“Where do you think you’re going?” Roman, the pit bull, sneered.
“Mrs Falcone, you have to promise not to run, or else Roman will keep hold of you,” said that commanding yet diplomatic voice again.
I looked up at the pit bull, who was looking at me like he was hoping I would choose to run. I hissed right back at him, baring my own teeth.
“Is that a no?” the voice prompted.
“Fine,” I snapped. “I won’t run.”
If I played along, they might let me live.
Roman released me.
I turned and felt my stomach drop to my knees.
Standing before me was... Konstantin Tarkhanov.
My first thought was that I was definitely going to die today.
My second thought was, Oh, shit, it’s Konstantin Tarkhanov.
Konstantin was better known as The Russian Gentleman, or the man who’d killed his father with his own necktie. His pretty face and charismatic smile were adored by the media, and even my childhood friend, Sophia, had seemed quite taken with him.
All I knew about him was, in the past few years he had come to the United States from Russia and become increasingly popular with already established Bratvas, earning support from all over the States. And I only knew this because Thaddeo had let it slip—and Sophia had confirmed it.
In my mind, I had written him off as just another mafioso playing politician. Another handsome but violent man that held the same views of women as the other men in my world did, therefore, making him of no interest to myself.
But in person...
Konstantin Tarkhanov was a beautiful creature. Physically, his blonde hair was swept back, without a hair out of place, paired with inquisitive brown eyes and a strong bone structure. You could see the Russian in his features, from the shape of his cheekbones to the curve of his chin. Beneath his faultless suit (with a tie and vest worth more than my car), I could see the hints of tattoos: ink that pledged his allegiance to his Bratva and to Russia.
Though his appearance was breathtaking, there was more...
He commanded himself with such strength and allure that everyone could not help themselves but look at him, couldn’t help but watch for his next move or listen for the next words out of his mouth. A king, I thought. He holds himself like a king.
I had seen Thaddeo attempt to carry himself with a demeanor that commanded respect for years lived, clucking over his attempts like I could do any better. But Konstantin... Konstantin made him look like a little page boy whose balls hadn’t dropped yet.
Konstantin didn’t need to try and carry himself like a king—he was king.
Yet I could tell that beneath his charismatic and beautiful exterior, a monster lurked.
It made my skin crawl.
Konstantin Tarkhanov smiled at me like we were old pals, instead of, well, enemies.
“Mrs Falcone,” he said, his tone nothing but polite and courteous, “you must forgive Roman. He forgets himself.”
I didn’t respond. The words building up in my throat weren’t ones that would leave with me and my life still intact.
“If you follow Dmitri, you will be escorted back to Chicago. Safe and sound.”
Chicago.
No.
My entire body tightened. “I’m not going to Chicago.”
His eyebrows rose. “At the request of your family, and out of respect for my own allegiance to the Outfit, it would be unwise for you to stay in New York, and suffer the same fates as your fellow Falcones.”
There was no way I was going back to that city. If I ever went back to Chicago, it was going to be in a body bag.
Or an urn.
Whatever Thaddeo chose—probably the cheaper option of the two.
“I’m not—”
Commotion erupted from the house. Moments later, two large men stepped out, carrying a furious Thaddeo between them. Still in his pajamas, he looked pitifully weak compared to Konstantin, but even if he was dressed in the world’s finest suit and tie, Thaddeo would never be able to exude the Bratva boss’s natural power.
“Thaddeo,” Konstantin greeted, his attention shifting away from me. That didn’t mean I was free to run; the pit bull he called Roman still watched me. “It has been too long.”
Thaddeo spat at him. “Go to hell, you Russian bastard.”
Konstantin pursed his lips at Thaddeo’s actions. “Is that how you want to die, Don Falcone? Saliva dripping from your lips?” He straightened his cuffs. “How the mighty Falcones have fallen.”
“You will never be welcomed at the table,” Thaddeo heaved, a last clawing attempt to get under Konstantin’s skin. “You and your filthy kind cannot