by Bree Porter
His questions came from worry and protectiveness, driven by exhaustion and strategy. That was why I didn’t react to his tone. In private, I was happy to debate and argue with my men, our brotherhood too strong from years of clawing for power to ever be threatened by a few rude comments.
After all, I didn’t value them for their passive obedience—what good was a warrior with no teeth?
Perhaps if Thaddeo had believed the same mantra, he would still have his territory and life.
And his wife.
“I’m not worried,” was my reply. “She will do anything to stay away from Chicago and gain her freedom.”
“How do you know that?” Dmitri asked.
Even Roman lifted his head at the question, eyes thirsty for answers.
I didn’t bother looking down at the papers in front of me. I could summon most of it by memory, the hard copy no longer needed. Academic papers were known for being non-biased documents, but if you read between the lines, you could peel away at the author. Solve them like an equation.
That had always been half of the fun of learning. Unraveling the author like a ball of yawn, finding out what made them tick, despite their best efforts to remain anonymous and push forward their ideas.
Those who didn’t want to be found were always the most satisfying to catch.
How did I know that Elena would not be a threat to my household, to my family? How did I know she wouldn’t spy on us and send all our secrets to Chicago? I had no doubt that if the Queen of Chicago asked her childhood friend for some information, Elena would happily oblige her.
I leaned back in my chair, smiling slightly. “You’re going to have to trust me.” At the twitch of Dmitri’s jaw, I leaned forward once more, catching his attention and saying seriously, “I won’t let any harm come to your wife and son.”
He bowed his head in response, looking slightly more relieved but not a lot.
Roman swung on his chair, leaning on the leg. When he was younger, he had fallen and split his head open dozens of times, but not as often as he had matured. “Danika likes her,” he said. “But Dani likes everyone.”
“She doesn’t like you,” Dmitri sniped.
Before he could snap back, the study door clicked and Artyom walked in, his expression grim. His knuckles were turning white with how hard he was gripping his phone.
I suspected what this was about before he said anything.
“Another woman has been killed.”
Roman leapt to his feet, chair clattering to the floor behind him. Dmitri swore in Russian, tone harsh and cold. I stayed seated, unmoved, but I felt my features twist.
Deep inside me, barbaric anger began to boil.
I asked, “Who?”
Artyom stepped forward, releasing his phone and pushing it to the middle of the desk. The photo of a pretty woman with a pearl necklace and dark eyes filled the screen.
“Mallory Nicollier. Daughter of a high-ranking member in the Corsican Union.”
“Which Union?” Roman asked.
Artyom nodded. “Lefebvre’s gang. They stretch from Winnipeg to Grand Forks.”
A considerably strong Corsican Union, who usually kept to themselves, as long as their investments weren’t threatened. They didn’t have a desirable location, so they were able to avoid conflict more than the rest of us.
“How?” I asked, the harshness of my tone causing my men’s backs to straighten.
“She was shot and died due to blood loss.”
“And post-mortem?”
Artyom didn’t look affected but I caught Roman scowling in disgust, already guessing the answer before Artyom said it. “All her teeth were removed.”
My bodyguard reacted immediately, cussing in Russian. “Those fucking bastards!” he roared.
“Calm down,” I told him. Roman fell quiet but remained tense. “How has Lefebvre reacted?”
“Not at all. His men have been quiet.”
“That’s not nothing,” I noted, glancing out the window. I could see the wild ivy along the bottom of the window. If I left it for a few more years, the plant might cover the entire window, a natural curtain. “Lefebvre could have chosen to make accusations or attack his neighbors. Instead he has gone silent. Why?”
The question went unanswered.
“Any connections to the other women?” I asked.
Artyom shook his head. “Not at first glance, except they were all related to someone in the mafia.”
“They’re all missing their teeth,” Roman muttered. “That’s a pretty good connection.”
Dmitri curled his lip up at Roman, but I cut in before he could give some freezing retort.
“We have three women—that we know of. All killed in the past three months, all with connections to the mafia and all had their teeth removed post-mortem.”
The first women had been Letizia Zetticci, who was married to a capo in the Lombardi family. Her death had been interesting to say the least; it was very rare women’s bodies were altered after death. In our world, cutting out the tongue or eyes post-mortem sent messages, but women were never targeted.
Letizia Zetticci’s official cause of death had been poisoning, but it wasn’t how she was killed that interested us. It had been the removal of her teeth.
Then, about a week ago, Eithne McDermott had been found dead, killed with a blow to the back of her head. That alone might not have caught our attention if it wasn’t for the removal of her teeth. She had been found in her living room, toothless.
And now Mallory Nicollier. A third victim with identical post-mortem trauma.
“Whoever is doing this is the sickest of fucks,” Roman said. “Targeting women…” He spat in disgust.
I agreed. Women were not usually the aim of violence in our world. They were much more likely to be hurt by their families and husbands. But unspoken rules stopped them from being targeted by enemy organizations.
What had changed?
“I still think it is their families,” Dmitri said. “Letizia Zetticci was married to a sick fuck, and Eithne and Mallory’s husbands took inspiration from him.”
“Mallory wasn’t married.” Artyom replied.
Dmitri shrugged. “Her father then. Those women being hurt by their husbands and fathers is far more likely than a rampant serial killer on the loose targeting mob wives and taking out their teeth.”
I did see the merit to Dmitri’s point. It was an outlandish idea that there was a person—or group of people—going around targeting these women, women who had no obvious connection to each other. Who would have enough animosity with three separate families, all located in different parts of North America, to hurt these women?
“The removal of the teeth is a ploy to distract people from something else,” Dmitri added.
“When has anyone ever tried to hide the fact that they’re a killer in this world?” Artyom asked reasonably. “Most gangsters wear it like a badge of honor.”
I considered their points, my own gut telling me to watch this situation. “Let’s keep an eye on it. I am interested in how Lefebvre reacts.”
Both the Lombardis and McDermotts had made a big show of their anger, threatening their neighbors and the government. I was curious to see how Lefebvre reacted. If he kept quiet, perhaps Mallory had been another sad casualty of domestic violence. But if he showed the same anger as the other two families…perhaps we had a much larger issue at hand.
The phone on my desk began to ring at that very moment.
My first congratulations, I thought, or my first declaration of war.
The room was quiet as I picked up the phone. “Konstantin Tarkhanov.”
“Konstantin,” came a familiar voice on the other end of the line. “I believe congratulations are in order.”
I smiled.
Mitsuzo Ishida was the head of the Ishida Yakuza, their territory located in New Jersey. The Ishidas had ruled in New York for decades, an old and respected family. His recognition of me as the new king of Staten Isla
nd did not mean nothing.
Before lunchtime, two more bosses called. Chen Qiang, boss of the Chen Triad, located in Queens. As well as Thomas Ó Fiaich Sr, boss of the Ó Fiaich Mob, located in Brooklyn. My new neighbors, I supposed.
The only boss who did not call me with congratulations was Vitale Lombardi. I wasn’t surprised; the Lombardis were devoted to tradition. And tradition dictated that overthrowing La Cosa Nostra and replacing them with the Bratva was unacceptable.
Despite Vitale’s silence, my men celebrated. Three kings of New York had called to welcome me into their fold, welcomed the Bratva to the table.
No longer would my men be looked down on or written off as brainless mobsters. No longer did I swear allegiance to my family back in Russia or survive temporarily in different places.
It was time to build my empire, to fulfil my ambitions.
I only hoped she decided to join me.
4
Konstantin Tarkhanov
The stables stretched over the acreage, separated from the house by miles of trees. It would be a lengthy hike from the estate to the stables, making it much easier to drive to and from. Roman had instantly vetoed the idea of walking.
Surrounding the stables were an enclosed and outside arena, as well as stretches of fresh green paddocks, ripe for grazing. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had been plugged into the creation of this horse haven. Even the haybarn had cost a pretty penny.
In the midday sun, my horses adapted to their new environment. Basil had already begun to graze. The dark bay was relaxed in his new environment, more concerned with his stomach than his surroundings. My other two racehorses did not share his sentiments.
Odessa was standing with me by the fence, seeking food in my hands and pockets. The silver dapple liked attention more than the other two and hated having her day disturbed outside her strict schedule.
But she wasn’t as bad as Hilarion. Hilarion galloped around his paddock, ears pinned back. Every now and then he would stop abruptly to inspect something—an unknown plant, a strange fence—before rearing in fury and going back to his erratic movements.
“Do you think they’re ready to go into their stables?” Roman asked as he scratched Odessa’s nose.
“Basil and Odessa should be fine. Hilarion, no. I don’t trust him not to destroy the place and himself in the process.”
Like he knew we were talking about him, Hilarion snapped his head to us. His chestnut coat gleamed in the sunlight as he moved.
“Dmitri thinks you should put him down,” Roman noted.
“If I start putting down everyone here with a foul-temper, there would be nobody left,” I mused, giving Odessa a handful of oats. She gobbled them up.
Roman grinned. “It would just be you and Artyom.” He cringed. “God, imagine how fucking boring that’d be.”
I laughed under my breath. “Indeed.”
At the end of the property, a car began its drive up to the stables. Immediately, Roman was alert, grabbing his gun and standing protectively in front of me. Two of my men that were playing cards by the fence abandoned their game of durak and approached the car, hands poised on their weapons.
The car rolled to a stop and Olezka jumped out in one smooth movement, smiling in greeting. “Last one, Boss. I found him hiding out by Bayonne Bridge. He was trying to escape into Ishida’s territory.”
None of my men relaxed at the familiar face.
I gestured with my fingers. “Bring him out.”
Olezka opened the boot, yanking out his catch. The man landed on the gravel, hands and feet tied. The duct tape over his mouth muffled his furious cries.
He was one of Thaddeo’s cousins, a high-ranking member in the family. He had managed to flee before my men had raided his house. Usually, Olezka didn’t bring his catches home—alive—but I requested he did this once.
Staten Island may now be completely under my control, but the Falcones had been here for decades and their roots would take some time to pull out.
“Mr Falcone,” I mused, assessing the pitiful mobster before me. “I hope your journey was comfortable.”
He looked up at me with furious eyes and said something beneath the tape.
I stroked Odessa’s nose. She whinnied happily at the attention.
“Let me introduce myself.” I held a hand to my heart. “Konstantin Tarkhanov. The new king of Staten Island.”
Thaddeo’s cousin yelled something else but the tape didn’t allow for any clarity.
I gestured to Olezka. My torpedo leaned down and gently removed the tape from the man’s face. I bet if I checked the ties, they would be smooth, comfortable knots. Despite being an assassin, Olezka wasn’t naturally cruel and vindictive.
As soon as the tape came away, Mr Falcone began yelling. “You stupid Russian!”
“Watch your mouth,” Roman spat, gun in palm.
“Olezka,” I said.
Olezka put the tape back over his mouth, reducing his angry yells to muffles once again.
I crouched down, surveying him. Falcones were never very interesting. They followed the same rules and traditions as all the other Italian families. This runner was no different, except my respect for him was minuscule. Only a coward would abandon their family to save their own backside.
“Enough,” I told him. “I find my patience growing thinner by the minute.”
Something in my tone registered with the primal part of his brain. The man quietened.
None of my men let up at his sudden obedience. I doubted they would until I was safely back in my estate and this Falcone cousin was buried six feet under.
“Where did Thaddeo keep the key?”
His eyes widened.
I pulled off the tape, the ripping sound echoing through the acreage.
He began speaking immediately. “I don’t know anything about a key—”
“Yes, you do,” I told him. “Where is it?”
“Thaddeo never said—”
I gestured to Roman over my shoulder. Like a whip, Roman stepped forward, swinging his gun over his shoulder and straight into the man’s kneecap.
I covered the tape back over his mouth to hide his howl and turned to Olezka, instructing, “Kill him and do as you wish with the body.”
Through his pain, Mr Falcone heard my orders and began objecting.
I rose to my feet, sparing him a glance. “Tell us where the key is and I might spare your life.”
Olezka removed the tape once more, only revealing the man stuttering out in pain and his lack of knowledge.
I turned on my heel, my men moving with me.
“Wait, wait!” the man cried.
I kept my back to him but turned my head to the side, catching sight of him sniveling on the gravel like a worm.
“The key—Thaddeo mentioned it once… He…” The man coughed. “He said something about it when the landscaping was…Something about burying it…”
Roman rolled his eyes and looked to me. “Convenient. It’s hidden below ground in Thaddeo’s huge fucking garden.” To the man, he said, “Couldn’t be any more specific, huh, pizdobol?”
I didn’t bother turning around. This man wasn’t going to tell us anything. “Olezka,” I commanded quietly.
The gun went off.
I straightened my cuffs and fished out my phone. Feodor answered on the first ring.
“Boss, how’s New York treating you?” came his deep raspy voice. “Better yet, how’s Falcone’s widow treating you?” His leering tone made the real meaning behind his words clear.
I didn’t entertain his good humor. “Send a group to Falcone’s manor and tell them to tear apart the garden.”
“Any specific part?”
“The entire thing.” The garden had looked like it had been freshly planted so I doubted it would be hard to strip away. “I want this key found before the other mob bosses decide they want it.”
Feodor grunted in agreement. “Yes, Boss. Consider it done.”
“Has Rifat
contacted you yet?” My derzhatel obschaka, also known as my accountant, had the tendency to disappear into his brain for days, surviving off naps and coffee. For a bookkeeper, he was oddly eccentric. A small part of me wondered what he would make of Elena—or what Elena would make of him.
“No. Should I send over some boys to check on him?”
“I’ll send Danika in a few days. He doesn’t like anyone else.” I glanced into the distance, the horizon broken up by spots of trees. “Did you hear about the third woman?”
“I did,” Feodor replied, voice darkening. Usually, Feodor was the epitome of jolliness, but violence against the weaker sex had always upset him. “Your krysha believes it is an inside job.”
I stepped away from the car as Olezka drove away, dead Falcone in the boot. Odessa buried her nose in my pockets, looking for carrots.
To Feodor, I said, “I am interested in hearing what you believe.”
I had been born and raised in this world, had understood the customs and violence for thirty years. But Feodor was double my age, the things he had seen and experienced shaped his view. His opinions often challenged the opinions of my younger men, his old age wisdom allowing for more clarity in situations.
Artyom might dislike him, but Feodor was imperative to making sure we didn’t fall victim to our idealistic youth.
When I had killed my father at fifteen, it had been Feodor who had reasoned with me and brought me back down to Earth. I had felt invincible, ready to kill my brothers and take the crown. But Feodor had advised against it.
Wait, he had said, be patient and plan.
I had.
Feodor spoke up after a few seconds, breaking up my reverie. “The idea of some lunatic going around and targeting these women is insane…it is more likely these are domestic disputes.”
“If not?”
He sighed. “Then we have a very real problem on our hands.”
We said our goodbyes and I turned back to Roman. My bodyguard watched our surroundings carefully, his eyes scraping over the woods like he could see the dogs stalking in the shadows.
“You sending Dani to check on Rifat?” he asked casually.