Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  Roksana shrugged. “I love my family. I love my family more than anything in this world.” She smiled sadly at me. “I know you don’t want to be here. I know you’re curing Tatiana because you have a deal with Konstantin. That’s fine. But do not judge what you do not understand.”

  “I understand the world of the mafia.”

  “You do not know the world of the Bratva. Or Konstantin Tarkhanov.” Roksana’s expression implored me. “He is…he is a good man. A violent one, but a good one.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I said something similar once,” she noted. “But, you are not me and I am not you.”

  I inclined my head in agreement.

  Silence settled over us, not uncomfortable but pensive.

  When I finally asked the question sitting in my mind, long moments had passed. “The loan sharks?”

  “Killed.”

  “Good,” I affirmed.

  Roksana smiled briefly, like she was remembering something fondly. “Artyom strung them up by their heels and fed them their toes.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “That’s when I accepted his offer.”

  I snorted. “Reasonable.”

  She threw me a grin and we stepped out of the alcove. Down the hallway, the chatter had died down and I imagined if we went back to the bathroom, it would be nearly deserted.

  I turned to Roksana. “Where is Mikhail?”

  Roksana’s head flew to the side, hitting the wall with a loud thump. A large hand grasped her hair. She let out a cry of shock and pain so piercing it shocked my system.

  “Let go!”

  A huge man with beady eyes stepped out from behind Roksana, dropping her to the ground like a rag doll.

  Terror and anger erupted in me like a volcano.

  “Fuck off!”

  The man grabbed my throat, holding it easily with one hand. I scratched at his wrist, digging my nails in so hard I felt his blood pool.

  “Bitch!” He shoved me into the wall, the impact momentarily darkening my vision.

  The second of disorientation allowed the man to apply more pressure onto my neck, pinning me to the wall. My lungs constricted as they fought for air.

  Something swung over the man’s head, hitting him. He released me, stumbling back and swearing furiously.

  Roksana had grabbed a decorative vase and was holding onto it like it was a weapon of mass destruction.

  The man lunged at Roksana, knocking the vase away like it was nothing but a fly and shoving her to the ground. She hit the floor, but instantly began scrambling away, ankles getting caught in her dress.

  When he went for her again, I lunged. I dug my fingers into his eyes, pressing down with everything I had.

  His eyeballs felt both hard and squishy as my fingers sliced into them.

  A gun cocked. “Let him go or I’ll shoot Mrs Fattakhov.”

  I lifted my head to see a new man standing over Roksana, gun pointed straight at her skull.

  I didn’t even think about it. I released the man and stumbled back, my fingers coated with blood.

  The man cried out in pain, covering his face.

  “You did some real damage, didn’t you, Mrs Falcone?” noted the newcomer. “A shame. Vik was one of our best bulls. No matter.” In a sliver of a second, he lifted the silenced weapon and shot Vik, before quickly pointing the gun back at Roksana.

  Vik fell like a bag of rocks, bloody eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  Roksana gagged.

  I eyed the newcomer. He was dressed in all black, clean-shaven with bright blue eyes. He looked to be in his mid-forties with copper hair and tattoos patterning his exposed skin.

  Mafioso. Vor. Soldier.

  Whatever the fuck they were called.

  “Who are you?” I spat.

  “Haven’t you been keeping up with the news?” he asked. “From what I hear, you’re a very intelligent woman.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Where did you hear that?”

  “A little birdy told me,” he said. He pressed the butt of the gun further into Roksana’s head. She closed her eyes briefly, regulating her breathing. “They also mentioned you had quite beautiful teeth.”

  Roksana’s eyes tightened. She knew who had attacked us.

  I knew who, too.

  The same person who had been killing women associated with the mafia for the past few weeks.

  “I know about you, too,” I said quietly. “The child-killer.”

  “Ah, you’re referring to little Annabella?” His eyes gleamed. “She didn’t stop screaming. Papa, Mama, Abuelito. It was so fucking annoying.”

  “She was a child,” Roksana piped up. She tilted her eyes upwards. “She had no part in any feud or vendetta. She was innocent.”

  “Nobody is innocent, Mrs Fattakhov,” the man snapped. His grip on the gun tightened.

  At the end of the hallway, a shadow moved. So subtle and familiar that I knew it could only be one person.

  I spoke up, “You’re not going to kill the both of us. They’ll find you before you remove all the teeth.”

  He laughed. “Don’t underestimate your adversaries, Elena. I think you’ll find they’re just as smart as yourself. If not smarter.”

  “I think I’m smarter than you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure you do—”

  Konstantin pressed a gun to his head. In the next second, he grabbed the man’s wrist and yanked it, allowing Roksana seconds of safety to scramble out of the firing line. She immediately came to my side, gripping my arm fiercely.

  The man dropped the gun, shock in his eyes. “You’re not meant to be here.”

  “Clearly,” Konstantin purred. There was nothing flirtatious or charming in his voice. It was the tone of a creature who was very dangerous, who was playing with his prey before he devoured it.

  The man tried to swipe for Konstantin, but he was too slow. I could only watch as Konstantin expectedly grabbed his wrist and threw him into the wall. The man tried to recover but Konstantin punched him in the throat with the same movement as a snake striking its prey.

  As he gasped for air, Konstantin righted his cuffs. “Who are you working for?” he asked quietly, but we all heard.

  The man clawed at the wall to steady himself. “I’m not telling you shit!”

  Konstantin drove his elbow into the man’s stomach, sending him doubling over and onto his knees.

  He crouched down, balancing his gun on his thigh. “This is only a sliver of the pain I can give you,” he hissed, the first sign of the monster beneath beginning to take control. “There are ladies present so I must play nice, but make no mistake, you will talk, and you won’t stop talking.”

  The man looked up, eyes and nose running from the pain. “Act—so—powerful—now.” He gasped. “But—Titus—is…coming for you.”

  “Titus.” Konstantin said the name thoughtfully. “A Roman Emperor of the Flavian Dynasty. I don’t recall him killing innocent women, however.”

  “Titus will kill you…” The man gasped. “All of you will bow.”

  “Your Titus wants world domination. Not the most interesting of goals,” Konstantin replied. “And where is your Titus?”

  He shook his head, still struggling to breather. “Will…never…say…”

  “Oh, I think you will.”

  The man tilted his head, meeting my gaze. He smiled slowly. “Watch your back, Falcone. Titus has you right where—”

  With the back of the gun, Konstantin jabbed the man in his pressure point. Instantly he collapsed, no longer so cocky and threatening.

  Konstantin rose to his full height, regarding the man with disinterest, like he was an inconsequential bug he needed to swat.

  “Elena, Roksana.” Konstantin looked at us over his shoulder.

  “We’re fine,” I said.

  Roksana nodded in agreement, unable to speak.

  Konstantin scanned us both for his own confirmation. His eyes passed over Vik, with his bloody eyes. “Mikhail i
s dead,” he said.

  “Oh,” Roksana choked. “Oh my God…” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Artyom. I need Artyom.”

  “He is on his way,” Konstantin said, softening his voice for Roksana. His eyes came to me, holding my gaze. He looked like he was going to say something, but Russian shouts erupted from down the hallway.

  Seconds later, Artyom and Roman came thundering down the hall.

  Artyom didn’t look at his Pakhan or the slumped bodies. He went straight for Roksana, pushing me out of the way to get to her. Russian words tumbled together but I knew he was asking if she was okay. Roksana tearily nodded.

  “This is what happens when you leave the house without me,” Roman said, stomping down the hall. He took in the bodies. “Shit, shit.” Then to my surprise, he asked, “You good, Elena?”

  I blinked. “Fine.”

  “There’s blood on your fingers,” he pointed out.

  “It’s not hers,” Konstantin said. He jerked his chin to Vik. “It’s his.”

  Roman didn’t flinch at the eyeless man. Instead he looked…impressed.

  Konstantin pointed down at the other one. “Give him to Dmitri and Olezka. I want to know everything that man knows. Everything he has seen and done his entire life; I want to know.”

  “Yes, Pakhan.” Roman eyed Konstantin with a flash of concern but didn’t say anything as he went about his job.

  Artyom held Roksana to his chest, “Who the fuck is he?”

  “He works for our woman-killer,” Konstantin remarked. “A man he refers to as Titus.”

  “Titus?” Artyom glanced down at the body. “There is no boss called Titus in the United States, or any other part of the world.”

  “I’m aware,” Konstantin replied. He tucked his gun back into his holster, before smoothing down his blazer. “Artyom, I want all the woman sent into protective custody. Those who are unable to stay locked down due to work will be provided bodyguards.”

  Artyom straightened. “Yes, sir. Consider it done.”

  Konstantin met my eyes again, the light-brown color dark and cold. “Enough lying in wait,” he said. “Now, we hunt.”

  Part Two -

  Elena’s Kingpin

  “Snake’s poison is life to the snake; it is in relation to man that it means death.”

  – Rumi.

  14

  Konstantin Tarkhanov

  Hilarion won by half a second.

  “And the winner is...Hilarion Troitsky of Tarkhanov Stables!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers of celebration or cries of aggravation. I heard the patter of feet as people made it to their bookies, desperate to know how much they had won. Hilarion had been one of the favorites so the sum couldn’t have been steep.

  In the VIP area, decorated with whites and silvers, owners and patrons loitered. The outcome of the race had been in my favor—and not in theirs. Mitsuzo Ishida had joined me for the first half of the race, but had to leave to handle urgent business.

  “When are you considering studding Hilarion?” someone asked me. It was usually the first question.

  I gave my usual answer, “When he meets a girl he likes.”

  The women tittered in response, the men chuckled, but their greedy eyes didn’t waver. A colt or filly from Hilarion would be a valuable thing to own.

  That’s why I had no intention of giving one up.

  My men and I began to leave, to join Hilarion and his jockey, when Dmitri said, “Good luck to anyone who wants a foal from Hilarion. It would be the worst behaved horse in history.”

  Only Dmitri joined me at the races out of enjoyment. Artyom claimed it was ridiculous, without reason. Roman hated having to wear a tie, something required of him to enter the VIP area. Sometimes the ladies joined us—both Roksana and Danika enjoying wearing ridiculous hats—but not today.

  Not now.

  I took a sip of my champagne. “Perhaps the mare’s genes will give the foal a better temperament.”

  Dmitri snorted. “Sure.”

  We shared a laugh.

  Well dressed women in fancy hats and men with brightly colored ascots filled the way to the stables. As we passed, their heads turned, either in admiration or understanding. Those who knew who I was turned away quickly, not wanting their faces to be etched into my mind.

  Too late.

  “This is how people used to look at me in Moscow,” I told Dmitri. “I’ve missed it.”

  “Tatiana mentioned.” Dmitri’s blue eyes scanned the crowds. “She said it makes you feel powerful.”

  I accessed him from the corner of my eye. “And do you?”

  When he looked at me, all I could see was the young man with icy blue eye and skin the color of snow who showed up on my doorstep and declared his loyalty. I have served many Pakhans, he had said, but you will be the last.

  “I will feel better when we have the dirt we need on all these people.” He looked back the way we had come, towards the investors and elite. “We need to find that key.”

  “I’m aware,” I said coolly.

  Dmitri bowed his head in respect. “Has Elena mentioned anything else?”

  I hadn’t brought up the key since the first time we spoke about the subject. It had been a tender subject to her, one she had claimed not to have any knowledge about.

  “Not yet,” I said. “She’s not ready to say anything yet.”

  “But she knows?”

  “She knows more than she thinks,” I confirmed. “What, however… Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question.”

  Dmitri worked his jaw, stopping himself from saying something.

  “Say it, Dmitri. I’m sure it’s nothing Roman hasn’t already said.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Tatiana told me that Roksana told Elena about how…about what happened to her.”

  Animalistic anger crawled up my stomach at the mention of Roksana’s past. Once the most talented ballerina in Moscow…and then not. Because of her father’s failure to protect and provide for her.

  He had gotten what he’d deserved. As did those who’d hurt Roksana.

  Artyom had made sure of it.

  “It is Roksana’s decision whom she shares her past with,” I said.

  Dmitri couldn’t hide his cold anger, his icy protectiveness. “The women are growing attached to her. Danika adores her, Roksana shared her past with her and Tatiana is convinced Nikola knows when Elena is in the room. Fuck, even Anton calls her Auntie Lena.”

  I had heard Anton call Elena that. He had been playing with his trucks on the kitchen floor and greeted her as she joined the family for breakfast with a joyful, “Auntie Lena!” Tatiana hadn’t reacted, or seemed that surprised, but Dmitri had almost choked on his coffee.

  “Are you worried about Anton when she leaves?” I asked.

  Dmitri shook his head. “When she leaves, I’ll be worried about you.”

  I turned my head to him, expression appraising. “Is that so? Save your worries, brother. They are misplaced.”

  “My loyalty is to you first,” he ventured. “If she is a threat, even for a second—”

  I cut him off. “If you want to keep breathing, don’t finish that sentence.”

  Low in my gut, I could feel my anger stirring from its slumber. Under wraps and kept locked up tight…until it was needed.

  “Sorry,” Dmitri said resignedly.

  I inclined my head in warning as we reached our private stables.

  Hilarion’s trainer led the stallion around a yard to calm him down. After a race, Hilarion was rowdy and full of adrenaline. He needed to be cooled down and then fed, or else he would go crazy when they laid the wreath over his neck.

  “Hilarion,” I greeted.

  My horse tossed his head towards me, forcing the trainer to lead him over, with the jockey still astride.

  “He was slow around the far turn,” the jockey told me. “But his sprint on the last stretch…I nearly took off into the wind.”

  If Roman was here, he would
’ve made a short joke.

  I rubbed Hilarion’s nose. “Good boy.”

  His nostrils flared in agreement.

  The buzzing my phone made me check my pocket and when I saw the familiar contact name, I stepped away from the prying ears of the jockey and gestured Dmitri to follow me.

  “Olezka,” I greeted.

  “Hi, Boss. Did Hilarion win?”

  “He did.”

  Olezka made a half-hearted cheering noise. There was only one reason my torpedo was calling and it wasn’t to discuss horse racing.

  “The man?” I asked.

  Dmitri’s eyes darkened. He had spent the night with the man who had attacked Elena and Roksana but failed to pull anything out of him.

  “Nothing.” Olezka grunted. Both my men took their failures personally. “Artyom found out his name is Edward Ainsworth. But he’s not convinced that’s his real one.”

  “Sounds like something out of those books my wife reads,” Dmitri muttered.

  I nodded. “What has he said?”

  “Nothing much, Boss,” Olezka said. “He just screams.”

  I looked out over the field. Hilarion had calmed down ever so slightly, giving his jockey a bit of grief. A few stable hands went to help.

  “Leave him for a few hours,” I instructed. “It’s time he and I have a little chat.”

  The overgrown monastery still looked harrowing, despite not being used for centuries. Once used to defend the island from the sea, the Fort was now a hangout for local kids and tourists, but every now and then, it was quiet and unwatched.

  That was when it became a playground for me.

  Night settled over the Fort, the pitch dark only broken up by city lights and torches. Shadows stretched and shuddered as my men and I moved along the property, drawing to and fro. The crickets’ music was the only sound accompanying our footfalls.

  Dark. Silent. Perfect.

  On the third floor, tied to a chair, was Edward Ainsworth. He had been set up beside the windowless archways that looked down onto the ground, a silent threat that, with a flick of a hand, he could plummet to his death. Cuts and bruises broke up his once clear skin, proof all of my men had tried to break his silence.