take this territory. It has belonged to La Cosa Nostra for decades.”
“We already have,” said Konstantin. He slipped his hand to the back of his trousers, pulling out a gun. It sparkled in the growing morning light, vulgar against the colorful flowers and mowed lawns.
My stomach tightened.
Thaddeo paled at the gun but did not beg. His gaze slid to me. I watched as he noticed my unharmed stature, how I was surrounded by Russian men.
His nostrils flared. “You traitorous puttana!”
At least I’m not a dead puttana, I thought.
“That’s enough of that,” Konstantin said, voice hard. He cocked the gun. “Where is the key, Thaddeo?”
Key to what?
Thaddeo bared his teeth. “I’m never going to tell, you filthy bastard. Vaffanculo!”
I briefly glanced at Konstantin, scanning his face for any signs he understood Thaddeo’s Italian curses. Though, I amended, from Thaddeo’s tone, I’m sure he could put it together.
“You are already a dead man, Thaddeo,” Konstantin remarked. “However, what I do to you before sending you to Hell could very well be up to you.”
“Mangia merde e morte!” Thaddeo sneered.
Konstantin looked slightly disappointed with Thaddeo. “Very well.” He passed the gun in between his hands. Calmly, he pointed it at Thaddeo’s head.
I expected some final words, one last attempt to draw information from him but the gunshot echoed through the morning, silencing the baby birds and breeze.
Thaddeo slumped to the ground, hole in forehead.
Despite the act being so atrocious, Konstantin had dealt with it cleanly and civilly.
A shame, I thought, if it had been me, I would’ve slowly taken Thaddeo apart until I could roll up his skin and sort his bones into piles.
Konstantin tucked the gun back into his holster, smoothing his blazer over it. He turned to go.
One of the men asked him something in Russian.
“No,” Konstantin said in reply. “There is nothing important left in there.” He looked over his shoulder to me, gesturing forward with a hand. “Come now, Mrs Falcone. Your flight to Chicago awaits.”
“I’m not going back to Chicago,” I replied. “I’m staying here.”
“If you stay here, you will be arrested,” he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, sirens started in the distance. “Ah, they’re early.” His eyes met mine, eyebrow arching gracefully. “What will it be? Us or them?”
I stepped forward.
2
Elena Falcone
Squeezed between two Russian gangsters, I sat facing Konstantin Tarkhanov. Even in the back seat of the car, being driven around like a child, Konstantin carried himself with an untouchable arrogance. It felt incorrect to say that anyone else in this vehicle was in charge, driver included.
If the driver wanted to take us off the side of the road, it would be at Konstantin’s command.
Konstantin cast his light brown eyes up to mine, amusement sparking in them. He had been flipping through the newspaper for the long drive, casual and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed a coup d’état. Like gunpowder residue wasn’t staining his cuff links.
“Mrs Falcone?” he prompted. “Can I offer you anything? Water, vodka?”
I felt my features twist into a scowl before I could stop them. “I don’t want anything from you.”
He folded his newspaper in one smooth movement. “That’s not true, is it? You want me to allow you to stay in New York.”
“It doesn’t have to be New York.” It just can’t be Chicago.
Konstantin smiled briefly but didn’t say anything else. I didn’t look away from him; only an idiot would turn their back to a predator.
The Pakhan was content to watch me, too, it seemed. His eyes roamed over me, taking in the tangled hair and wrinkled dressing gown. Compared to him, I looked half-wild. But the only reaction he showed was a raise of his eyebrows when he took in my ink-stained hands.
For as long as I could remember, I had been writing on myself. It used to drive my mother insane when she would spot words and drawings coating my arms and legs. Hours I spent in the bath, just being scrubbed and scolded, but it never stopped me.
My mother didn’t understand what it was like to have thoughts overflowing. If I didn’t write them down, I would forget them. Thaddeo hadn’t liked it either. He called it juvenile and a one-way ticket to ink poisoning, but even the threat of getting sick hadn’t been able to stop me.
I expected Konstantin to say something. To have an opinion about it. Men had opinions about everything, especially regarding women’s bodies, but he merely regarded me for a moment before going back to his newspaper.