Chapter Six #2
The city of Moscow was a beautiful, freezing labyrinth of history and survival. Raisa and Marco took a car to the edge of the historic town square, leaving the vehicle and their discreet security detail a few blocks back so they could simply walk.
The air was bitterly cold, the sky a bruised, purple as the early evening shadows began to lengthen. Snow crunched beneath their boots. Marco had bundled Raisa into a thick wool scarf, his arm wrapped securely, protectively around her shoulders as they navigated the bustling, neon-lit streets.
"You are vibrating with anger," Marco murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. "I can feel it through three layers of wool."
"She insulted my brother," Raisa muttered, leaning into his warmth. "I know Sasha is ruthless. I know he is a killer. But he is a Voronin. He would have protected her. He would have treated her with the respect owed to his wife. For her to paint him as a mindless beast..."
"She is a parasite, Raisa," Marco interrupted gently. "Women like that project their own ugliness onto the people around them. Do not let her steal your peace."
Raisa let out a long, foggy breath, squeezing his hand. "You are right. I am sorry. I brought you out here to relax, not to listen to me fume."
They turned down a narrower, cobblestone side street, moving away from the crowded tourist areas and into the older, more industrial sector of the square.
The sudden, sharp sound of breaking glass echoed off the brick walls.
Marco and Raisa stopped simultaneously. Their syndicate instincts flared to life in perfect unison, the casual romance instantly hardening into tactical readiness.
A muffled, desperate cry cut through the freezing air, coming from a narrow, shadowed alleyway tucked between a closed bakery and a derelict apartment building.
Marco didn't speak. He simply locked eyes with Raisa, gave a sharp nod, and moved silently toward the mouth of the alley, his hand resting casually over the lapel of his coat where his suppressed weapon was holstered.
Raisa flanked him effortlessly, slipping a weighted karambit blade from her sleeve into the palm of her glove.
They peered around the frozen brick corner.
Deep in the shadows, three tattooed street thugs had cornered a young woman against a chain-link fence. The snow around them was disturbed by a struggle. A cardboard box of stolen bread and bruised fruit lay overturned on the ground.
The woman was backed against the wire, her hands raised protectively over her face. She was incredibly young, perhaps in her early twenties, dressed in a threadbare, oversized men's coat that did nothing to protect her from the cold. A vivid, bleeding bruise was already forming on her cheekbone.
"I told you, they are gone!" the woman cried out, her voice trembling but surprisingly defiant. "They are just children! Leave them alone!"
"You cost us a lot of money, bitch," the largest of the thugs snarled in Russian, grabbing a fistful of her dark hair and yanking her forward. "You want to play the martyr for a pack of street rats? Then you can pay off their debt."
The thug raised a brass-knuckled fist.
He never completed the swing.
Marco Falco moved with a speed that defied his massive frame. He didn't draw his weapon; discharging a firearm in a public sector would bring the local police, complicating the Bratva’s operational security. Fists would do perfectly fine.
Marco closed the distance in three silent strides.
He grabbed the back of the lead thug’s thick leather jacket, spun him around, and delivered a devastating, bone-shattering right hook directly to the man’s jaw.
The thug’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he hit the frozen concrete like a felled tree.
The other two men spun around in shock.
Before the second man could even raise his hands, Raisa was there.
She didn't use the blade. She dropped her weight, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him with a brutal kick to his knee joint.
As he collapsed forward, she delivered a surgical, precise strike to the base of his neck, sending him unconscious into a snowbank.
The third thug, realizing he was suddenly outmatched by a pair of ghosts, pulled a switchblade and lunged blindly at Marco.
Marco simply sidestepped the chaotic thrust, caught the man’s wrist, twisted it until a sickening snap echoed in the alley, and drove his knee directly into the man’s sternum.
The thug collapsed, wheezing and clutching his broken arm, scrambling frantically backward into the darkness until he disappeared down the alley.
The violent encounter had lasted less than ten seconds.
Marco straightened his coat, rolling his broad shoulders. He glanced at Raisa to ensure she was unharmed. She hadn't even lost her breath.
Raisa turned her attention to the young woman pressed against the chain-link fence.
The woman was sliding slowly down the wire, clutching her bleeding cheek, her chest heaving with terror.
As the dim streetlight caught her face, Raisa was struck by her appearance.
She was extremely, almost unearthly beautiful.
She had wide, silver-gray eyes and delicate, angelic features that were unsuited for the brutal streets of Moscow.
Raisa stepped forward, keeping her hands visible and open, her voice dropping into a soft, gentle register she rarely used.
"It is over," Raisa said in Russian, crouching down a few feet away from the trembling girl. "They are gone. You are safe now."
The young woman flinched, looking from the unconscious bodies in the snow to the stunning blonde woman speaking to her.
Then, her silver eyes shifted upward, locking onto the towering, dark-haired Italian man standing behind Raisa.
Marco was tall, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the streetlamp, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter with focus.