Chapter One #2
The entire table looked at him. Marco was leaning forward; his dark eyes fixed on his wife with unyielding determination.
"It is your brother’s wedding, Raisa," Marco stated, his voice brooking zero arguments. "You want to be there. Therefore, you are going."
"Marco, the logistics—" Raisa started.
"To hell with the logistics," Marco cut her off. He looked up at his older brother. "Renzo, you and Roselia hold the fortress. Manage the Sicilians. I will represent the Falco syndicate in Moscow. I am not letting my wife travel back to Russia alone."
Renzo studied his lieutenant. He saw the fierce, protective devotion radiating from Marco’s posture. The Don gave a slow, decisive nod.
"Agreed," Renzo commanded. "Marco and Raisa will attend. It will demonstrate the strength of our alliance to the northern factions, and it keeps the leadership anchored here in Naples."
Raisa looked at Marco, her heart performing a strange stutter in her chest. The casual certainty with which he prioritized her desires over syndicate protocol never failed to leave her breathless.
"Moscow in December," Enzo muttered, shivering dramatically. "Rather you than me, brother. Try not to freeze to death before the reception."
Later that evening, the velvet drapes of their private suite were drawn against the cool Mediterranean night. The fire popped and hissed in the marble hearth, casting a warm, amber glow across the room.
A sleek, black leather duffel bag sat open on the chaise lounge, though neither of them had made any real progress in packing.
Raisa stood in front of the vanity mirror, dressed in a loose silk robe, slowly brushing the tangles from her pale hair. She was staring at her own reflection, but her mind was two thousand miles away, navigating the icy, treacherous halls of the Voronin stronghold.
She felt the heat of him before he even touched her.
Marco stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet, sharp scent of her perfume.
"You are quiet tonight," Marco murmured, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection of the mirror.
"I am simply calculating," Raisa replied softly, leaning her weight against him. "My family’s estate during a major merger is... complicated. The house will be full of northern lieutenants. Men who still believe a woman’s place is sitting silently at the end of the table."
Marco’s jaw tightened visibly in the mirror. His hands flattened against her stomach, holding her securely.
"If any man in that stronghold looks at you with disrespect," Marco promised, his voice a dark whisper, "I will rip his tongue out of his mouth and hand it to him on a silver platter."
Raisa smiled, a genuine, radiant expression that melted the ice in her eyes. She turned in his arms, looping her arms around his neck.
"I know you would," she whispered, rising slightly on her toes to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "But you do not need to fight my battles, Marco. I am perfectly capable of handling the northern factions."
"I know you are," Marco agreed, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. He looked down at her with a tenderness that eclipsed his violent promises. "But you don't have to handle them alone. Not anymore. I am with you, Raisa. In Naples, in Moscow, in hell. You do not stand alone."
The sincerity in his words struck the very core of her soul.
Raisa leaned her forehead against his chest, closing her eyes as a blissful peace washed over her.
For twenty-five years, she had fought tooth and nail to survive the brutal ecosystem of her bloodline.
Now, wrapped in the arms of a man who worshipped the ground she walked on, she finally felt safe.
"Come to bed, Italian," she murmured, pulling him toward the shadows of the mattress. "The packing can wait until morning."
***
Two thousand miles away, the Voronin estate loomed like a fortress of stone and iron against the freezing, snow-covered landscape of the Moscow outskirts.
Inside the grand, cavernous main hall, the air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasting meats, and expensive vodka.
The stronghold was buzzing with frantic, disciplined energy.
Servants hurried across the marble floors, coordinating the arrival of caterers, florists, and security details for the upcoming nuptials.
In the opulent, fur-lined study overlooking the frozen courtyard, Sergei Voronin stood by the windows, holding a crystal glass of vodka.
The wooden doors opened, and Yelena Voronin stepped into the room, her posture immaculate, a faint, pleased smile touching her usually stoic features.
"The courier just delivered the wire from Naples," Yelena announced, stepping up beside her husband.
Sergei turned, raising a thick, graying eyebrow. "And? Will the Italians make an appearance, or is Don Falco too frightened to leave his warm coastline?"
"Lorenzo is remaining in Italy to secure the southern ports," Yelena replied smoothly. "But Marco is coming. He is bringing Raisa."
At the mention of his sister’s name, the door adjoining the study clicked open. Aleksandr "Sasha" Voronin stepped into the room. The heir to the Bratva empire was a tall, lean muscled man with eyes as cold as a frozen lake, but a sudden, genuine warmth fractured his severe expression.
"Raisa is coming?" Sasha asked, crossing the room to stand beside his parents.
"Yes," Yelena confirmed, her smile widening slightly. "Her husband refused to allow her to travel alone. They arrive on a private charter next week."
Sergei took a slow sip of his vodka, looking back out at the falling snow. A year ago, he had traded his daughter to a foreign syndicate to secure a border. He had expected the Italian lieutenant to treat her as a political hostage, a bargaining chip to be kept in a gilded cage.
But the reports from Naples had painted a vastly different picture. The whispers in the underworld spoke of a Falco Capo who deferred to his wife, who fought beside her, and who guarded her with the feral intensity of a rabid wolf.
"Good," Sergei rumbled, a deep, resonant sound of approval. "Let the northern factions see them. Let them see how the Italians treat a daughter of the Bratva. It will remind Volkov exactly who he is marrying his daughter into."
Sasha smirked, leaning against the desk. "The northern lieutenants won't know what hit them. Raisa has always been a nightmare, and now she is bringing an Italian attack dog with her. The wedding reception is going to be incredibly entertaining."
"Make sure the guest quarters in the east wing are prepared," Yelena instructed her son, her eyes shining with maternal anticipation. "And double the perimeter guards. The Falco lieutenant proved his worth when his brother bled for our family. He is not a guest in this house. He is family."
As the snow began to fall heavier over the Moscow estate, blanketing the violent stronghold in a layer of pristine white, the Voronin family prepared to welcome their daughter home—not as a traded asset, but as a queen returning with her king.