Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  Kingpin’s Foxglove

  Book 1 in The Tarkhanov Empire.

  Bree Porter.

  For Imogen,

  who taught me why we have middle names.

  I know now.

  Please stop telling me.

  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 Books and Moods.

  Edited by Sheri at Light Hand Proofreading.

  Table of Contents

  Kingpin’s Foxglove

  Character List

  Part One -

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Part Two -

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Part Three -

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  Coming Next…

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Character List

  Elena Falcone – 23. La Cosa Nostra daughter, wife of Thaddeo Falcone.

  Konstantin Tarkhanov – 30. Pakhan (boss) of the Tarkhanov Bratva.

  Roman Malakhov – 24. Byki (bodyguard) to Konstantin.

  Danika Baltacha – 22. Interrogator in the Bratva.

  Artyom Fattakhov – 29. Obshchak (security) in the Bratva, husband to Roksana.

  Roksana Fattakhov – 25. Wife of Artyom Fattakhov.

  Dmitri Gribkov – 29. Krysha (enforcer) in the Bratva, husband to Tatiana and father to Anton.

  Tatiana Gribkov – 27. Wife of Dmitri Gribkov, mother of Anton Gribkov.

  Anton Gribkov – 2. Son to Dmitri and Tatiana Gribkov.

  Olezka – 32. Torpedo (assassin) in the Bratva.

  For Pinterest boards and face casts, go here.

  Part One -

  Apples, Bullets and Teeth

  “All things are poison and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not a poison.”

  – Paracelsus

  Prologue

  Konstantin Tarkhanov

  15 years old

  I passed the toy spider to my niece. Her grabby fingers latched onto it, waving it happily in the air.

  “Kostya,” barked my eldest brother.

  I lifted my head, raising my eyebrows at my brother. He gave me a warning look, his way of telling me to pay attention and stop doting on his daughter.

  Usually, I would have been paying attention. Coming home from school and being invited into a meeting before my backpack hit the ground was a common occurrence—one I even anticipated. However, this meeting was not holding my interest; mainly because it involved old, unimaginative men discussing the future of Moscow.

  The only saving grace that kept me from falling asleep was Natasha, my niece. The two-year-old was sitting in one of the chairs, surrounded by her toys. For a child, she was unnaturally quiet. Very unlike the other children in our family who required constant care and attention.

  It was her reserved nature that her unstable mother said was why she had tried to drown her at a few weeks old, but it was also the reason Father took her to every meeting. Sometimes he even pretended Natasha was in charge, letting her order the men around.

  Father had never been so indulgent with his own children.

  Even now, my father, the Pakhan of the Tarkhanov Bratva, sent my brother and I a cold look from the head of the table for talking, but patted Natasha’s head affectionately. She smiled around her pacifier.

  I drew my attention back to the meeting.

  “The Camorra has erupted into a civil war. This is our time to move into Campania—”

  Someone interrupted, his voice harsh. “What use would we have for leftover Camorra territory? Do you know how to farm grapes, Viktor?”

  Shouts erupted.

  I almost wished I was back at school.

  When you’re Pakhan, you won’t let your meetings fall into such chaos.

  The thought came to me quietly and unbidden. I wasn’t next in line to be king—I wasn’t even second or third in line. If I wanted to rule this Bratva, I would have to slaughter my way through half of the hierarchy and my father’s men. Then who would be left to rule over?

  If I expressed such an idea, my father would cut my throat from ear to ear.

  If Father didn’t, my brothers would happily.

  Like a litter of pups, my brothers and I had been stepping on each other to push ourselves up since day one. Every move we made against each other had an agenda, a power play attached to it. It was very different in comparison to my relationship with Artyom, and our brotherly camaraderie.

  I peered down at Natasha once again. She had grabbed a plush toy snake, squeezing its head in her chubby hands.

  When the yells rose to vicious shouts, Natasha peered at me for reassurance. I smiled at her. She goofily smiled back.

  “We need more investments in the oil industry,” Feodor Rodzyanko reasoned. “That is where the money is.”

  “Bah! Listen to you all. We need to invest, to build relationships. You sound like politicians!” sniped else someone. “We are Bratva, not oligarchs.”

  The arguing grew more intense until my father pounded on the table, the sound resonating to the back of the room.

  “Silence!” he barked. “We will not debase ourselves by acting like the government. For decades, we have survived like this and we will continue to do so for many more to come.”

  You’re wrong, Father, I thought. Those who do not adapt to change get swept away by the currents of time.

  And I planned on remaining for centuries.

  After my time was done on this earth, there would be no memory of me that didn’t recall my majesty. My sons, and grandsons, and great grandsons would carry my power in their blood and souls, granting me immortality.

  My brothers nodded in unison. Though Father could’ve said the sky was yellow and they would’ve agreed.

  Even his more liberal men concurred with my father’s final say on the topic. There was no room for second-guessing or challenging. Once Father had made his decision, there was nothing anyone could say or do to change it—even if it was a terrible choice.

  I knew not to say anything. I knew to keep my mouth shut but my lips still parted, and I said, “The old ways are not working. We need to be smarter.”

  Silence.

  Even Natasha stopped sucking on her pacifier.

  All the men looked at me, jaws slacked and mustaches twitching. Two of my brothers smirked faintly at me, already enjoying the verbal beating I was about to receive for speaking out of turn.

  Father’s expression darkened. It was the same expression he got before he raised his arm above his head and brought it down onto my brothers’ or my flesh.

  “What was that, Kostya?” he asked harshly.

  He was giving me a second chance, a chan
ce to surrender in front of his men. Over the table, Feodor tried to catch my eye. Back down, he was imploring.

  I met my father’s stare. “We cannot continue to behave like we did in our golden era. The Soviet Union is gone—we must adapt to this new era or risk losing everything.”

  Someone muttered a prayer to God under their breath.

  Father’s expression did not change. “Is that so, Kostya? Do you have a lot of experience with running a crime organization?” He spread his hands mockingly. “Had I known my fifteen-year-old son was such an expert, I would’ve paid more attention to you.”

  A few of the men forced laughs. My eldest brother looked like he was going to grab Natasha and bolt. She was the only one who looked remotely calm—in fact, the toddler looked like she was currently relieving herself into her diaper.

  “I did not mean any disrespect, Father,” I countered, unable to back down, to shove down the natural urge to be the mightiest in the room. “But what we are doing right now is not working. We are losing territory and money. Clearly, something needs to change.”

  Father worked his jaw, eyeing me up with the same look a lion gave a gazelle before it tore its throat out. “If you ever grow some balls and kill your brothers, maybe one day you will get to make decisions like this.” He bared his teeth slightly. “Until then, Kostya, shut up about what you do not understand.”

  This wasn’t getting anywhere. Some part of me wanted to keep pushing, keep arguing my point. But all I wanted to say had been already said and they had chosen not to listen; what happened afterwards was on them.

  If you ever grow some balls and kill your brothers... The words echoed through my head as I ran my eyes over my siblings. There would be no point to killing them all, where one fell another would pop up in his place.

  Still...it was an alluring idea. They might be related to me by blood, but there was no love lost between us. Killing them would be easy—much easier than killing Artyom. Artyom and I had been brothers since his family moved to Moscow from Kyzyl.

  I bowed my head slightly to my father, a silent wave of my white flag.

  All my brothers grinned at my surrender.

  Soon the meeting dwindled to an end. I stood up, fully intending to go and roam the streets with Artyom, causing trouble and playing with low-level drug dealers like cats with mice, when Father gestured to me.

  I sat back down.

  Some men spared me smug looks whereas others looked pitying. My brothers shot me curious looks as they left, indicating they didn’t know why Father had pulled me aside. Interesting.

  Only Natasha waved to me as she left, almost like she suspected this was the last time she would see me and was saying goodbye.

  Father didn’t say anything as the door clicked shut, only leaned back in his chair and assessed me. I took after Mother in my appearance, gaining her fair hair and light brown eyes. A fact that had always irked Father and pleased Mother, but Mother liked anything she had that her husband did not.

  Whereas my brothers and I may have fought tooth and nail for attention and favoritism, Mother and Father were in a competition of their own. One that led to their children being played as pawns over the chess game that we called life.

  “Kostya,” Father started. “Pour your father a drink, would you?”

  I could see the power-play clearly, but played along. I fetched him a tumbler of his beloved vodka and set it in front of him.

  Father loosened his green tie and took a sip. “Ah, perfect.” He watched me over the top of his glass. “I’ve decided you have learned all you can in school.”

  “Mother insists I graduate.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You are a Vor, a Tarkhanov, not some academic. You have no need for further education. You can read and write, can’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your mother was so insistent.” Father barked a laugh. “Stupid woman. Never get married, Kostya.”

  I nodded, feigning agreement.

  Father opened up a case of cigars and lit one up. The smoke floated towards the ceiling, the aroma familiar and repelling.

  “Viktor has expressed he needs some help in his territory. None of the young men want to spend their youth in the Ural Mountains.” Father smiled coldly at me.

  No one wanted to go to Viktor’s territory, or any part of Siberia. I heard the words mundane and boring used to describe it. The opposite of the vibrant and exciting Moscow.

  There was also the issue of Viktor. Cruel, vindictive and rooted in his traditional ways, Viktor was agonizing to listen to for more than five minutes. Being stuck in rural Russia with him would send anyone insane.

  “I think it would be a good fit for you, Kostya,” he said. “You’ve become too...idealist. I don’t think it’s completely your fault. I should have pulled you out of school earlier.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide my first instinct, which was to punch him in the face. Such a violent response would lead nowhere, though it would bring me some satisfaction. I could almost hear Artyom voicing his annoyance at my reasoning.

  “What do you think?” Father asked, unable to hide his delight at his punishment for me.

  I think you should hide your emotions better, Father, I thought.

  “Who will tend to Mother?” I inquired. “Or get money from our street associates?”

  Father waved a careless hand. “One of your brothers will handle all that.”

  I would like to see them try. Handling Mother was a skill, and I had enough of a reputation through my school and streets that the dealers wouldn’t be happy with a change. None of my brothers had enough tact to deal with either of the issues I had raised–especially Mother. She would manipulate them easily.

  “I’m not going to the Ural Mountains,” I said calmly.

  “And why is that?” Father asked. “Do you think you’re in a position to disobey a direct order from your Pakhan?”

  I shook my head. “No. I have dedicated a lot of time and effort into the streets. I’m not going to lose that because you feel challenged.”

  His eyes flashed and I knew I had gone too far. Father smothered out his cigar. “Your little friends will obey whoever I tell them to obey. They may work with you, but they work for me.”

  “And Mother? Do you really believe one of my brothers can outwit her?”

  “Your arrogance is impressive for your age and stature, Konstantin. That I will give you. But at the end of the day, you are still a child, barely a man. You have been a Vor for not even two years, a blip of time compared to my decades.”

  “You’re right,” I ventured. “Yet how will I become more experienced if I am stuck cleaning up cow shit in Siberia?”

  “Men like you come and go, Kostya. But it is men like me who stay, who survive.”

  I smiled faintly. “I can assure you, Father, you don’t know any men like me.”

  Father rose to his feet, his posture tightening. The curling of his fist told me what was going to happen before his arm swung out.

  I leaned my head back just in time. His arm flew past, but he recovered quickly and made another lunge for me. The table stopped me from moving and his knuckles crashed into my windpipe, air leaving my lungs in an instant.

  “You’re an arrogant child,” Father said darkly.

  I hadn’t been a child for a long time by normal definition. Biologically, yes. But I spent my nights navigating the world of illegal narcotics and my days listening in on Bratva meetings. There was no time for dealing with pretty girls and maths homework.

  I breathed deeply, steadying my head. “At least I am not going to lose my kingdom due to my stubbornness.”

  This time when Father came at me, I was prepared. I caught his wrist and swung it back, using the seconds of his unbalance to take on the offensive. My fist caught the bottom of his chin, forcing his head back.

  Father caught himself on the table, sending me a furious look. “I’m going to kill you,” he promised. “That’ll teach you f
ucking children from growing too big for your boots—”

  He made a move to shove me back, but I danced out of his range. My freedom lasted seconds before Father managed to get a hold of my school blazer, and dragged me closer to him. I rammed my fist into his gut, earning a grunt in response.

  I went for him again, but Father side-stepped out the way, and I caught his tie instead. It was already loosened and came away easily.

  Father charged again, ramming his fist into my cheek. Pain bloomed over the right side of my face, causing a future bruise–or broken jaw.

  I fell back at the collision, my right eye seeing black briefly as the impact resonated through my body.

  “Do you think you can go up against me, boy?” Father snarled. “I will make a meal out of your bones.”

  I reared back as his next blow came. He missed me by a hair’s breadth, allowing me seconds to duck under his arm and aim for the vulnerable flesh. He grunted as my fist connected with his ribs.

  “You!”

  I went for his other side, barely missing his attempts to grab me. Some of his fingers caught my hair and pulled but the pain wasn’t enough to distract me from jabbing my fist into his throat.

  Father fell back into the table, the legs splintering beneath his weight. He went down with it. I went with him, intent on doing more harm. We hit the ground with a crash, my fingers wrapped around his throat.

  “GET OFF HIM!” A hand grabbed the back of my sweater and yanked me back. The smell of vodka and cigars indicated it was Viktor. “You filthy boy! That is your Pakhan!”

  Father got to his feet. He spotted Viktor holding me back and made a swipe for me, ever the opportunist.

  No honor, I thought as his fist collided with my stomach.

  I gasped for air, unable to hide my body’s natural instinct to breathe—even if it made me look like a gasping fish in Viktor’s grip.

  Father grabbed my chin, holding me still. His fingers dug so tight I knew they would either bruise or snap my jaw in half. “Did you think you could beat me, boy? You may be ambitious, but you are still no match for me!”

  I swung my head forward, our foreheads clunking against each other. My ears rang as I pulled back, filtering the sound of Father cursing me out.