Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  Viktor wrenched me back, briefly taking me off my balance.

  “Tell Viktor to release me and I’ll show you an equal opponent,” I sneered. My anger was getting a hold of me, igniting my blood and need to destroy this pathetic man in front of me. I was the strongest in this room and everyone needed to know it—especially the man I called Father. “Scared of a fair fight?”

  “You have my temper,” Father replied, his words even, despite the furious expression taking a hold of his face. “Get a hold of it, boy, or it will kill you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Father came for me again.

  I turned in Viktor’s grip, and my father went colliding into his Brigadier. Viktor shouted as we fell back, his grip on me loosening ever so slightly.

  I tore myself out, my sweater ripping behind me. In my hand, I still had the tie…

  The idea came to me like a jolt of lightning, infecting my thoughts and veins.

  I went for my father, aiming for his knees. Two hard kicks to the bone caused him to grunt and fall. Viktor tried to intervene—with one clean swipe, I knocked Viktor back, the old man falling against the wall with a crash, then falling still.

  The tie was silky in my hands, worth more than the room we stood in. It was the color of emeralds, with little flecks of faint gold in the pattern.

  Father tried to shove me away as I neared, but he was on the ground, incapacitated against all attacks. I came up behind him and wrapped the tie around his neck, almost as if I meant to tie it for him and complete his suit.

  My knuckles turned white as I pulled the silk tighter, while his neck muscles strained against the silk.

  Father reached for the tie, trying to tug it back, gulping and gasping for air as his circulation was cut off.

  My muscles contracted as I pulled tighter and tighter.

  His lips turned blue, his eyes popped out, his throat choked for air.

  Then his fingers stopped, falling to the ground in surrender.

  I felt his body die before I saw it. The coil of his muscles relaxed, his weight falling off his knees and to the ground, unable to resist gravity.

  I loosened my grip on the tie, allowing it to slide around his neck easily.

  Father hit the ground with a thump.

  Behind me, I heard Viktor struggling to his feet, preparing to attack me for killing his Pakhan, but his attack never came.

  I turned to see Feodor Rodzyanko holding him back, assessing the damage I had wrought with a cool expression.

  “Excuse me, Feodor,” I said calmly.

  Feodor had known me since I was an infant and guessed my next move immediately. “This is not the time to kill your brothers,” he said, holding back Viktor, who was struggling in his arms. “You are not ready to gain control yet.”

  The adrenaline thundering through my veins demanded to be fed. My fingers itched to wrap themselves around my brothers’ throats, to punish them for all the disgusting but mundane sins they had committed against me.

  “Perhaps,” I said, the words too tame to convey the animalistic urges low in my gut. “But neither are they.”

  Feodor implored me with his eyes. He was trying to tell me something but the rushing of blood in my ears, the pounding of my heart, made it difficult for me to concentrate long enough to understand. “You are not an idiot. You will never be accepted as Pakhan here. You are too young, too idealistic. This is not your kingdom.”

  “This is not about that,” I said.

  “Everything you do is about your future, Konstantin. You were born with more ambition than God.” Feodor managed to knock Viktor out, the old brigadier falling into unconsciousness and the floor. “Do not risk that all over your temper, that temper you keep so under control. Wait, be patient and plan.”

  I looked down at my father. “They will kill me for killing him,” I said plainly. “Perhaps I intend to defend myself.”

  “Then run.”

  I snapped my head up to Feodor. “I will not run from anyone. Ever.”

  “Then what is your next move? Be killed?” Feodor asked. “You will become the Pakhan I have waited my entire life to serve. I will not jeopardize that by letting you do such a thing.”

  I felt myself calming down. Calculating thoughts and rational ideas were becoming easy to understand and believe.

  “Perhaps you are right.” I slid the tie in between my hands, feeling the silk soothe my anger.

  Feodor searched my face. “What will you do next?”

  Finally, a smile grew up my face. For years, I had planned my exit, letting my hungry brothers fight over the scraps of our parents fallen empire like the ravenous unimaginative beasts they were. All the while, I’d grow smarter, and richer, and powerful.

  I pictured Natasha in my mind, seeing the future she had in front of her. No, I had no desire to take the motherland, a temporary investment. It was not—had never been—my fate.

  I didn’t want the memories of the once great Bratva, the golden age of Mother Russia, to drive my snow-filled days. I had other ambitions, other desires.

  Let them drown in their nostalgia, I thought. Because while they do that, while Natasha grows, I will build my empire.

  I would build an empire that would never fall, would never be scoffed at or forgotten. One that my future son would be afraid to rule—so afraid he would never dare choke me to death with a necktie.

  I wrapped the silk around my neck, knotting it perfectly. Against my ripped sweater and rumpled uniform, it looked almost comical.

  “It is time to build our empire.” I stepped over my father’s fallen body. “Let us begin.”

  1

  Elena Falcone

  I dreamed of my father again.

  He was lying before me, mouth agape and eyes wide. The color of death stained his face, smoky gray veins visible beneath his skin. Crawling from between his lips, twisting around his tongue and teeth, were stretches of vines, prickly and leafy. Out of his nose, out of his ears, his eyes. Growing from somewhere I couldn’t see.

  His chest began to rapidly heave, vulgar in his still death. Ribs cracked, skin tore, the buttons of his shirt ripped open, and stretching higher and higher was a blooming flower, blood dripping down its petals and leaves.

  I reached out, grasped the stem, and plucked it from his chest, as easily as taking one from the dirt. There were no thorns pricking me, no floral scent as I lifted it to my nose.

  Of course, there isn’t, I thought, looking down at my dead father. This is a dream.

  I woke up.

  I registered the dip of the mattress, then the heavy blanket and soft pillow beneath my head. The rise and fall of Thaddeo’s chest, his snores. The soft light spilling from in between the curtains.

  I rubbed my eyes, irritated.

  Another bad sleep, I thought. Another bad dream—well, bad memory.

  I didn’t even have to glance at the calendar to know what the tally was. I had been keeping score meticulously, even though it was not a number I would ever forget.

  334 days since I had last slept through the night.

  What a coincidence, I thought, that’s how long I had been married. Even my inner voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  Even in sleep, Thaddeo was grating on my nerves. The movement of his chest, the sound of his snores, the way his mouth was parted, with drool sliding down onto the pillow—

  We’ve woken up bitchy today, haven’t we? I asked myself as I rubbed my eyes, like that wasn’t how I woke up every morning.

  I turned my head, glancing at the clock. Five o’clock in the morning.

  I wasn’t falling back asleep—that ship had sailed. Once my mind was awake and moving, settling back down into rest was near impossible, especially with the graphic image of my father’s dead body still visible in my mind’s eye.

  I slipped out of bed, not worried about waking up Thaddeo, and began my morning routine.

  As usual, Thaddeo’s house was quiet. Most of the Falcones kept to their respective esta
blishments, not spending time at each other’s houses unless it was absolutely necessary. Even family events were celebrated at restaurants and parks, instead of backyards and dining rooms.

  It was different from how I had grown up...somehow colder.

  My books were stacked up by the back door in the kitchen, leaning against a pot of foxglove–where I had left them. Worn and torn, some covered in dirt and dust. I grabbed the one at the top, barely glancing at the title.

  Yesterday’s newspaper was tossed carelessly on the counter. When Thaddeo had finished reading it, I had swiped it from the table, unable to help my curiosity. Usually, the global political platform didn’t interest me—after all, we may live on the same Earth, but we were in two very different worlds.

  However, on the front page, the title had read: EITHNE MCDERMOTT, WIFE TO ALLEGED MOBSTER, FOUND MURDERED.

  I had never met anyone from the McDermott family, but her death had caught my interest. Who had murdered her? Was it her alleged mobster husband or someone else? Why?

  I didn’t know why I had resonated so much with this woman, cared so much about her passing. Perhaps I felt some sort of phantom sisterhood with her, with us both being wives to alleged mobsters. Maybe it was because I often felt surprised every morning when I woke up, slightly relieved, and yet disappointed, that Thaddeo hadn’t killed me in my sleep.

  I left the newspaper where it was. I would mull over the image of Eithne McDermott later.

  The crisp morning air went straight to my bones as I stepped outside, causing goose bumps to rise up and down my arms.

  October had washed over New York, bringing with it beautiful red and orange flora and the Halloween spirit. I didn’t mind the chill, the bite in the air; I always found it cleared my head.

  I kept moving into the garden, breathing deeply. Like all things Thaddeo owned, the garden was perfect, with flawlessly shaped flowers, clean pathways and gleaming statues. Despite the obvious care, it was plain, traditional. I didn’t mind—as long as it was quiet.

  Out here it was silent, empty of distractions and irritating noises. No heavy breathing, no snoring.

  No one but me.

  I dug my toes into the wet grass, my eyelids fluttering closed. An icy breeze slid along my skin, the scent of morning dew filling my nose, birds chirping in the distance.

  Ever since I was a child, I had been separating myself from people, sounds, stimulants, to gain some peace and quiet—though I used to do it up in trees. In the past year, I had been doing it more and more, especially as my ability to sleep was beginning to deteriorate.

  Early morning was my favorite time of the day—when the world was quiet. The sun was rising but the pace of our lives hadn’t started up yet. Everything seemed softer, mellower. No harsh midday sun or oily afternoon burn. Just foggy silence.

  A twig snapped.

  The sound cut through my revelry.

  I twisted my head towards it, eyes open and alert.

  Around Thaddeo’s property was a thin band of trees, a small forest of sorts. It offered another form of security—well, it would, if Thaddeo bothered to take full advantage of it. I had suggested cameras or soldati in the branches once or twice, but my husband had laughed the idea off.

  I couldn’t make out anything among the shadows of the trunks, but the hair on the back of my neck had begun to stand up.

  I clenched my book hard in my hands, a makeshift weapon if need be.

  Slowly, I stepped back. No other sound came from the woods, no shift in the shadows. Yet still...

  I took another step back.

  Another twig snapped.

  Suddenly, a shadow formed from in between the trees. Before I could even comprehend who it was—what it was—a loud roaring noise came from behind me.

  I spun to see multiple black vehicles pulling up to the house, ripping up the lawn and destroying the immaculate flowers. Even a fence went down in the hustle.

  Men jumped out from the cars, guns at the ready, faces hidden. Shouts were thrown around, not in English, not in Italian—

  We were being raided. Either by the government or a fellow syndicate. Whoever, they were here to attack, and I was a good target.

  I stepped back, ready to run, trying to figure out the best route.

  Something pressed into my head, cold against my skull.

  I knew immediately. A gun.

  You didn’t grow up in La Cosa Nostra and not know how it felt to have the butt of a gun pressed against your head.

  For a moment, I thought it was Thaddeo. My husband had finally grown some balls and decided to kill me. I was almost proud.

  But then, a heavily accented voice said, “We do not wish to harm you. Behave and you will live.”

  The voice was Russian, and not unkind.

  The sound of boots approaching came from my left, and a huge man walked into my view. Buzzcut, brown eyes, hard-lined face, with an expression that almost resembled an angry pit bull. Tattoos stained his upper cheek, pledging his allegiance to his organization.

  “Elena Falcone?” he asked, with a lighter accent than the man behind me.

  I nodded. The gun did not move.

  “Take her to the van.”

  Icicles began to form in my blood.

  I was not stupid. Clearly, these Russians were here to pose a threat to Thaddeo, to the Falcones. To me. Though, as a woman, my involvement in the mafia never warranted enough attention to make me a threat, I was still property of the Falcones and subjected to punishments meant for them.

  I swallowed.

  There was no way I was being punished for Thaddeo’s actions—whatever the hell they may have been.

  “Thaddeo is upstairs,” I said, catching their attention. “If you bother with me, he will get away.”

  Amusement flashed across the pit bull’s face. He gave me a savage smile, the curl of his lips more of a sneer.

  “Van. Now.”

  The man behind me dropped the gun from my head but snatched both my wrists, pinning them painfully behind my back. My book dropped to the ground with a thump.

  As soon as I realized I was imprisoned beneath his grip, my brain flooded with plans.

  One, go willingly, and be killed or worse by these Russian gangsters.

  Two, manage to get away and go on the run—until they caught me and killed me.

  Three, fight back. Probably get killed.

  If I went willingly, I might as well be throwing up the white flag. It felt equivalent to just spreading my arms and telling them to have their way with me. I had done that once before; I wasn’t doing it again.

  There was no way I was going to escape, and, if I did, I would have seconds—seconds—to dart to the trees. I knew the pathways through the property better than they would; my knowledge of the land was my only advantage.

  The last option meant certain death, as well as confronting my lack of strength. I was a tall woman, but my physical prowess allowed me to open jars at best. I might have my neck snapped, but it would be due to my actions—no one else’s.

  I picked the second option.

  “Let me go!” I slid one arm out in a sudden burst of strength, whipping it backwards. My nails scraped the pit bull’s face, and he pulled back, swearing in Russian.

  Pit Bull struck, grabbing my hand and pulling it back behind me. He leaned in close to my face, teeth showing. “Listen you, you little bitch, we’re doing you a huge fucking favor—”

  “That’s enough, Roman,” a cool voice called, floating in the wind.

  Like a switch had been flicked, the pit bull stepped back, nodding his head in respect. The hands that held me released, and I stumbled forward, unable to stop the momentum I had built.

  I didn’t hesitate. I immediately went for the trees, only managing two steps before a rough hand gripped my upper arm and yanked me back.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Roman, the pit bull, sneered.

  “Mrs Falcone, you have to promise not to run, or else Roman will ke
ep hold of you,” said that commanding yet diplomatic voice again.

  I looked up at the pit bull, who was looking at me like he was hoping I would choose to run. I hissed right back at him, baring my own teeth.

  “Is that a no?” the voice prompted.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “I won’t run.”

  If I played along, they might let me live.

  Roman released me.

  I turned and felt my stomach drop to my knees.

  Standing before me was... Konstantin Tarkhanov.

  My first thought was that I was definitely going to die today.

  My second thought was, Oh, shit, it’s Konstantin Tarkhanov.

  Konstantin was better known as The Russian Gentleman, or the man who’d killed his father with his own necktie. His pretty face and charismatic smile were adored by the media, and even my childhood friend, Sophia, had seemed quite taken with him.

  All I knew about him was, in the past few years he had come to the United States from Russia and become increasingly popular with already established Bratvas, earning support from all over the States. And I only knew this because Thaddeo had let it slip—and Sophia had confirmed it.

  In my mind, I had written him off as just another mafioso playing politician. Another handsome but violent man that held the same views of women as the other men in my world did, therefore, making him of no interest to myself.

  But in person...

  Konstantin Tarkhanov was a beautiful creature. Physically, his blonde hair was swept back, without a hair out of place, paired with inquisitive brown eyes and a strong bone structure. You could see the Russian in his features, from the shape of his cheekbones to the curve of his chin. Beneath his faultless suit (with a tie and vest worth more than my car), I could see the hints of tattoos: ink that pledged his allegiance to his Bratva and to Russia.

  Though his appearance was breathtaking, there was more...

  He commanded himself with such strength and allure that everyone could not help themselves but look at him, couldn’t help but watch for his next move or listen for the next words out of his mouth. A king, I thought. He holds himself like a king.