Chapter Five #2
Sitting across from her, perched delicately on the edge of a matching chair, was Katerina Volkov.
Katerina had sought Raisa out under the guise of sisterly bonding.
She wore a pristine, pale pink wool dress, her makeup flawless, projecting an aura of desperate sweetness.
Internally, Katerina was hunting. She needed to understand her enemy.
She needed to find the cracks in the Bratva princess’s armor so she could shatter her and claim the handsome Italian for herself.
"It must be so incredibly difficult for you, Raisa," Katerina sighed, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. She leaned forward; her wide eyes perfectly trained on Raisa’s face.
"Moving so far away from your family. Being surrounded by all those loud, violent Italian men.
Do you not feel terribly lonely in Naples? "
Raisa took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her sea-green eyes devoid of warmth. She was not a sheltered princess. She had interrogated rival lieutenants in blood-stained basements; she could see through Katerina’s flimsy, saccharine probing as if the girl were made of glass.
"Naples is beautiful," Raisa replied smoothly, her voice a cool, detached monotone. "And the men are quite disciplined. I do not find it difficult at all."
"But surely," Katerina pressed, her manicured fingers twisting a pearl necklace around her throat, "surely Marco is... well, he is a Capo. He must be so demanding. So controlling. It must be exhausting to be married to a man who lives such a dangerous life. Does he ever... frighten you?"
Raisa lowered her teacup to its saucer with a sharp, definitive clink.
She looked at the Volkov heiress, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through her icy exterior. The sheer, blinding arrogance of this girl, sitting in a Bratva stronghold, trying to project weakness onto a woman who carried twin throwing knives in her boots, was almost comical.
Before Raisa could formulate a sufficiently devastating reply, the glass doors of the conservatory swung open.
"Raisa!"
Two teenage girls burst into the room in a flurry of winter coats and giggles. Zoya and Zara Volkov, Katerina’s fifteen-year-old twin sisters, had different priorities than their eldest sibling. They did not care about fairy tales or manipulation.
They were star-struck by Raisa Voronina.
To the twins, Raisa was a living, breathing mythological creature. She was the legendary Bratva daughter who had refused the veil, who had trained with the Spetsnaz, and who had married into the Italian syndicate. She was a goddess, and they worshipped her.
"Raisa, is it true?" Zoya demanded, rushing forward to drop onto the settee beside the formidable blonde woman, ignoring her older sister. "Dmitri said you once dislocated a man’s shoulder in a training ring because he insulted your stance. Did you really do it?"
Raisa’s icy demeanor thawed instantly. She had a soft spot for the fierce, unrestrained energy of youth. A genuine smile touched her lips. "I did not dislocate it, Zoya. I merely hyperextended the elbow. He was being incredibly rude."
Zara gasped, her eyes wide with unadulterated awe. "Can you teach us?"
Katerina stiffened, her face flushing with embarrassed fury. "Zara, Zoya, behave yourselves! Stop asking such barbaric questions. We are ladies."
"Oh, hush, Katya," Zoya waved a dismissive hand at her older sister. She turned back to Raisa, her voice dropping into a dramatic, conspiratorial whisper. "We also want to know about your husband. He is so handsome. Does he really let you carry weapons? The guards said he is terrified of you."
Raisa let out a rich, throaty laugh, the sound echoing beautifully in the glass-domed room.
The doors opened again, and Marco Falco stepped into the conservatory.
He had shed his coat, wearing a dark, tailored dress shirt that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders.
He walked across the room with a fluid, predatory grace, his eyes instantly locking onto his wife, ignoring Katerina’s sharp intake of breath.
"I am not terrified of her," Marco announced smoothly, his deep voice drawing a chorus of blushing giggles from the twins. He stopped behind the settee, resting his large hands gently on Raisa’s shoulders. "I simply possess a highly developed sense of self-preservation."
Zara leaned forward, practically vibrating with romantic excitement. "But Dmitri said you follow her around like a guard dog. He said you treat her like a queen."
Marco didn't laugh. He didn't brush the comment away as a joke.
He leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of Raisa’s pale blonde hair. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting the awestruck stares of the fifteen-year-old twins, though his words were a vow meant for the entire room.
"That is because she is my queen," Marco stated, his voice devoid of arrogance, laced only with a breathtaking, unyielding devotion. "And a king’s only duty is to serve his queen."