Konstantin’s chest and holding my hand as I trailed behind them. Even Babushka followed, keeping her watchful distance.
Anton’s room was one of the finished areas of the house. His small bed was in the shape of a race car, and toys littered a tire-shaped mat. Green stars glowed on the ceiling, paired with the crescent-moon nightlight beside his bed. How he could sleep with it being so bright was beyond me.
Konstantin laid Anton into bed, wrapping the blanket around him. “Give me Teddy—thank you.” He tucked Anton’s teddy in beside him. “It is time to go to bed now, Anton.”
Anton nodded, smiling sleepily. Despite his exhaustion, he hadn’t forgotten I had promised a bedtime story and turned his head to me expectantly. “Story?”
I grabbed one of his favorites and sat down beside the bed. The bed was too close to the ground to sit on a chair.
Anton twisted his head to get a better view and I held up the book. Babushka leaped up onto a toy box and surveyed the three of us with her beady eyes.
I looked at Konstantin. You can leave now.
He shook his head, smiling. No.
“Start, please, Auntie Lena,” Anton murmured.
“Of course.” I cleared my throat and flicked to the first page. Konstantin’s attention did nothing to settle my nerves. “Once upon a time...”
Through the entire story, Konstantin remained. Perhaps he didn’t trust me alone with Anton or maybe he just wanted to see me read about talking cars and bears. Whatever the reason, he leaned against the back wall, eyes trained on me the entire time.
It wasn’t until Anton’s breathing deepened and he began to snore, that Konstantin murmured, “For someone who doesn’t believe she is a caring person, you are very empathetic.”
I didn’t respond. Konstantin didn’t know everything about me and if he did, he would probably be saying something very different.
Something more along the lines of selfish, calculating bitch.
18
Konstantin Tarkhanov
Natasha’s face filled the screen, her eyes, identical to mine, already bright in amusement. She had swept her blonde hair into buns on either side of her head and was still dressed in her school uniform. Her hand was outstretched, with a huge tarantula resting in the cup of her palm.
“Meet Evgeni,” was the first thing she said.
I smiled. “After my father?”
“I know one hundred Evgenis,” she replied, “and not all of them are named after Dedulya.”
“Is this one?”
Natasha brought the spider up close to her face. “Yes, he is. He kind of looks like him, don’t you think?”
“Hairy, eight eyes and legs?”
“Exactly,” she laughed.
I laughed as well. “Well, then in that case, they are a spitting image of each other.”
“Try not to kill this one,” she remarked, batting her eyes at me.
“I am thousands of miles away, Natasha. This Evgeni is safe.”
Natasha smiled and rested her chin on her fist, managing to get closer to the spider. No fear flickered across her expression; my niece was a bug and reptile fanatic. The number of times my brother had been required to remove poisonous snakes and spiders from her room was infinite.
“How is the Big Apple?” she inquired. “What is it the Americans say... Have your dreams been made of?”
“Indeed. Staten Island belongs to the Tarkhanov Bratva now.”
Delight flared in her eyes. “I always knew you would succeed,” she said. “So did your brothers. That’s why they’re so scared of you.”
“That’s why they’re scared of you, too.”
Natasha nodded, not surprised. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before. “Papa has been rather tense lately,” she said. “Something is happening. He won’t let Mama or I leave the house, not even to go into the garden.”
“You have not been told?”
“Obviously.”
I rose my brows at her tone. Natasha may be queen one day, but right now she was still my niece and would speak with respect.
Natasha twirled a curl around her finger. “May I please know?” Her tone had softened considerably, polite instead of sarcastic.
“Of course.” I leaned back in my chair, glancing briefly out the window. The sun would rise soon, bringing with it another day of intrigue and violence. And Elena. “Women associated with criminal organizations are being killed. A La Cosa Nostra wife, an Irish Mob wife, a Corsican Union daughter, a Cartel granddaughter and now a motorcycle club Old Lady.”
Her doe-like eyes flickered, her young age showing momentarily. “Am I in danger?”
“No. Your father will keep you safe. So far, the threat is only in the States.”
“Oh. Are you sure?” Natasha’s forehead furrowed.
“Of course.” I scanned her features for any sign I should