Chapter Six #3
The woman pressed herself harder against the fence, a new wave of apprehension washing over her face. She had spent her life running from violent men; trading three thugs for a man who looked like the god of war did not feel like a rescue.
Raisa noticed the shift in her gaze. She looked back at Marco, offering a faint, reassuring smile, before turning back to the girl.
"Do not be afraid of him," Raisa said gently, reaching out to lightly touch the sleeve of the girl’s oversized coat. "He is my husband. He will not let anything hurt you."
The effect was instantaneous. The word husband, spoken with such unwavering trust by the woman in front of her, seemed to break a spell.
The young woman looked at Marco again, seeing the way his posture softened the moment Raisa spoke to him, and the way his dark eyes remained focused on guarding their flanks, not threatening her.
The woman let out a long, ragged exhale, her shoulders finally dropping as the adrenaline bled out of her system.
"Can you stand?" Raisa asked, offering her hand.
The girl nodded weakly, taking Raisa’s gloved hand and pulling herself up. She winced, swaying slightly as she put weight on her left leg.
"We need to get her out of the cold," Marco stated quietly, stepping forward to support her other side without crowding her. "She is in shock."
"Come with us," Raisa commanded softly, guiding the girl toward the mouth of the alley. "We have a medical wing at our estate. We will patch you up."
The girl didn't argue. She was freezing, battered, and out of options.
Forty minutes later, the grand, polished halls of the Voronin estate absorbed the arrival of the unexpected guest. Marco and Raisa bypassed the formal drawing rooms, leading the girl directly down to the private medical suite in the lower levels.
A trusted Bratva physician quickly cleaned and stitched the laceration on her cheekbone, wrapping a bruised rib and providing her with clean, warm clothes—a soft cashmere sweater and leggings belonging to Raisa.
Once the doctor cleared her, Raisa and Marco sat with her in the quiet recovery room. A tray of hot tea and warm food sat untouched on the table between them.
"Thank you," the young woman finally whispered, her silver eyes reflecting the bright lights of the medical wing. "For stepping in. They... they would have taken me. Or worse."
"What is your name?" Raisa asked, pouring a cup of tea and pressing it gently into the girl’s hands.
"Tamara," she answered, taking a shaky sip of the tea. "Tamara Sidorov."
Marco leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his analytical mind assembling the pieces of the alleyway. "You told the men that they were just children. Who were you protecting, Tamara?"
Tamara looked down into her teacup, her knuckles white. "I grew up in the city foster system. The state orphanages. They are... they are not safe places. The older children age out with nothing, and the syndicates swoop in. They use the boys as drug runners, and they traffic the girls."
Tamara swallowed hard, her angelic face hardening with a quiet, fierce bravery that instantly earned Marco’s respect.
"I managed to survive it," Tamara continued, looking up at Raisa.
"But there is a group of twelve-year-olds living in the abandoned subway tunnels near the Arbat.
Those men... they are traffickers. They were hunting the kids.
I found out they were moving in tonight, so I went to the alley to stall them.
I managed to lock the access grate so the kids could run, but the men caught me before I could get over the fence. "
Raisa stared at the fragile, bruised girl sitting on the medical bed.
Tamara Sidorov had absolutely nothing. No money, no family, and no protection.
Yet, she had deliberately thrown herself into the path of three violent traffickers to buy a few minutes of time for children who were not even her own.
It was a staggering display of raw, selfless courage.
Raisa looked at Marco. The Italian lieutenant was staring at Tamara, his jaw clenched, the protective fire in his dark eyes burning brighter than ever. Marco Falco despised bullies. He despised the strong preying on the weak.
"You stalled them," Marco said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of approval. "You saved their lives, Tamara."
Tamara looked at the Italian, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. "I only gave them a head start. You and your wife saved my life."
Raisa reached out, placing her hand gently over Tamara’s. The anger that had consumed the Bratva princess earlier in the day—the petty, toxic games of Katerina Volkov—was eclipsed by the genuine, heartbreaking reality of the girl sitting in front of her.
"You are safe here, Tamara," Raisa promised, her voice carrying the unyielding authority of a Voronin. "Those men will never touch you again. Marco and I will make sure of it."
And as Marco nodded silently from the doorway, a vow solidifying in his dark eyes, Tamara Sidorov finally allowed herself to believe that, for the first time in her life, the monsters were no longer hunting her.