Chapter Three
Objectively speaking, Marco Falco was a breathtaking specimen of a man.
He had inherited the best of the Falco bloodline—a towering, muscled frame, dark, perpetually tousled hair, and a sharp, aristocratic jawline that looked as though it had been carved from Roman marble.
For years, before the gravity of the syndicate had truly anchored him, Marco had been the careless, smiling prince of the Neapolitan underworld.
He possessed a devastating, effortless charm that disarmed enemies and made women swoon.
He had left a long, complicated trail of broken hearts along the Italian coast, a man who belonged to the thrill of the moment and nothing else.
But walking through the freezing, snow-swept streets of Moscow, anyone who looked at the handsome Italian lieutenant could instantly see that his days of careless wandering were, unequivocally dead.
Marco Falco’s entire universe had narrowed down to a single, fierce focal point. All of that charm, all of that intense, burning focus, was distilled into a laser beam aimed solely at the woman walking beside him.
The sprawling, opulent wedding of Aleksandr Voronin and Katerina Volkov was still four weeks away.
The Voronin stronghold was a chaotic hive of florists, caterers, and political posturing.
Seeking a reprieve from the suffocating wedding logistics, Raisa had taken her husband's hand and pulled him out into the city.
The sky over Moscow was a pale, icy blue, and the biting wind whipped through the historic streets, sending flurries of white powder dancing over the cobblestones. They were walking through the Arbat district, wrapped in dark cashmere coats.
Raisa bumped her shoulder against his, pointing a gloved finger toward a narrow, unassuming storefront tucked between two grand, imperial-style buildings.
"That bakery," Raisa said, a rare, nostalgic softness entering her voice.
"When Dmitri and I were young, we would bribe the perimeter guards to look the other way so we could scale the garden wall.
We would run all the way down this street just to buy their honey cakes before Mama realized we were missing. "
Marco stopped, turning to look at the frosted glass of the bakery window. He smiled, a genuine, unguarded expression that transformed his severe features. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side to shield her from the biting wind.
"You? Scaling a wall for a pastry?" Marco teased gently, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "I find it hard to believe the shadow ninja had a sweet tooth."
"I was ten years old, Marco," Raisa laughed, the sound bright and musical against the dull roar of the city traffic. She leaned into his warmth, resting her head against his shoulder. "Even assassins appreciate a good honey cake."
"Then we are buying out the entire store," Marco declared, turning his body to usher her toward the door.
"We are doing no such thing, you arrogant Italian, we just ate," Raisa protested, though she made no real effort to stop him as he pulled her out of the pedestrian walkway.
Marco pinned her gently against the brick wall beside the bakery entrance.
He didn't care about the biting cold, the passing crowds, or the armed Spetsnaz detail shadowing them discreetly from a block away.
He reached up with a leather-gloved hand, gently brushing a few stray flakes of snow from her pale eyelashes.
"I would buy you the entire city if you asked for it," Marco murmured, his dark eyes dropping to her lips with a consuming adoration.
"I do not want the city," Raisa whispered back, her sea-green eyes locked onto his, the fierce, Bratva princess melting under his gaze. "I just want you."
Marco lowered his head, capturing her mouth in a slow, lingering kiss right there on the snowy street.
It was a kiss steeped in unyielding devotion—the kind of romantic, indulgent affection that made the frigid Russian air feel like a summer evening in Naples.
He held her as if she were the most precious, fragile thing in the world, a stark contrast to the violence they both wielded in the shadows.
Less than fifty yards away, behind the second-story glass of a high-end, exclusive designer boutique, Katerina Volkov was standing perfectly still.
The boutique was closed to the public for her private fitting.
Two anxious seamstresses were kneeling at her feet, meticulously pinning the hem of an impossibly lavish ivory silk gown.
Katerina’s mother sat on a velvet sofa nearby, sipping champagne and discussing floral arrangements with a wedding planner.
But Katerina heard none of it. Her eyes were fixed on the window, staring out at the snow-covered street below.
She had been weeping internally for weeks.
She felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter, traded by her father to secure the Volkov family’s standing in St. Petersburg.
Aleksandr Voronin was a nightmare—a cold mob boss who spoke to her in clipped, commanding tones.
She didn't want to be the wife of a thug. She wanted a fairy tale.
And then, she saw him.
Through the frosted glass, Katerina watched the tall, devastatingly handsome man standing near the bakery.
He looked like something carved from an Italian Renaissance painting.
He possessed the height, the dark, brooding features, and the effortless, commanding posture of a prince.
But it wasn't just his physical beauty that paralyzed her; it was the way he was looking at the woman in his arms.
Katerina watched him brush the snow from the blonde woman’s face. She watched the tender, fiercely protective way he pulled her into his coat, and the slow, breathtaking romance of the kiss they shared.
A violent jolt of pure, unadulterated desire struck Katerina’s chest.
That, Katerina thought, her breath catching in her throat as she pressed her manicured hand against the cold glass of the window. That is what I am supposed to have.
She didn't know the man's name. She had never seen him before in her sheltered life. And she certainly did not recognize the tall, blonde woman he was holding. Katerina’s mind, poisoned by entitlement and immense wealth, quickly categorized the scene to fit her own desperate narrative.
The blonde woman was beautiful, certainly, but to Katerina, she was nothing more than an obstacle. A mistress, Katerina decided instantly, her chin lifting with aristocratic arrogance. A fleeting amusement. A woman who can be bought.
The Volkov family possessed billions in offshore accounts.
If a simple bribe wasn't enough to make the blonde woman walk away, Katerina knew her father employed men who could make a peasant disappear into the icy Neva River without a trace. Money and power solved every inconvenience in Katerina’s world.
Her heart began to race, a frantic, desperate hope blooming in her chest. She wasn't going to marry the Russian thug.
She was going to find out who this beautiful, dark-haired Italian was, and she was going to make him fall in love with her.
He would be her savior. He would sweep her away from this frozen nightmare and give her the fairy tale she so rightfully deserved.
"Katerina, darling, please stand still," the seamstress pleaded nervously from the floor.
Katerina didn't even look down. Her eyes remained locked on the handsome stranger until he finally broke the kiss, laughing at something the blonde woman said, and escorted her into the bakery.
The plan crystallized in Katerina’s mind.
First, she needed to find a way to sever the alliance with Sasha Voronin.
It would cause a political earthquake, but she didn't care.
She was a Volkov. She would simply refuse.
And once she was free, she would find the Italian god from the street, and she would claim him for herself.
***
Hours later, the sun dipped below the Moscow skyline, plunging the city into a freezing, starlit darkness.
The Voronin estate was a fortress of warmth and firelight. After a lively, boisterous family dinner filled with vodka and the booming laughter of Sergei and Sasha, Marco and Raisa finally retreated to the sanctuary of their private guest wing.
The mahogany doors clicked shut, and the metallic slide of the deadbolt locking into place echoed in the quiet suite.
The room was vast, heated by a roaring fire in a stone hearth. The only light came from the dancing amber flames, casting long, intimate shadows across the velvet furnishings and the sprawling, dark-wood bed.
Marco shrugged out of his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. He loosened his silk tie, pulling it from his collar, his dark eyes instantly locking onto his wife.
Raisa was standing near the edge of the bed, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair.
The pale blonde strands tumbled in a beautiful, chaotic cascade over her shoulders.
She turned to look at him, her sea-green eyes catching the firelight, burning with a slow heat that instantly made Marco’s blood rush.
He crossed the room with the slow, deliberate stalk of a predator.
"You were quiet during dinner," Marco murmured, stopping just inches from her. He reached out, his large hands resting on her waist.
"I was watching my brother attempt to explain flower arrangements to my father," Raisa replied softly, a faint smile touching her lips as she reached up to unbutton the collar of Marco’s shirt. "It was highly entertaining. But my mind was elsewhere."
"Where?" Marco whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that vibrated straight through her.
"Here," she answered, her hands sliding over the warm, solid expanse of his chest. "Behind locked doors."
Marco let out a low, ragged groan. The effortless, indulgent romance of the afternoon melted away, replaced by the raw, consuming devotion that defined their nights.
He didn't hesitate. Marco’s hands tightened on her waist, lifting her effortlessly off the floor and backing her into the wooden post of the bed. Raisa gasped as her back hit the solid wood, her legs automatically wrapping around his hips as he crushed his mouth against hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a brutal, overwhelming claiming—a physical manifestation of a love so deep it bordered on the feral.
Marco kissed her as if she were the very oxygen he required to survive, his tongue sweeping past her lips to taste the lingering heat of the vodka and the intoxicating essence of his wife.
Raisa matched his intensity measure for measure.
Her hands tangled fiercely in his dark hair, pulling him closer, her fingernails biting into his scalp.
She loved the sheer, unapologetic power he wielded in their intimacy.
Marco worshipped her, but he worshipped her with a fierce, dominating strength that left her breathless.
He broke the kiss, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jawline, moving to the sensitive skin of her throat.
"Mine," Marco rasped against her pulse point, his teeth lightly grazing her collarbone, leaving a dark, blooming mark of passion against her pale skin.
"Always," Raisa gasped, her head falling back against the wooden post, her heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs.
Marco set her gently on her feet, his hands moving with efficient, tearing urgency as he stripped the dark silk blouse from her shoulders.
He looked down at her; his eyes dilated with a hunger that had only grown stronger over the past year.
He didn't see a political alliance. He didn't see the shadow ninja.
He saw the only woman who had ever brought his chaotic soul to a state of peace.
He backed her toward the mattress, following her down into the tangled down comforters.
Every touch was an act of aggressive worship. His hands mapped the curves of her body with agonizing slowness, his touch possessing a commanding weight that demanded her total surrender. He held her wrists pinned above her head, his dark eyes burning into hers as he lowered his body over hers.
"Tell me," Marco demanded softly, his voice thick with a desperate, overwhelming need, hovering just above her lips.
"I am yours, Marco," Raisa swore, her voice fractured, her chest heaving beneath his. "I am yours."
The air in the room seemed to ignite. When they came together, it was an explosive, breathtaking collision.
Marco moved with a powerful, relentless rhythm, his control fracturing under the sheer weight of his love for her.
He held her anchored to the bed, kissing her deeply, swallowing the breathless, broken cries that fell from her lips.
Raisa arched against him, consumed by the overwhelming sensory overload of his devotion. He branded her body with his touch, a fierce, protective possession that made her feel more secure than she had ever felt behind the walls of a fortress.
They shattered together in the quiet darkness of the suite, a torrential wave of heat and exhaustion crashing over them.
Marco collapsed against her, his chest heaving as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, trying to steady his ragged breathing. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his side, tangling their legs beneath the blankets.
Raisa lay with her head resting on his chest, her fingers lazily tracing the silver signet ring on his hand. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting a warm, peaceful light over the tangled sheets.
"You are going to be exhausted for the security briefing tomorrow," Raisa murmured, a soft, immensely satisfied smile touching her lips.
Marco chuckled, the sound vibrating deeply in his chest. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to the top of her head, tightening his grip on her waist.
"Let Sasha handle the security briefing," Marco whispered into the dark, his eyes drifting shut. "I have exactly where I need to be."
Safe, fiercely loved, and blissfully at peace, the Italian lieutenant fell asleep in the heart of Moscow, unaware that a desperate, delusional storm was gathering just beyond the walls of their sanctuary.