Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  Instead of hanging around to admire the damage she had done, the cat leapt to the ground and darted out of the room.

  I could’ve sworn she looked proud.

  “The syrup,” Danika moaned. “Roman, you have to share now.”

  “I’m doing no such thing.” He licked the pool of syrup on his plate, earning him exclaims of disgust. “See? I licked it. It’s mine.”

  Danika took her spoon to his plate, scooped up some syrup and stuck it directly in her mouth. She gave him a ha ha look and sat back down in her seat, licking the spoon clean. “I’m not scared of your cooties, Roman,” she threatened. “Pass around the syrup.”

  “I don’t want it if he’s licked it,” Tatiana said.

  Dmitri nodded. “God knows where that tongue’s been.”

  Tatiana pressed hands to her son’s ears, giving her husband a warning look. He grinned—even Dmitri’s shows of humor were frosty and cutting—and mouthed an apology to his wife. Anton peered up at his mother, confused.

  “Did Daddy say a bad word?” he asked.

  “He did, my boy,” Tatiana fussed. “He has to say sorry now.”

  Dmitri shot her a look but couldn’t help the smile that grew up his face. “My sincerest apologies.”

  She smiled. “Mmm.”

  Roman took a bite of his syrup-soaked waffle and made a show of enjoying it.

  “There is some honey in the pantry,” Roksana said, rising to her feet.

  “Roman can get it,” Artyom said gruffly.

  Roman sighed but did as he was told.

  As soon as he left, Danika grabbed his plate and held it out to us. “Anyone want any syrup?”

  Everybody shook their heads.

  “Suit yourselves.” She poured some onto her plate before returning Roman’s breakfast to his seat.

  Roman returned with the honey and knew immediately. “Really, Dani? Next time, I’m spitting in it.”

  “Adds nutrients,” she reasoned. “Doesn’t it, Elena?”

  Elena snorted. She had opted not to have any of Roman’s saliva-covered syrup. “No. But it might make you sick.”

  “Why aren’t you on my team?” Danika whined, but her eyes were bright with humor. “If you’re on Roman’s team now, I’m going to shoot you.” She finished her threat off by taking a bite of a strawberry tart.

  “Ugh, if I ever agree with Roman, I’ll shoot myself.”

  Roman bared his teeth at Elena. She returned the gesture.

  Artyom passed Elena the honey. “For agreeing cats don’t eat at dining tables,” he said at her questioning look.

  Roksana glanced between the two. Not with jealousy, but with curiosity. I found myself doing the same thing.

  Artyom wasn’t a huge fan of Elena—in fact, he saw her as a threat to his family and Pakhan. Him offering her some honey wasn’t quite acceptance into his good graces, but it wasn’t nothing.

  Perhaps Dmitri had been wrong when he said it was the women growing attached. Maybe more of us were, too.

  Breakfast continued without another attack from Babushka. Despite the bickering, there were no more fights, except when Danika brought up the syrup for a second time. But Roman and Danika were usually at each other’s throats. It would be a weird day if they weren’t.

  Artyom checked his phone as empty plates were stacked for washing, and his expression tightened. I had known Artyom since we were infants; I knew his moods and emotions as well as I knew my own.

  I gestured my hand out for the phone and he passed it to me. Roksana tried to peer at the screen as he did. Her face whitened as she read the words.

  It was a message from one of his scouts.

  Hell’s Henchmen Old Lady found dead this morning. Teeth removed post-mortem.

  The phone creaked in my grip as my hand tightened around it.

  “Everything okay?” It was Elena who asked.

  I looked over to her, feeling my hand relax. She peered at me, brow furrowed. She looked surprised at herself for asking.

  “No,” I said. She blinked. “Meeting in my study in five. Artyom, with me, now. Dmitri, call Olezka and Feodor.”

  Anton waved to me as I strode out, “Bye bye, Uncle Kostya.”

  Holding back my temper for a few seconds, I ruffled his hair in goodbye. Anton deserved a few more years of innocence.

  Even if innocence was impossible for anyone with the blood of the Tarkhanov Bratva in their veins.

  16

  Elena Falcone

  This was wrong.

  Morally, what I was about to do was incorrect. It was everything my Sunday School preacher had warned me from doing. What every lesson about ethics given by my guardians and teachers had cautioned against.

  I stopped outside her door, breathing deeply.

  It doesn’t make any sense, I told myself. You need to see if your theory is correct.

  You need to know if you’re in danger.

  I knocked softly.

  “Come in, Elena,” Tatiana called. She sounded strong, healthy.

  I took another deep breath and stepped into her room. She was leaning against the bed on the floor, playing trains with Anton. Anton smiled up at me as I entered, holding out a blue train for me to admire.

  “Very nice,” I told him. “Is that your favorite?”

  He nodded excitedly.

  Tatiana caressed her rounding stomach and smiled at me. “Have you come to deliver some more magic potion?”

  I nodded and crouched down in front of her. “How are you feeling?”

  “Amazing,” she said. “I felt strong enough to take Anton for a walk this morning. We went and played on the swings, didn’t we, my darling?”

  Anton nodded, talking rapidly about how exciting the sandpit and monkey bars had been.

  I pulled the small tonic out of my pocket. Do not reveal anything, I instructed my face as I passed it to Tatiana. “If you keep getting better this quick, we might be able to put you on a smaller dosage.”

  “That would be nice,” she laughed. “I am getting sick of mixing it with tea. There is only so much tea a girl can drink, you know?”

  I nodded, forcing a smile of agreement. “I do.”

  Tatiana didn’t inspect the tonic too closely. It looked identical to the other one.

  “I have to go and sort out the library, but I’ll be back to check on you later,” I said.

  Both the mother and son waved me goodbye, before going back to the game of trains. I hovered outside the room, listening to the jubilant chatter, before leaving.

  I wished I had confronted her, or not been so suspicious. Some part of me wished I had enough courage to seek out the answer without tricks and deceptions.

  I was too calculating to be brave.

  It was a fact I had known about myself since I was a child.

  I had learnt it about myself as I had watched my father collapse to the ground after drinking his finest whiskey. As he had clutched his heart and struggled to live, I had realized at my core I wasn’t valiant or fearless.

  Instead I was intelligent and calculating and heartless.

  Too calculating to be brave, I mouthed to myself. There was no point being angry at myself—it was those very attributes of mine that had kept me alive so long.

  I yearned for the lab in that moment. I wanted to create something, act like an alchemist or botanist or chemist. But…I was growing too close to the lab. I knew everyone there, what all the equipment was. Even the time and fundamentals of the heroin deliveries.

  I was growing too close. Much too close.

  Don’t worry, Elena, I told myself. Once they find out what you’re doing to Tatiana, they won’t be so happy to let you in.

  When I reached the library, I spotted a form hunched over a desk near the back. Beneath the dusty light, Roman sat, leaning on a hand and scowling at the open book in front of him. Babushka laid on her back beside him, napping in a spot of sun.

  He swore suddenly in Russian, the sound disrupting my usually quiet libr
ary.

  “What are you doing?”

  Roman snapped his head to me. His deep blue eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know what you’re doing here,” I remarked. “I thought my question made that pretty obvious.”

  He bared his teeth. “This is my home.”

  “The library or that table in particular?” Rationally, I knew Roman was dangerous—Konstantin wouldn’t keep him so close if he wasn’t. But I couldn’t help but pluck and pick at his vulnerable flesh and nerves.

  In response, Roman rose to his feet, fists clenching and unclenching. “Piss off,” he snapped. “I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

  I moved closer to him, eyeing the book.

  He covered the pages with a tattooed hand. But it was too late, I had taken in enough of the contents to decipher what he was reading about.

  “I didn’t know you were a sucker for bodice rippers, Roman,” I grinned. Oh, this was good. This was too good.

  “I’m not,” he growled, expression fierce in embarrassment and anger.

  I couldn’t help my smirk. “Do you even know how to read it?”

  “Don’t need to know how to,” Roman mocked. “I can actually get good sex. Unlike your ass.”

  “I’m not the one reading bodice rippers,” I muttered, my temper rising with his comment. “And how could you possibly know I’m not having good sex?”

  He grinned. “So, you finally gave in to Kostya? Dmitri owes me 20 bucks.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I am not having sex with Konstantin.” I’m thinking about it.

  Roman didn’t need to know that.

  His eyebrows rose. “Then you ain’t having sex.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” He slumped back down into his chair, eyes bright with smugness. “No one would dare touch you. Kostya would kill them.”

  “Oh, please, give me a break,” I muttered. “How did my sex life come up? You’re the one reading about it.” I leaned over, catching a sentence. “His pulsing member filled her—”

  Roman slammed the book close.

  I smirked. “I hope you’re not using that book as a guide for Danika.”

  “No!” His fast response made my eyebrows rise.

  “God forbid you ever have to be on the witness stand, Roman. You’re a terrible liar.” I dropped down into the chair in front of him. Babushka lifted her tail in greeting. “Did that book tell you to stop being such a dick? She might like you more then.”

  “Now you’re the expert? That’s rich.” He snorted. “You didn’t shed a tear when your husband was killed.”

  “I’m sure Danika won’t a shed a tear when you’re killed either.” I grinned nastily.

  “You don’t know anything about Dani and I.”

  I shrugged. “I know more than you think.”

  This time he returned my nasty smile. “And I know more about Konstantin and you then you do.”

  “Nothing I care about, I’m sure.”

  He shrugged. “Guess you’ll never know.”

  “Guess so,” I gritted out. “And I guess you’ll never know how to read. Unless you let me teach you.”

  As soon as the offer—albeit covered in insults—was out of my mouth, surprise stroked through me. I hadn’t considered teaching Roman but apparently my subconscious had other ideas.

  The word decent came to mind.

  It wasn’t one I had thought of before.

  Roman narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Rightfully so. I wasn’t even sure why I had offered. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s an offer.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder uncaringly. “Take it or leave it.”

  “You gonna teach me the right words?” he asked.

  I frowned. “What?”

  “The correct words,” he emphasized. “You won’t teach me that penis means hello or something? I’ll kill you.”

  “No, I’m not going to do that. I’m not an idiot,” I told him. “In fact, we won’t even talk about it. The only time we can talk about it is in here.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want your good deeds spread around the halls?”

  No, not at all. Mainly because I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was a good deed. What did good deeds feel like?

  If they were this ambiguous, then how did anyone know if they were doing a good deed? Where was that fulfilled feeling everyone talked about?

  “No. So keep it to yourself.”

  “As long as you do the same.” Roman pushed the bodice-ripper over to me. “Alright, so teach me, oh great one.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We’ll start with Anton’s books.”

  He huffed but didn’t argue.

  It wasn’t until I forced him to write out words on a piece of paper, only simple ones: walk, talk, hello, goodbye, that he threw his pen and snapped. “Don’t you want to know why I can’t read?”

  “I don’t really care.” Not true, I was actually quite curious. But a conversation with Danika could clear that all up. I didn’t need to pester Roman for it.

  Roman scanned my expression, searching for some sliver of mistruth. When he didn’t find it, he remarked, “You really don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”

  “Who would I care about?” The question sounded less sad in my head. Out loud, it almost sounded like a plea hidden beneath a barbed retort.

  “Your husband,” he ventured.

  A memory shattered through my mind like a wrecking ball. I could see Thaddeo’s furious eyes, feel his grip, the screaming—

  I shook my head, clearing my mind. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

  Roman nodded. “Some people don’t deserve to be cared about,” he agreed, and turned back to his words. Something about conversation had settled him somewhat and he picked up his pen, ready to begin again. After a few seconds, he said, “Kostya cares about a lot of people. He said every good king does.”

  “I’m not a king so how does that apply to me?” I folded a children’s book out in front of Roman. It was a colorful story about a dog trying to find his way home. Childish, hopeful, easy to read. “Start from the top.”

  He didn’t follow my instruction. Roman leaned back in his chair, watching me. “I was fifteen.”

  I frowned. “That is not what the book says.”

  He ignored me. “I was fifteen when Konstantin found me. Street kid. Orphaned. Raised in the gutters of Moscow, if you will.”

  I leaned back in my own chair. “Orphaned?”

  “I think so. Or maybe my parents are still alive, running around smoking and snorting whatever they can get their hands on. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they weren’t there,” Roman said. “It was just me, my desire to live and my empty stomach.” Looking back, he seemed amused, but I doubted that was how he felt at the time.

  “Did Konstantin seek you out?”

  He laughed roughly. “No, I tried to rob him.”

  “Tried?” I tried to force down my amusement, but it was no use. “Did he try to kill you?”

  “Nope.” Roman looked out the window, thoughtfully. “He spared my life. Even bought me some food and a blanket.”

  “Then how did you become his byki?”

  He smiled, flashing teeth. “Well, after that, let’s just say I was a little protective of my benefactor. When another kid tried to rob him, I smashed their arm into the ground. Konstantin hired me on the spot. Said I had a natural talent for noticing threats and disposing of them.”

  “Heartwarming,” I muttered.

  “I would do anything for Kostya,” he said. “He is the Pakhan of the century. Shit, of the millennium. He will lead the Bratva into a new age.”

  I scowled. “You sound like you’re part of a cult.”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe you are. It doesn’t matter. This is my life; this is your life. And in this life, there are pakhans and there are byki. I am byki and Kostya is Pakhan.”

  “Are those the only two positions?” I
asked.

  Roman’s eyes gleamed ferally. “No. No, they aren’t.” He cocked his head to the side. “Why? Thinking of sending in your resume? I recommend robbing him instead.”

  “Hilarious,” I bitched. “No. I’m just asking. Or is the only job a woman can have a wife.”

  “You’ve met Danika, Roksana and Tatiana. I’ll let you decide that for yourself.” Roman rocked back on the hindlegs of his chair. He scowled back at the words. “Reading sucks.”

  “No, it doesn’t. You might even like it.” I tapped the bodice ripper he had been looking at earlier that we had tossed to the side. Babushka had claimed it as a makeshift pillow. “I’m sure Konstantin will let you buy all the erotica you want.”

  Roman huffed. “He’s good like that.”

  That caused me to smile. I quickly tried to hide my reaction but Roman caught it. He mocked shocked.

  “The aloof and unfeeling Elena Falcone can smile?”

  Instead of replying, my mind flashed back to Konstantin’s words.

  When you laugh, the sun rises in your eyes.

  I could still feel his finger tracing my collarbone, still smell his scent as he stood so close, still hear the ringing timbre of his voice in my ears—

  “What did he do?” Roman’s rough voice cut through the memory.

  “Who?” It was a stupid question. We both knew who.

  “The Pakhan,” he said. “I know that look in your eyes. You’ve got the look of a woman who’s been seduced by Konstantin.”

  I tensed. “I haven’t been seduced by Konstantin. And I certainly do not have the look of a woman who has been.”

  “Don’t sound so jealous,” Roman mused. “I’ve never seen him as interested in a woman as he is with you.”

  “Thanks,” I said coldly. I couldn’t help my brain going into a frenzy. Was Konstantin interested in me? Was he thinking about me the same way I was about him?

  Get a grip, I told myself. You’re not a teenage girl and Konstantin is not the boy next door. He is a Russian Mob Boss for God’s sake!

  “You should be proud.” He grinned widely. “So, what did he do to you? Shower you with expensive jewels? Dine you on top of the Empire State building?”

  “No.”

  Delight flared in Roman’s eyes. “He wrote you a poem—or killed your childhood bully and made a necklace out of his bones for you?”