Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire #1) - Bree Porter
Part One -
Apples, Bullets and Teeth
“All things are poison and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not a poison.”
– Paracelsus
Prologue
Konstantin Tarkhanov
15 years old
I passed the toy spider to my niece. Her grabby fingers latched onto it, waving it happily in the air.
“Kostya,” barked my eldest brother.
I lifted my head, raising my eyebrows at my brother. He gave me a warning look, his way of telling me to pay attention and stop doting on his daughter.
Usually, I would have been paying attention. Coming home from school and being invited into a meeting before my backpack hit the ground was a common occurrence—one I even anticipated. However, this meeting was not holding my interest; mainly because it involved old, unimaginative men discussing the future of Moscow.
The only saving grace that kept me from falling asleep was Natasha, my niece. The two-year-old was sitting in one of the chairs, surrounded by her toys. For a child, she was unnaturally quiet. Very unlike the other children in our family who required constant care and attention.
It was her reserved nature that her unstable mother said was why she had tried to drown her at a few weeks old, but it was also the reason Father took her to every meeting. Sometimes he even pretended Natasha was in charge, letting her order the men around.
Father had never been so indulgent with his own children.
Even now, my father, the Pakhan of the Tarkhanov Bratva, sent my brother and I a cold look from the head of the table for talking, but patted Natasha’s head affectionately. She smiled around her pacifier.
I drew my attention back to the meeting.
“The Camorra has erupted into a civil war. This is our time to move into Campania—”
Someone interrupted, his voice harsh. “What use would we have for leftover Camorra territory? Do you know how to farm grapes, Viktor?”
Shouts erupted.
I almost wished I was back at school.
When you’re Pakhan, you won’t let your meetings fall into such chaos.
The thought came to me quietly and unbidden. I wasn’t next in line to be king—I wasn’t even second or third in line. If I wanted to rule this Bratva, I would have to slaughter my way through half of the hierarchy and my father’s men. Then who would be left to rule over?
If I expressed such an idea, my father would cut my throat from ear to ear.
If Father didn’t, my brothers would happily.
Like a litter of pups, my brothers and I had been stepping on each other to push ourselves up since day one. Every move we made against each other had an agenda, a power play attached to it. It was very different in comparison to my relationship with Artyom, and our brotherly camaraderie.
I peered down at Natasha once again. She had grabbed a plush toy snake, squeezing its head in her chubby hands.
When the yells rose to vicious shouts, Natasha peered at me for reassurance. I smiled at her. She goofily smiled back.
“We need more investments in the oil industry,” Feodor Rodzyanko reasoned. “That is where the money is.”
“Bah! Listen to you all. We need to invest, to build relationships. You sound like politicians!” sniped else someone. “We are Bratva, not oligarchs.”
The arguing grew more intense until my father pounded on the table, the sound resonating to the back of the room.
“Silence!” he barked. “We will not debase ourselves by acting like the government. For decades, we have survived like this and we will continue to do so for many more to come.”
You’re wrong, Father, I thought. Those who do not adapt to change get swept away by the currents of time.
And I planned on remaining for centuries.
After my time was done on this earth, there would be no memory of me that didn’t recall my majesty. My sons, and grandsons, and great grandsons would carry my power in their blood and souls, granting me immortality.
My brothers nodded in unison. Though Father could’ve said the sky was yellow and they would’ve agreed.
Even his more liberal men concurred with my father’s final say on the topic. There was no room for second-guessing or challenging. Once Father had made his decision, there was nothing anyone could say or do to change it—even if it was a terrible choice.
I knew not to say anything. I knew to keep my mouth shut but my lips still parted, and I said, “The old ways are not working. We need to be smarter.”