under the pseudonym Helen A. Strindberg.
What is the hierarchies of men to a tree that has stood for thousands of years?
They had been quotes. I had known, deep in my gut, where they were from. But I refused to believe he could know…That someone could know…
“How could you possibly…” Shock had a hold on me, making finishing my sentence hard. “Why…”
Konstantin smiled faintly. “Nearly three years ago, I came across an article. ‘Botany as a weapon: Discussing the past, present and future of poison.’ It was brilliant. I was enamored by the information, and the author. However, when I tried to look for Ms Strindberg, there was no information about her. No other articles, newspaper clippings or even a university.”
I couldn’t manage words. I had kept this secret so close, nursed it as my proudest accomplishment. When I was sold off, beaten and belittled, it was the knowledge of what my brain could achieve that kept me going.
“But then…Olezka got a lead. The name Helen A. Strindberg was a pseudonym, and the real author was a woman by the name of Elena Agostino, based in Chicago.” Konstantin expression turned wistful. “And what would fate have it? But she was a part of the Chicago Outfit, an capo’s orphaned daughter.”
“So, you asked for my hand in marriage.”
“I did. I asked the late Don Piero, but he declined.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I considered many other options. I would seduce you, introduce myself to you in public. Sometimes I even considered damning good alliances and stealing you right from the Outfit. But I didn’t. I waited, I watched.
But then…you were engaged to Thaddeo Falcone. A stupid man whose mind would never hold a candle to your own.” Konstantin cut me a dark look. “It was easy to change my plans. I had planned to take the Lombardis’ territory, but the Falcones offered a much sweeter deal. The first night you were here, I asked Alessandro for your hand in marriage.”
“And what did the don of the Chicago Outfit say?” I asked.
There was nothing compromising in his expression. Only the look of someone who had won. “He said yes.”
I leaned back in my chair, raising my eyebrows. “So, you have asked everyone but me if I want to marry you?”
“Women tend not to have much of a choice,” Konstantin said. “But yes, I would have asked you. Eventually.”
I tilted my head to the side. “You don’t know me, Kon. Not really. There are things I have done…”
“I have done horrific things as well,” he replied. “But I know you, Elena. I know every single part of you. All your intelligence and sarcasm, I know and love. Do you not compare me to those who have turned you away—I am not one of them.”
Love.
The word rattled through my brain. “You don’t know everything,” was all I could say. “There are some parts of me that even I am afraid of. That even I don’t love.”
Konstantin eyes urged me to go on. “I shall be the judge of that.”
“You are too biased,” I said, a glimmer of humor rising in me at his words. “You would let me get off scot free.”
Something animalistic flashed over his features, “Indeed, I would,” he replied, voice low in his chest.
When it became clear Konstantin still wanted to hear some of my secrets, I paused. There were many, and though he knew about my secret life as an academic, that was one of my tamer secrets. The others…
I ran my eyes down his tattoos, taking in the pictures of weapons and the stories of violence that were no doubt attached to them. Scars also lined the skin, wounds from the many battles he had fought.
I was not confessing to a pastor; I was confessing to the Russian Gentleman.
I looked back up to his eyes. His stare had not moved from me, still just as intense and revealing.
“My mother grew foxglove,” I began. “Not a lot of it, just a small pot next to her tomatoes. Her logic was that if a creature came to steal her beautiful vegetables, then they might also take some of the foxglove and die for their crimes.”
Konstantin nodded for me to go on. I could almost see the plant in my mind, the finger-painted pot it had been in, the curved shape of the stem, the vibrant color of the petals.
“My father…” I looked down to my hands. No distinct words could be made, my ink having faded as I had tended