Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  “You’re both so mean,” Roksana said from the vanity. To me, she said, “You look beautiful.”

  I hid my smile, continuing to assess my reflection. “Perhaps I’ll get some attention.” I ran my fingers through my hair, momentarily distracting myself from the fact that nobody laughed.

  I glanced at each of the women. I had just lost my husband; I could see why my little joke could’ve sounded terrible.

  I opened my mouth to offer some kind of justification but Roksana said, “Don’t make jokes like that around Konstantin.”

  “Why not?” I asked, my temper sharpening in my stomach.

  “Konstantin is a very territorial man,” Tatiana muttered. “Just enjoy yourself tonight. Don’t worry about anyone else.”

  Questions bubbled up my throat, but I held them in. Some part of me didn’t want the answer to my questions, to know the meaning behind their words.

  Just cure Tatiana and leave, I told myself. That’s all you have to do. And then you’re free.

  Free.

  “When I went to the ballet for the first time, Roman told me to bring a coloring book to entertain myself,” Danika said, changing the subject.

  “I don’t know where I would find a coloring book,” I said.

  Roksana huffed. “She’s just being a pain, Elena.” Then added, “Nobody in this family values art, except for Kostya, of course.”

  “They both know all the dances and techniques,” Danika told me. “You’re going to want to ditch yourself into the crowd.”

  Tatiana giggled. “You could borrow one of Anton’s coloring books, Elena.”

  “The ballet is beautiful,” Roksana told me. “Ignore these two.” But she threw affectionate smiles their way.

  When it was time to leave, I opened the door to Artyom leaning against the wall. He looked stern, but the moment he spotted Roksana behind me, his entire face lit up.

  “Ah, you look beautiful, dorogaya.”

  Artyom didn’t even glance at me as he stretched his arms out for his wife, causing me to press myself into the doorway so Roksana could greet him.

  “Thank you, husband,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling into his mouth.

  Together, they made quite the pair. Roksana’s white blonde hair contrasted Artyom’s inky black, her short skinny form fit into his tall muscled arms.

  The intimacy and familiarity of their marriage was never something I had shared with Thaddeo. We had been more likely to hold guns to each other’s hearts than embrace each other.

  The kisses, the sex, the touches, had all been purposeful and with a clear agenda in mind. Thaddeo was affectionate in public because it made our marriage look strong, he had sex with me because he needed an heir.

  I regarded the affection in our marriage like a check list. Hug, check. Kiss, check. Lay on your back and spread your legs, check.

  No emotion, no love, no partnership. Just expectations and duty, just rules and agendas.

  I didn’t mind being alone—in fact, I preferred it. I had since I was a child, which had led to my family calling me aloof and antisocial most of my life.

  But if I preferred it so much, then why was my stomach cramping at the sight of Artyom and Roksana? Why did my fingers curl into fists?

  “I’ll meet you downstairs, Roksana,” I said, sweeping up my skirts.

  Roksana made a noise of agreement but was too enthralled with her husband and his sweet compliments to notice me leaving.

  I glanced at them one more time at them as I reached the end of the hallway, before tearing my eyes away.

  You don’t need a partner, I told myself, trying to soothe the snarling green beast low in my stomach. You just need to cure Tatiana and gain your freedom.

  “Elena,” called a familiar voice.

  I looked down the staircase, eyes going straight to Konstantin. He stood tall in the foyer, looking resplendent in his suit and his hair combed nearly back. His light brown eyes were latched onto me, darkening as he took me in.

  “You look beautiful,” he said simply, like it was a fact and not a compliment.

  I refused to acknowledge the blush rising up my cheeks. “I borrowed Tatiana’s dress.”

  Konstantin’s eyes dragged over me. “It’s not the dress.”

  “Roksana is coming.” I pulled up my skirt and carefully made my way down the stairs.

  He laughed softly. “I saw Artyom heading up there. It may be a minute before she joins us.”

  As I reached the last steps, Konstantin held out his hand. His palm and fingers were rough, scarred from his life as a mafioso—or a Vor, as Danika had told me.

  For a second, I almost reached out and took it.

  Almost.

  I side-stepped his outstretched hand. “I can get down the stairs, Konstantin.”

  “I know you can,” he acknowledged. “But I was always taught to aid a lady in dangerous heels. Especially ones as beautiful as yourself.”

  “You only help beautiful women? Ground breaking.”

  Konstantin actually laughed. “Aren’t all women beautiful, Elena?”

  I wasn’t falling for that one. I sent him a glare, causing him to chuckle again. The sound echoed through the foyer, bouncing off the chandelier and wooden floors.

  His eyes fell down to my hands and his brows knitted together. “You’ve hidden your thoughts.”

  I had. I had scrubbed them with soap until they faded, then patted foundation onto the words that wouldn’t disappear. My hands hadn’t looked so clean in years.

  I hated it.

  “I doubted the prestigious ballet would let me in with ink all over my hands,” I said.

  “You are with me,” he said. “You could come in with a bird’s nest on your head and they would have to let you in.”

  “Bird included?”

  He smirked softly. “We would have to be reasonable, of course.”

  “Boring.” I tilted my head to the side. “Which coincidentally is the same word Danika used to describe the ballet.”

  “The ballet is anything but boring,” Konstantin said. “It requires strength and beauty working together in tandem to create a story.” Our eyes met, the intensity of his expression drawing me in. “It is an art form built on pain and self-discipline. Not many sports today can say the same.”

  “Relate to ballerinas, do you?”

  Konstantin smiled privately. “Since I am no longer privy to your thoughts, you’re not welcome to mine.”

  I almost tucked my hands into the folds of my dress before remembering the words were no longer there. He couldn’t read what was happening in my mind. “Like you’ve ever told me what you’re thinking.”

  “I have.” His eyes didn’t move from my face. “Whether you believed me or not is up for debate.”

  Curiosity gripped me. “What thoughts have you told me?”

  “It hardly seems fair for me to spill all my secrets while you keep your privacy.”

  I pursed my lips. “I’m sure your secrets are boring anyway.”

  Konstantin’s smile was nothing but predatory as he said, “I can assure you, Elena, they are anything but.”

  The way he said my name told me exactly what kind of secrets he had.

  I told my feet to step back, my heart to stop racing, but my body didn’t listen. I was rooted in place, trapped beneath Konstantin’s intense regard.

  “Don’t you have any other women to taunt, Konstantin?” I tried to sound threatening but instead I just sounded desperate.

  “Of course. But none are nearly as fun as you,” he laughed. “Or funny.”

  “Funny?” The word ripped out of me. “I don’t think anyone has ever called me funny in my life.”

  One his eyebrows arched upwards. “No?”

  “I’m more likely to be called a bitch,” I muttered, “or puttana.” A particularly favorite nickname of Thaddeo’s.

  There was a flicker of darkness in Konstantin’s expression. “Recently?”

  “Not to my fa
ce,” I said. “But can you honestly say Roman hasn’t said worse behind my back?”

  “I’m sure you’ve been saying just as devastating things about him.”

  I laughed, the sound surprising and abrupt. “Nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

  Konstantin didn’t respond. Instead he stared at me, like his eyes were peeling away at the makeup and skin and peering into my brain.

  No one had ever looked like at me like that before.

  Like they were…enamored.

  I lifted a hand to my face, self-consciously.

  “When you laugh, the sun rises in your eyes,” Konstantin said.

  The world dropped from beneath my feet.

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I felt angry and embarrassed and flushed all at the same time, a cocktail of emotions that only this man could ever draw out of me.

  Konstantin reached out and took a strand of my hair, running it through his fingers.

  When I didn’t resist, he delicately traced my collarbone. His touch sent electricity shooting through my veins.

  Blood rushed through my ears; my heart pounded in my chest. Air became difficult to breathe; thoughts were hard to form.

  If I ever complained about being overstimulated before, then I had no idea.

  The look in Konstantin’s eyes, the pressure of his finger, his towering presence. Altogether…it was too much.

  I tore myself away, seeking distance and clarity. I wasn’t some stupid girl, falling for the seductive mobster boss.

  I knew exactly what those hands were capable of.

  Konstantin peered at me, dropping those very same hands slowly. “I know you feel it too, Elena.” His tone was low.

  “No, I don’t,” I sounded puffed. “You’re just an arrogant bastard.”

  “Oh, definitely. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” Konstantin replied. “You’re not a married woman any longer, nor are you under the watchful gaze of your family. Why deny yourself pleasure?”

  Anger managed to clear my mind out of the lusty fog. “Pleasure? What is it about men and their belief they’re so good at giving pleasure?” I cut him a smile. “Trust me, if you ever heard a woman describing your abilities, she wouldn’t be so kind with her description.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “I am,” I hissed. “Sex isn’t nearly as good as men make it out to be.”

  Sex with Thaddeo had been three minutes of me thinking about books I wanted to read and plants I wanted to grow. Boring, painful and never as good as pop culture made it out to be.

  Konstantin’s smile was low and dark. “You’re a scientist. Why don’t you test your hypothesis?”

  I opened my mouth to retort but was cut off.

  “Sorry!” Roksana came jogging down the stairs, her pale skin bright red. Loose curls spilled from chignon. “We better get going or else we’re going to be late.” She stopped and looked between Konstantin and me. Her expression froze. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No. Let’s go,” I said.

  Konstantin nodded and gestured a hand forward, beckoning us to lead the way. All the way to the car I felt Konstantin’s stare on my back.

  Now I knew how the rabbit felt when it spotted a pair of fox eyes in the shadows.

  The Staten Island Opera and Ballet House was a grand piece of architecture, with colossal Latin architecture and beautiful paintings staining the roof. Gold traced the ornate ceilings and archways, like someone had delicately outlined the structure.

  The moment we arrived a staffer led us to a private box. It looked over the entire stage and symphony, the prime location. The red velvet seats were cushiony, and we were offered champagne and a board of cheeses seconds after we sat down.

  Roksana’s excitement was obvious. She opened the program between the two of us, discussing the principle dancers and the different acts. It was a ballet she had seen many times before but had never lost her love for.

  The way she talked about the music and story was with enough familiarity and understanding that I asked, “Did you used to be a ballerina?”

  Roksana tensed and I had my answer immediately. “Uh…when I was very young.” She folded up the program. “I’m a much better spectator. Aren’t I, Kostya?”

  On Roksana’s other side, Konstantin answered, “A brilliant spectator. One of the best.”

  She smiled, pleased. “Konstantin’s a big flirt.” Her eyes danced to me. She looked like she was about to add something, but the theater darkened, bringing the murmurs of a crowd to a stop.

  The curtain rose and beautiful dancers flowed onto the stage. Their costumes sparkled as they turned and leaped, the physical difficulty of their movements made to look easy and rhythmical.

  Yet throughout the ballet, consistent past the heartbreaking solos and fast-paced corps de ballet dance, I felt Konstantin nearby.

  Physically, we were separated by Roksana—who was too enthralled with the dance to notice anything else—but his presence was cemented in my brain. Whenever he lifted his hands to clap or shifted in his seat, my attention immediately snapped to him.

  His words were on repeat in my mind.

  You’re a scientist. Why don’t you test your hypothesis?

  When I turned my head to look at him, he was already looking at me.

  13

  Elena Falcone

  After the rush of the finale, Roksana and I ducked to the bathroom. Women hurried past in their clouds of perfume, laughter and high voices ringing throughout the powder rooms and hallways.

  I didn’t mind. I just needed to be away from the Pakhan.

  Roksana and I joined the end of the line. Roksana’s bodyguard, Mikhail, hovered near the end of the hallway, expression fierce but very aware he was not permitted into the ladies’ bathroom. He even got chastised by the older women for being in the vicinity of the toilets.

  “Did you love it?” Roksana asked.

  “It was nice.” I didn’t remember most of it. It was irritating how the audience was supposed to put the pieces together, join the stories and timelines themselves. Science didn’t expect you to do all that. “I thought the costumes were cool.”

  Roksana laughed. “I appreciate the effort.”

  I forced a smile, surprised at myself for softening my true feelings to stop Roksana from feeling upset.

  You did just sit through two hours of classical music, I told myself. Your brain is fried.

  It could be that, or perhaps it was because I could see Roksana’s love for the ballet, the yearning in her eyes as she looked at the ballerinas.

  I understood that feeling in some ways. My love for science had always been out of arm’s reach, taken from me because of the traditional rules of my family. No encouragement, no college.

  Until…

  I pushed him out of my mind, not willing to go there just yet.

  “At least you didn’t leave halfway through,” she mused. “When I convinced Roman to go with me once, he didn’t even make it to the second scene before getting up and leaving.”

  “Roman doesn’t seem like the ballet type.”

  Roksana laughed. “No. No, he’s not. Not even lovely Danika enjoys the ballet. But she does pretend to, which is very kind of her.”

  We moved up in the line, squished together as the hallway grew more crowded with women needing to relieve themselves.

  “At least I have Konstantin to go with me.”

  I grimaced at his name. “At least.”

  Roksana searched my expression. “I know this is definitely not my place and, well, we’re strangers, but can I ask what is going on with you and Konstantin?”

  I didn’t respond. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to; it was more the fact that I didn’t know how to put what was going on with Konstantin and I into words.

  “If his advances are unrequited, I can warn him to back off.”

  I met her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

  “I remember what it was like to be the
main focus of one of these men. It can be…intense.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Their attention can be…all consuming.”

  It was my turn to search her expression. “Is that what happened with you and Artyom?”

  “Yes and no.” Roksana quietened her voice, letting the loud chatter of the hallway offer us more privacy. “I am not like you, or the other women. I did not grow up in the mafia. I chose Artyom and the life he leads.”

  I couldn’t stop my shocked reaction. “You chose this? All I want to do is leave.”

  Her expression softened. “I did. I chose Artyom, the man I loved, and this life is part of him. You cannot pick and choose what parts of people you love.”

  “Were you a ballerina before?” The words came out before I could stop them, fueled by curiosity and my remaining shock.

  Roksana paused, before answering quietly, “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “And now you’re not.” The finality of my statement cemented what I had previously believed. Women could not flourish in this world; our goals were not obtainable. We were either wives or dead.

  Instead of answering, Roksana took my wrist and pulled me out of the toilet line. I followed as she ducked into a private alcove. She lifted her leg onto the wall and pulled up her dress.

  “Are you okay?”

  Then I caught sight of Roksana’s knee. Where unblemished skin should’ve been, Roksana’s knee was a collection of white and pink scarring. Even the kneecap looked to be awkward, dented almost.

  The brutality of it made my lips part.

  “No. I am no longer a ballerina,” she murmured, dropping the skirt. “But not for the reasons you think.”

  Questions bubbled up. I wanted to know everything, wanted to know what had happened and how she dealt with it. But mostly I just wanted to know if it still hurt.

  My pain didn’t leave me—did hers?

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Roksana’s expression tightened but she went on to say, “My father got into debt. A lot of debt. When the loan shark came for his money and my father could not pay…” She blinked rapidly. “My father broke too easily, so they turned their attention to his young daughter.”

  Roksana fell silent.

  “Why did you show me?” I asked.