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 Island 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