Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  “Are you sick in the head?” I demanded.

  “Definitely but that’s a common trait around here,” he laughed. “He did none of that? Okay, okay. Clearly my man is bringing the big guns…. let’s think…Did he hire out the entire theater and escort you to a private show?”

  “Nothing like that,” I gritted out.

  Roman shook his head. “Then I’m flummoxed. What did he do to seduce you?”

  “Nothing. Because I haven’t been seduced.” I smiled coldly. “Just like Danika.”

  “Dani and I have our own stuff,” he scowled at me. “Years of history you don’t know about.”

  “I know enough,” I retorted. “I know you’ve never made a move—and that you pretend to hate her. Because that’s better than her not seeing you at all.”

  Roman slammed the pen onto the table and shot to his feet. I knew I had hit the nail on the head. “You think you—”

  “Stop fighting.”

  We both turned our heads towards the commanding tone. Konstantin had stepped into the library, hands in pockets and looking relaxed. Even Babushka lifted her head to greet him.

  “I could hear you two bickering from the end of the hallway,” he greeted. “Like siblings.”

  Roman made an angry noise low in his throat.

  While he had Konstantin’s attention, I slipped the paper Roman had been practicing on beneath the stack of books.

  “Roman was intruding on my library time,” I recounted.

  “Ah, well, I’m afraid I must do the same thing, Elena,” Konstantin said. “The President of the Hell’s Henchmen MC has requested a meeting.”

  17

  Elena Falcone

  Before my very eyes, I watched as Konstantin became the Pakhan of Staten Island. The Russian Gentleman. The man who’d choked his father to death at the tender age of fifteen.

  I could only stare as we stepped down onto the runway.

  Konstantin always had some commanding way to himself, even in the casual mornings at family breakfast. Even when he scooped his nephew up, throwing him over his shoulders like a monkey.

  But here…that command he weaponized came out full force. He seemed to stand taller, look scarier. Even his tie seemed to be glowing in warning: I killed my father, it seemed to say, imagine what I’ll do to you.

  Konstantin wasn’t the only one who seemed to shed away his civilization.

  Artyom grew harsher, Roman grew meaner, Dmitri grew colder. They changed into the Russian mobsters they were, the bloodthirsty Vory who tore apart the Falcone empire and rebuilt their own in its void.

  The sun had just begun to rise over the airport hangar, clearing the mist that blew over the runways. A crisp breeze blew over us, ruffling hair and stimulating goosebumps.

  “It will be a cold winter,” Artyom remarked. His voice cut through the silence.

  “Indeed,” Konstantin agreed, his voice turning into white fog in the open air.

  Roman scanned the area, eyes dark. “ETA is three minutes away.” He glanced back at the private jet we had departed from. “Would you rather wait in the plane, Boss?”

  Konstantin shook his head. “There is no danger, Roman.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Then, beyond the mist, a faint rumble began to form. It grew louder and louder as they drew nearer, their engines echoing throughout the airport. The sound reminded me of the roar of a dinosaur, low and threatening.

  Konstantin’s men fanned out, some disappearing into the shadows, while others formed a wall around their Pakhan. They rested their hands on their guns, prepared at a moment’s notice to protect their king.

  I buried myself further into my coat.

  Konstantin caught the movement. “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  He smiled slightly, breaking his terrifying mask for only a second, before turning forward once again.

  Then, through the fog, shapes began to form. Sleek, dark motorcycles rolled forward, their engines so loud I couldn’t hear my thoughts. They parked themselves in what looked like a random order, but I knew it was purposeful. Protect the king was a common mindset, it seemed.

  Men dismounted their bikes. Their husky voices blended together, making it hard to pick out a single sentence. All of them wore leather vests, decorated with emblems and words I didn’t know.

  A single man stepped out from the crowd. He had a long gray beard, paired with dark sunglasses and an impressive beer gut. In small writing on his vest I could make out the word President.

  “Tarkhanov,” the man greeted, his voice rough.

  Konstantin bowed his head in greeting. “Hatchet.”

  Hatchet slipped off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of inquisitive brown eyes. His skin might be sun damaged, his beard and hair unruly, but intelligence was obvious in his expression.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

  “You too.” Compared to Hatchet’s rough exterior, Konstantin looked just the more terrifying. “Though it is under sad circumstances.”

  Hatchet snorted in agreement. “Damn right.” He gestured to a few other men. “My VP, Jaguar, and Road Captain, Mad Dog.”

  Jaguar had shocking green eyes. They contrasted against his olive skin and inky black hair like specks of electricity, whereas Mad Dog resembled his President, with the same worn features and overgrown hair. They both nodded in greeting.

  “Gentlemen,” Konstantin noted. He bowed his head towards Artyom. “My security advisor, Artyom Fattakhov, and Ms Falcone.”

  I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t introduced Dmitri and Roman. I was more surprised he had taken the time to introduce me.

  I tried to keep the shock off my face, but I couldn’t stop myself from turning to assess his expression, to try and gather a single hint about what was working on in his brain. Had he done it to unsettle the gang? Or to unsettle me?

  Why had he said Ms Falcone instead of Mrs Falcone?

  “Nice to meet you all,” Hatchet said. My attention moved from Konstantin to the biker. “Let’s talk business.”

  “As we came to do. Your woman?”

  “Flowerpot.” He rubbed his mouth. “Or, well, Bethany Norden. She was my Treasurer’s wife.”

  Behind him, a few of the men shifted on their feet. Uncomfortable.

  “How did it happen?” Konstantin inquired. I was certain he already knew, he just wanted to hear it again.

  Hatchet didn’t look pleased as he said, “We found her in her kitchen, beaten to death. Her teeth were removed…” His brow furrowed in a flash of fury. “Cowards probably snuck up on her. Flowerpot wouldn’t have let anybody in the house; she wasn’t stupid.”

  “Did anybody see anything strange?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Most of the club was on a ride. Annual Halloween drive. And none of the other Old Ladies saw anything.”

  Konstantin cast his eyes into the distance, expression almost thoughtful. “I see.”

  “Heard you have some bastard,” Hatchet said. His eyes briefly darted to me. “Rumor is that some of your women were attacked.”

  “We do have a man by the name of Edward Ainsworth,” Konstantin said. “He is a low-level player, however. He works for a man named Titus—does that name ring any bells?”

  Hatchet shook his head. “None.” He turned to his men. “Anything?”

  They all shook their heads, but the one he called Jaguar said, “It is the name of a Roman Emperor, Prez.”

  “So, most likely not his given name,” Hatchet agreed. He turned back to Konstantin. “Has Edward said much?”

  “Other than devoted ravings for his master, no,” Konstantin said.

  “It was just one man?”

  Konstantin smiled faintly. “There was another. A man by the name of Viktor Eristov, Vik to his friends.” He gestured to me. “However, Ms Falcone killed him.”

  The biker’s assessed me again, trying to see the murderer in me. I glared back at them. I wasn’t some bug to be inspected ben
eath a microscope.

  “How’d you manage that?” Hatchet asked, almost warily. Like I was a second away from attacking and killing him, also.

  “I poked his eyes out.”

  Konstantin’s teeth flash in delight as the bikers shifted once again. This time they weren’t uncomfortable, but wary. Watchful.

  Why Konstantin had invited me to this meeting was beginning to make a lot more sense.

  Faint fury sparked low in my gut. How dare he bring me out here to hold me up like a wild pet? Here is Ms Falcone, our resident enucleation expert. Watch out or she’ll take your eyes, too.

  Maybe I’ll take yours, Konstantin. I drilled my eyes into the side of his head like I was sending my threat telepathically.

  His eyes slid to me briefly, brows rising ever so slightly, before he looked back to the biker President. “Condolences for your loss, Hatchet,” he said.

  “I don’t want your condolences, Tarkhanov,” retorted the biker. “I want revenge.”

  This time, Konstantin did smile. There was nothing charming about it; it was pure animalistic understanding. One alpha to another.

  “And you shall have it,” he assured. “A gift from me to you.”

  Hatchet grinned, teeth flashing through his beard like fangs of a wolf. “See, boys?” He looked back to his men. “That’s a good fucking gift.”

  Faint chuckles rang throughout the bikers.

  “I’ll give you one, too, Tarkhanov,” Hatchet said. “We’ve heard rumors that an Italian kingpin in Maine has set his sights on New York.”

  Interest flashed in Konstantin’s eyes. You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been looking for it. “You seem to hear a lot of rumors, Hatchet,” he said.

  “I ride with the wind, and she carries many secrets with her,” the President replied.

  “So, it seems,” Konstantin remarked. He bowed his head to the biker, “Until next time.”

  Konstantin didn’t turn his back to the bikers until they were out of sight, their engines roaring in the growing dawn. We headed back to the plane when it grew silent.

  Slowly, Konstantin’s men came back to us, standing protectively as Konstantin walked to the plane.

  “After you,” he murmured.

  As I ascended into the plane, I felt Konstantin behind me. His presence followed me up, his stare burning into my backside. Shivers skidded down my neck and spine. I almost tripped on the stairs.

  The word wanton formed in my mind.

  The dim lamp illuminated the stacks of books in front of me, shadows dancing in the corners and crevices. The only sounds were the whistles of the wind and rub of novel covers.

  Alone. Quiet.

  Just how I liked it.

  For days now, I had been making my way through the library. I had categorized and logged until the alphabet was constantly repeating in my mind. Sorted by genre and surnames, this library was slowly becoming my greatest achievement. In my humble opinion, it could rival the Bodleian.

  Soft footfalls caused me to turn my head to the side. “Danika?”

  “Not Danika.” Konstantin stepped out from the bookshelves, shadows dancing over his features as he prowled towards me.

  I sat up straighter. “What are you doing here?”

  He crouched down, his blazing eyes rooting me in place. “You’ve been avoiding me. Why.” It wasn’t a question, more like a demand.

  I looked back down to the books. “I’m not avoiding you.”

  “Liar.”

  The growl of his tone made me look back up. “I’ve been busy, Konstantin,” I said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been trying to help Tatiana and sort out this library.”

  His eyebrow rose. “Is that so? Tatiana is better; the library—” He gestured an arm around the room. “Is almost complete.”

  “Those tasks happened because I was avoiding you,” I mocked. “And Tatiana is not better.”

  “Funny. I would’ve thought you’d have taken the first chance to declare Tatiana as healthy as a horse and made a run for it.” He assessed me.

  I didn’t like looking into his eyes. I was afraid he might see something I didn’t want him to.

  “I don’t leave work unfinished.”

  There was a flicker of knowing in his expression. “No, you do not,” he agreed. “Speaking of Tatiana, Dmitri wants to know if she is better yet.”

  Do not reveal anything. “I haven’t found the underlying cause for her illness.” Do not reveal anything. “Her good health right now is temporary.” Do not reveal anything. “I’ll let both you and Dmitri know when I find it out.”

  Konstantin inclined his head but did not rise to leave. His eyes caught my hand suddenly, the depths of them darkening hungrily. “Wanton,” he read.

  I resisted the urge to hide my hand. It would only make me look guilty.

  “It’s a word,” I snapped. “It is defined as being sexually unrestrained or having many casual relationships. Of which I am neither.”

  A grin stretched over his face. “Why did you write that word on yourself then?”

  Because of you. The words grew up my throat, ready to burst out. But I couldn’t. There were too many tangles and snares, too many consequences.

  If he had you, he would never let you go, Elena, I warned myself. Men like Konstantin do not let their women go.

  I shifted my hair over my shoulder, lifting up my chin. “What business is it of yours? You’re not my husband.”

  Something shifted in his expression. “No, I’m not. You appear to be out of husbands these days.”

  “Thanks to you,” I snapped.

  “Your husband...” Konstantin’s attention grew more intense. “The key. We still haven’t found it. We have torn apart the Falcone mansion, and still it remains hidden.”

  “Not my problem.”

  Konstantin leaned closer, capturing all my attention. The smell of him was overwhelming. “Oh, Elena,” he caressed my name in his mouth, as intimate as a lover, “I think it will be.”

  He has no idea, I thought to myself.

  “Thaddeo didn’t tell me anything. Including where he kept his precious items.”

  “You see, you keep saying that, Elena, but each time you do...” Konstantin’s finger reached out, stroking my cheek ever so gently. “I see the lie in your eyes. The secrets.”

  I swallowed. “There are no secrets in my eyes.”

  A slow smile it up his face. There was nothing charming or friendly about it—it was the smile of a cat who had caught a mouse by the tail. “And you pride yourself on honesty,” he murmured.

  “And survival,” I retorted. “I pride myself on honesty and survival.”

  “You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Key or no.” Konstantin’s finger dropped from my cheek, catching strands of my hair before pulling away. “Is that why you won’t say? You fear for your life.” Anger flashed over his face, warping his features momentarily.

  Thaddeo’s eyes flashed in my mind, his hand reaching out and bruising my skin. The pain had been like nothing I had ever felt before it. It had followed me day and night, to doctor appointments and the chiropractor—

  “Elena?” Konstantin’s voice disrupted the memories. His hand came up, cupping my cheek. I couldn’t move away, couldn’t resist the comforting warmth. “No one will ever hurt you again.”

  The soft fury to his voice reminded me who he was. He wasn’t some charming gentleman who listened to my opinions and valued my intellect, who laughed at my sarcastic remarks. He was the Pakhan of the Tarkhanov Bratva, the man who killed his father with his own necktie before he turned sixteen.

  I pulled back, his hand dropping. My heart cried out at the loss of contact, but I ignored it.

  “I won’t say because I don’t know where your precious key is,” I snapped. “Bother someone else.”

  His eyes scanned my face. “That key is more important than you know,” he warned. “If someone gets their hands on it before us, they could cause a lot of damage.”
/>   I met his eyes. “I don’t care.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “No. Of course you don’t.” His head cocked slightly to the side. “You don’t care about a lot, do you, my Elena?”

  I opened my mouth, ready to snap back at being his, when a soft little voice spoke out, “Auntie Lena? Uncle Kostya?”

  We both turned, startled, to see little Anton standing a few meters away from us. He was dressed for bed, his hair ruffled and his teddy bear hanging limply from his hand. Sitting by his ankles, annoyed and pissed, was Babushka.

  “Anton,” Konstantin turned his attention to his nephew. “What are you doing awake?”

  Anton rubbed his eyes. “Monsters,” he grumbled.

  “Ah, of course,” Konstantin agreed. “Is your mama or daddy awake?”

  He shook his head.

  “How about we go back to sleep, yes?” Konstantin rose to his feet. He glanced at me to say this conversation isn’t over.

  Yes, it is, I glared back.

  He gestured to his nephew. “Come on, Anton. I’ll tuck you in.”

  Anton’s bright blue eyes peered at me. “Auntie Lena?”

  “Auntie Lena is working,” Konstantin reasoned.

  His chubby cheeks puckered in fury. “Auntie Lena, please.” He stretched out a little hand, wiggling his fingers. “Story?”

  I pursed my lips, ignoring Konstantin’s eyes on me. “Of course. One story.” It was the least I could do for this little boy.

  Anton stretched his arms up for Konstantin, who scooped him up easily. He laid his head on the Pakhan’s chest, his dark hair contrasting like crow feathers against Konstantin’s white button down.

  I followed them out of the library, only to have Anton stretch out a hand.

  “Do you want to hold Auntie Lena’s hand?” Konstantin shot me a look, eyebrows raised. Are you really going to deny the sleepy toddler? he asked.

  I shot him a glare. Of course not. “Here you go.” I held his hand gently. Anton’s grip tightened, not willing to let me and the chance of his bedtime story slip away.

  We moved throughout the halls, Anton dozing on Konstantin’s chest and holding my hand as I trailed behind them. Even Babushka followed, keeping her watchful distance.