The Butcher’s Angel (The Falco Dynasty #2)

Chapter One

The man Marco Falco had been a year ago—the reckless, unbound lieutenant who lived for the thrill of the next syndicate war—was unequivocally dead.

In his place was a man anchored to the earth by a force far stronger than gravity.

The early morning sunlight filtered through the dark velvet drapes of the master suite in the western wing, casting long slivers of gold across the sprawling mattress. The air was cool, smelling faintly of the sea and the expensive, woodsy cologne that clung to the sheets.

Marco braced his weight on his forearms, hovering over his wife.

Raisa Voronina-Falco was still half-asleep; her pale blonde hair splayed across the dark silk pillowcases like spun moonlight.

Her breathing was a slow, even rhythm. For most of his life, Marco had viewed vulnerability as a fatal flaw.

But looking down at the Bratva princess resting so comfortably and securely in his territory, he felt a bone-deep peace that defied logic.

He lowered his head, pressing an open-mouthed, burning kiss to the smooth skin just beneath her jawline.

Raisa let out a soft, fractured sigh, her sea-green eyes fluttering open. She didn't flinch or pull away. Her hands instinctively rose, her knuckles brushing against the corded muscle of his shoulders.

"You stare too much, Italian," she murmured, her morning voice thick and laced with her Russian accent.

"I am worshipping at my own private altar," Marco whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

He didn't give her the opportunity to formulate a retort.

He captured her mouth in a kiss that instantly erased the lingering haze of sleep.

There was nothing tentative about the way Marco Falco loved his wife.

It was a devotion that bordered on the feral.

He kissed her with a bruised, desperate intensity, his hands sliding down the curve of her waist to pull her flush against his chest.

Raisa gasped against his lips, her fingernails biting into his back as the slow heat between them instantly flared into a roaring inferno.

She loved the sheer, unapologetic brutality of his affection.

In a world where she had constantly fought to prove her strength, Marco never asked her to be fragile.

He matched her fire with his own. As his mouth trailed down the long, elegant column of her throat, he left a deliberate, blooming mark of dark crimson against her pale skin.

It was a claiming. A physical, undeniable brand of his devotion.

"Marco," she breathed, her back arching into the mattress as his hands mapped her body with a fierce, possessive strength.

"You are mine," he vowed against her collarbone, his breath hot against her skin. "Every breath. Every heartbeat. Mine."

"Show me," she demanded softly, her hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him back up to meet her eyes.

He did. Their intimacy was a torrential, breathless collision—a beautiful, chaotic war of dominance and surrender that left them both dismantled.

Marco worshipped her with a physical intensity that left her gasping, anchoring her to the mattress and demanding every ounce of her focus until the world outside their bedroom ceased to exist. When they finally collapsed back against the pillows, chests heaving in the quiet room, Raisa rested her head against his shoulder, running her fingers tracing over the faint scars on his chest blissfully consumed.

Two hours later, the quiet peace of the western wing was traded for the vibrant, echoing chaos of the grand dining room.

The mahogany table was laden with silver carafes of espresso, platters of fresh fruit, and warm, flakey pastries.

It had been nearly twelve months since Lorenzo and Marco had stood at the altar of San Francesco, and the anniversary of those dual vows had settled the entire estate into a golden era of syndicate stability.

Well, mostly stable.

Marco pulled out a chair for Raisa, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her head before taking the seat beside her. Across the table, Lorenzo sat next to Roselia, looking remarkably tense for a man who had spent the last year in a state of domestic bliss.

"I am simply asking for a perimeter update," Renzo said, narrowing his eyes at his wife, who was calmly buttering a piece of toast. "Casimir informed me that the guard rotations on the southern docks were altered at midnight. Without my authorization."

Roselia took a slow, delicate bite of her toast. She exchanged a brief, unrepentant look with Raisa.

"The rotations were inefficient, Lorenzo," Roselia stated smoothly. "The men were spending too much time overlapping in the blind spots near the cargo bays. Raisa and I reviewed the blueprints. We shifted the patrol intervals to cover the loading zones more effectively."

"You restructured my entire dock security detail," Renzo clarified, his jaw ticking, though the amusement in his dark eyes betrayed his stern tone. "Over a glass of wine."

"It took two glasses, actually," Raisa chimed in, sipping her black coffee. "Your lieutenants are remarkably predictable. We did them a favor."

Marco rubbed his forehead, exchanging a deeply pained look with his older brother.

The bond that had formed between Roselia and Raisa was an unbreakable fortress.

The two women operated on a wavelength of pure, synchronized ferocity.

When they put their heads together, the resulting tactical maneuvers were flawless, brilliant, and deeply anxiety-inducing for the men who nominally ran the empire.

"They are unionizing against us," Marco muttered to Renzo. "We have lost control of the syndicate."

"You never had control, brother," a dry, raspy voice interjected from the doorway.

Enzo Falco shuffled into the dining room, moving with a careful, deliberate stiffness.

The youngest Falco brother had lost significant weight during his weeks in the intensive care unit, and though the color had returned to his face, he leaned on a polished wooden cane.

The catastrophic shotgun blast to his chest had nearly ended his life two months prior, and the road to recovery was paved with agonizing physical therapy.

"Sit down before you fall down, Enzo," Roselia ordered, her voice softening instantly as she stood up to pull out a chair for him.

"I am perfectly capable of pulling out my own chair, Ro," Enzo grumbled, though he sank into the seat with a poorly concealed sigh of relief. He leaned his cane against the table.

Bruno, who had been sleeping near the fireplace, immediately trotted over. The Cane Corso rested his blocky head gently against Enzo’s uninjured thigh, letting out a soft huff.

Enzo scratched the beast behind the ears. "At least the dog respects my independence."

"The dog is waiting for you to drop prosciutto," Raisa corrected, offering Enzo a warm, affectionately mocking smile.

Before Enzo could fire back a retort, the doors opened. Casimir Valente stepped into the dining room, carrying a silver tray. Resting in the center of the tray was a thick, oversized envelope crafted from cream-colored cardstock, sealed with a dark crimson wax stamp bearing a familiar crest.

"Diplomatic courier, Don Falco," Casimir announced, setting the tray gently on the table in front of Renzo. "It arrived at the gates five minutes ago. Cleared security."

Renzo picked up the envelope, his thumb running over the embossed wax. A two-headed eagle. The Bratva.

He broke the seal, pulling out the thick, gilded invitation. The script was elegant, flowing Cyrillic, accompanied by a pristine Italian translation. Renzo read the cardstock in silence, his expression unreadable, before sliding it across the polished mahogany toward Raisa.

Raisa picked it up. Her sea-green eyes scanned the text, a sudden, genuine smile breaking across her features.

"Sasha," she breathed, looking up at Marco. "My brother is getting married."

"Aleksandr?" Marco asked, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "The heir is finally settling down? Who is the bride?"

"Katerina Volkov," Raisa answered, tracing the names with her fingertip. "Daughter of the St. Petersburg faction. It is a political merger for my father. The wedding is in six weeks. In Moscow."

"A Bratva royal wedding," Enzo mused, reaching for a pastry. "I can only imagine the sheer volume of vodka and concealed weapons that will be in attendance."

Renzo leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. The geopolitical implications of the Voronin heir securing a northern alliance were vast, but the immediate logistical problem was glaring.

"The invitation extends to the entire family," Renzo stated, looking around the table.

He sighed, the mantle of the Don settling over his shoulders.

"But the timing is disastrous. The negotiations with the Sicilian families are entering the final phase next month.

If I leave Italy, the Sicilians will interpret it as a slight, and the port agreements will collapse. "

"I cannot travel either," Enzo added, gesturing vaguely to his chest. "My doctors would have a collective aneurysm if I tried to survive a Russian winter with half a functioning lung."

Roselia frowned, looking at her husband. "I need to stay to oversee the new security implementations at the warehouses. We cannot leave the territory unsupervised."

Raisa looked down at the invitation, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features.

It was dangerous, ruthless, and steeped in blood, but Moscow was still her home.

Sasha was the brother who had taught her how to throw a knife.

She wanted to be there. But she understood the mechanics of the syndicate; the empire always came first.

"It is fine," Raisa said smoothly, schooling her features into a mask of polite indifference. "I will send a gift via secure courier. Sasha will understand the political constraints."

"You are doing no such thing," Marco interrupted.