READERS:

  Please note this is an UNEDITED version of Empress of Poisons.

  The author holds the right to change and alter the story.

  Thank you!

  Bree Porter.

  To Mum,

  Thank you for coming over, cleaning my apartment and

  for bringing me much-needed clarity.

  If it wasn’t for you, myself and this book would be a disaster.

  Copyright © 2020 Bree Porter All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Val at BooksandMoods.

  Edited by Sheri at Light Hand Proofreading.

  Interior graphics and formatting by Mary at BooksandMoods.

  Table of Contents

  Empress of Poisons

  Trigger Warning

  Character List

  Part One –

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Part Two –

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Part Three –

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  Somewhere in St. Petersburg, Russia.

  Coming Next…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Trigger Warning

  Please be aware that there are sensitive topics

  discussed by characters in this book.

  Suicidal thoughts are graphically described.

  Please read with caution and take care of yourselves.

  Character List

  Elena Falcone – 26. Heroine. Mother to Nikolai Tarkhanov.

  Konstantin Tarkhanov – 33. Hero. Pakhan of the Tarkhanov Bratva and father to Nikolai Tarkhanov.

  Nikolai Tarkhanov – 2. Son of Konstantin Tarkhanov and Elena Falcone.

  Roman Malakhov – 27. Byki (bodyguard) to Konstantin.

  Danika Baltacha – 25. Interrogator in the Bratva.

  Artyom Fattakhov – 32. Obshchak (security advisor) in the Bratva, husband to Roksana Fattakhov and father to Evva Fattakhov.

  Roksana Fattakhov – 28. Wife of Artyom Fattakhov and mother to Evva Fattakhov.

  Evva Fattakhov – 1. Daughter of Artyom and Roksana Fattakhov.

  Dmitri Gribkov – 32. Krysha (enforcer) in the Bratva and father to Anton Gribkov.

  Anton Gribkov – 5. Son of Dmitri Gribkov.

  Olezka – 35. Torpedo (assassin) in the Bratva.

  Natalia ‘Natasha’ Tarkhanova – 20. Niece of Konstantin Tarkhanov.

  To see Pinterest boards and face casts, go here.

  Part One –

  Crowns, Serpents and Hatred.

  “There is poison in the fang of the serpent,

  in the mouth of the fly and in the string of a scorpion;

  but the wicked man is saturated with it.”

  – Chanakya.

  Prologue

  Artyom Fattakhov

  Six months after Elena left...

  When I knocked on my Pakhan’s door for the fifth time today, I wasn’t surprised when there was again no answer.

  “Knock again,” my wife, Roksana, whispered.

  I obliged but the result remained the same as the other six times. No answer.

  Roksana pressed a gentle hand to my arm. The touch was soft, casual. But the intimacy of her closeness, the warmth of her arm, was enough to ignite fire in my blood.

  I pressed my hands to hers, holding her to me. Beneath my scarred and strong palm, Roksana’s hand felt as breakable as fine china. “Your worry is useless here, dorogaya. You’re only hurting yourself.”

  She bit her lip.

  I may have been thirty years old, but my cock still had the virality and brain of a fifteen-year-old boy who had just discovered his favourite tag on Pornhub. If my boss hadn’t been behind the wall, I might’ve fucked Roksana up against it.

  Later, I told myself.

  My wife remained oblivious to the filthiness of my thoughts, too lost in her worries. “Roman said it was…bad.” She flickered her gray eyes to me, so light in hue they were almost colourless. “What Kostya did to that man…”

  Bad was an understatement.

  I had never seen myself as a green sapling who wilted at the sight of violence and blood. I had been born and raised in the Bratva, had slept with both a knife and teddy bear, and been tattooed before I had grown facial hair. I had seen everything this world had to offer…including what it did to women like my wife.

  But what I had seen my Pakhan do…

  That had chilled me to my bones.

  I could still smell the blood, hear the screams. I doubted they would be something I would forget in a hurry.

  When Roman had spotted the carnage, he had covered his mouth to hold back his vomit, too disgusted to even try and make a sarcastic comment. Even Dmitri, who had been closed off to the world and everything in it lately, had looked shaken. His icy façade cracked for just a moment before freezing back together.

  I couldn’t tell Roksana. Not only because it would haunt her relentlessly and needlessly upset her, but because my brain still hadn’t properly comprehended what it had seen. To try and describe it in words would be impossible.

  Instead, I tightened my grip on her hand. “Some things are best left untold, dorogaya.”

  Roksana searched my expression, seeing more than I wanted to show. But she didn’t press. “It’s been almost seven months.” She didn’t need to specify what happened seven months ago. There was only one event these days which all time centered around. “He’s not getting any better.”

  No. If anything, he was getting worse.

  “The only thing we can do is stay beside him,” I told her. “This is not a family that abandons each other.”

  She smiled sadly. “Isn’t it?”

  Roksana wasn’t born or raised in this world. She still couldn’t grasp some of the concepts that I considered my personal philosophy. But I knew she was thinking about Tatiana. About Elena. Perhaps even Dmitri, who had left the care of his son to Roksana.

  “No,” I said.

  She didn’t argue but her expression told me how she felt.

  I glanced back at the door, the only entrance and exit to my Pakhan’s quarters. If I had been born another man, perhaps I would’ve lamented over the symbolism of the locked door and how it represented the barricade between Konstantin and me.

  But I was no poet, and this was no winding tale.

  “I am going to check on Roman,” I told Roksana. “Please do not go into his room without me.”

  I said please as a courtesy. My words were nothing but a demand.

&
nbsp; Roksana nodded but her eyes wavered over Konstantin’s door. Her hand moved, almost going to her stomach, before she stopped and moved her arm back to her side.

  She was too suspicious for her own good. She believed if she acknowledged the cells forming deep inside of her then they would disappear. I had told her repeatedly that miscarriages were normal and had very little to do with the mother, but her agnostic nature refused to accept a rational explanation.

  I squeezed her hand once again, reminding her of my presence. She blinked up at me. “It may be time to consider doing a test,” I said carefully.

  Her features pinched immediately. “Let’s not talk about that here.” As if Konstantin’s darkness would taint the flicker of light we had created between us.

  “Later then.” I pressed a kiss to her lips, one she returned.

  “I’m worried about him,” she murmured against me.

  I released her hand and instead cupped her cheeks in each palm, forcing her to meet my eyes. Our noses pressed against each other, breaths mingling.

  “Artyom.” Roksana pressed her hands against mine, locking us together in our embrace. “He is going to be like this forever.”

  “Not forever. That is impossible.”

  Emotions shifted behind her gray eyes, the color going from bright silver to dark asphalt as she processed her thoughts and tumbled through her feelings.

  “Wouldn’t you mourn me forever?” She asked.

  My entire body tightened. Fears I kept beneath a shield of denial threatened to overwhelm me. Even nearly seven years later, I could still see her so clearly in my mind: bowed over her bloodied broken knees, clutching to the shattered bone with the might of a giant. She hadn’t screamed but sometimes I wish she had. The silence had been haunting.

  “What sort of question is that?”

  Roksana didn’t bulk at my refusal to answer the question. Instead, she said, “I would mourn you forever.” Her voice hardened. “I would slaughter those who took you from me and bring my wrath down upon New York.” She tapped on Konstantin’s door. “Perhaps in another life, that is me, sitting behind that door, and it is Kostya standing out in the hallway, scarred by my rage.”

  “What ifs will get you nowhere,” I said but her voice sunk into me like a rock dropped into a pond.

  If I was in Konstantin’s position and it had been Roksana…my Roksana…

  There were no words to describe the terror I would impose upon the world.

  “We have been together much longer, dorogaya,” I reasoned.

  “We married after being together for less than a month,” was her reply.

  Roksana, unfortunately, was correct. In fact, waiting more than a day had been a formality for Roksana. The moment I had laid eyes on her, the beautiful ballerina of Moscow with the eyes of a dreamer and soul of an angel, I had been done for.

  I would’ve married her to the bells of Swan Lake before knowing her name if she had been Bratva.

  “Konstantin and Elena are not married,” I said curtly. “He will not be like this forever. I will not allow it.”

  Roksana shrugged sadly. “I don’t think that’s something either of us get to decide.”

  My mind flashed back to the blood and bone, the guts and organs Konstantin had left lying on the ground like discarded shoes. The brutality of it was shocking but Roksana’s words had opened my eyes. Perhaps I understood my Pakhan’s plight better than I had originally thought and now knew that if our positions were swapped, I would be no better.

  “No,” I murmured. “I believe you’re right. It is not up to us.”

  She smiled faintly. “Will that reason be enough to calm down the men?”

  No, it wouldn’t. Konstantin had a kingdom to reign over, had a Bratva to command. His men were awaiting orders and the longer they went without their king, the more restless they grew. Faint powerplays had begun to pop up, which to his credit, Feodor, had dealt with well.

  I would never admit that out loud.

  But despite Feodor’s best efforts, the uneasiness remained, and if the Tarkhanov Bratva saw Konstantin’s weakness, it wouldn’t be long before our enemies did as well.

  Once our enemies knew…then everything Kostya and I had worked for since we were boys would all be for nothing.

  Yet I couldn’t find it in myself to feel contempt.

  I understood.

  I turned my attention back to my wife, taking in her near-white blonde hair and graceful porcelain-like features. Taking in those hands which had only ever touched me in love and those legs which had so warmly welcomed me into their embrace. Her eyes, where she told me all she was feeling, and her mouth, which told me all she was thinking.

  I understand, brother, I thought. I understand.

  “Let me handle the men,” I said, answering Roksana’s earlier question. “Kostya is their Pakhan. They will respect that.”

  “I don’t think they will.”

  That arrogant statement hadn’t come from my wife. Roman Malakhov, byki to Kostya and a good friend in his own right, stepped into view. A dog-like anger had settled over him since Elena had left, making each smile a snarl and each shout a bark.

  He jerked his chin towards the end of the hallway. “Feodor is meeting with some brigadiers now. Olezka said to come quickly.”

  I stepped away from my wife and assessed the byki. I didn’t like the look in Roman’s eyes or the fact that gentle but vicious Olezka had told me to come quickly.

  Roksana picked up on my weariness. “We should go, Artyom.”

  “Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” I relented and followed Roman to the formal dining room.

  Once we had taken all the meetings in Konstantin’s office, but these days no one dared step into the private quarters. Konstantin wasn’t often there but it was more the representation of what it would mean to have a formal meeting without him would mean.

  The formal dining room was filled with Vory, from Brigadiers to torpedos. Feodor took place at the front of the room, all smiles and charm but the hard glint in his eyes told me all I needed to know about the reason for this meeting.

  As soon as I stepped into the room, heads turned towards me.

  Roksana didn’t buckle under the attention, instead she beelined for Danika, who was curled up in the corner. The bond between the two women had deepened after Tatiana’s betrayal…and Elena’s. They shared an understanding only they could decipher, one shared between women who had been wronged.

  To my surprise, Dmitri had shown his face. He leaned against the back wall, trying to separate himself as much as possible, but still a part of the meeting.

  I nodded to him. He nodded sharply back.

  “Where is the Pakhan?” someone asked.

  Voices churned around in agreement, blending together into a harmony of questions of where the actual hell was Konstantin? The answer didn’t need to be said–the only asked because they wanted confirmation that he, once again, had failed to lead his organization. And in turn, failed his men.

  “He is otherwise occupied,” I said but no one believed me. At their disbelieving looks, I said, “You’re free to go and ask him yourself.”

  Instantly the room fell silent and eyes dropped to the floor. No one wanted to go and see Konstantin. They weren’t stupid. A few men, who had witnessed Konstantin’s brutality, even went green at the mention of confronting their Pakhan.

  Everyone was happy to judge him until it was time to confront him. Then they disappeared back into their little dark holes, hiding away from their Pakhan’s wrath and obeying their instincts that told them to shut up.

  Roman laughed gruffly in his throat. He felt the sudden mood shift just as I had.

  “Why has this meeting been called?” I asked.

  Feodor thinned his lips, his jubilant exterior dimming slightly. “I wasn’t the one who called it.”

  “I was.”

  The confirmation came from Anatoly Eristov, an A
merican-born brigadier who had served Konstantin for a few years now. His citizenship had been very handy when dealing with politics, but he wasn’t high enough in rank to summon a meeting.

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “And why was that, Eristov?”

  Anatoly rose to his feet. I saw a few men look at him with support while others turned away, unwilling to show any alliance with the man.

  So it seems Eristov fancies himself the usurper, I mused to myself, taking in his slight statue and beta-qualities. A man who asked for things, who summoned meetings, would never be king. He was not strong enough.

  “I love Konstantin as much as any man here,” Anatoly said. “But the facts cannot be denied. He is our leader who is not leading. We need a leader, Artyom. And if you are unwilling to pick up the mantle…”

  “Are you planning a coup?” I asked. “If not, sit down.”

  When Anatoly went to sit down, it only proved my theory that he would never be strong enough to lead. But his mind caught the order at the last second and he straightened his bent knees immediately.

  “We need a leader,” he insisted. “If no one else volunteers, I would be happy to–”

  Roman stepped forward, baring his teeth. “What are you gonna do, huh? Kill Kostya? You will never be king, Anatoly. You’re too much of a little bitch.”

  Dmitri nodded and only said, “I agree.”

  I held up a hand to them both, a silent command to calm down. Roman didn’t settle but he did fall silent, his eyes landing on Danika, who was signalling for him to relax from the other side of the room.

  Anatoly stepped forward before I could say anything. A few breaths caught around the room, but no word was uttered. "The DEA are breathing down our necks, Tatiana is still out there, and the Feds are foaming at the mouth at the idea of catching something on us. We need someone to defend us, someone to lead us."

  He made some decent points. The points of an idiot, but decent points, nonetheless. The DEA was eyeing our organisation–thanks to Konstantin's recklessness in getting rid of rival drug lords. He was also right about Tatiana, she remained elusive and difficult to pin down. The Feds weren't so much an issue anymore...We had just returned from dealing with a rat, a weak man who had sold out mafia secrets for a clean slate and some cash.