Chapter Nine #2
Renzo let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound vibrating through the speakers.
The Don of the Falcons knew exactly what it felt like to be brought to his knees by a woman.
He remembered the desperate, agonizing months he had spent groveling for Roselia’s forgiveness, and the consuming peace he had found when she finally surrendered her heart to him.
"There is no shame in bowing to a queen," Renzo murmured, his voice laced with a deep, knowing warmth. "Pass on my deepest congratulations to Sasha. Tell him the Falcons stand with him."
"We will, Lorenzo," Marco promised. "Keep the gates locked. We will see you in a few weeks."
***
The idyllic, peaceful extension of their stay, however, was abruptly shattered by the brutal realities of the geopolitical underworld.
Nature abhorred a vacuum, and the sudden, violent eradication of Fatmir Gashi’s Balkan network had created a void in the eastern smuggling routes. Two weeks after the wedding, a new, highly aggressive threat began to crop up along the borders.
The Odessa—the ruthless, armed Ukrainian mafia—had begun pushing aggressively into Bratva territory, attempting to seize the supply lines that ran through the Black Sea.
The minor skirmishes quickly escalated into bloody friction, and the Voronin estate immediately transitioned from a celebration hall into a fortified war room.
The air in Sergei’s -paneled study was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and the sharp, metallic tang of tension.
Sergei Voronin stood over a sprawling topographical map of the Ukrainian border his hands braced against the edges of the desk. Sasha and Dmitri stood on either side of him, their expressions carved from stone as they reviewed the latest casualty reports from their border lieutenants.
Marco Falco stood near the roaring fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, listening intently to the tactical breakdown.
"They are hitting the transport trucks at the mountain passes," Sasha reported, his voice a low, baritone. "The Odessa are using armored convoys. They hit, they seize the cargo, and they retreat across the border before our secondary units can intercept."
Dmitri cracked his knuckles, a cracking sound in the quiet room. "Give me forty men. I will cross the border tonight and burn their staging warehouses to the ground."
"We do not act blindly, Dmitri," Sergei rumbled, tracing a line along the map with a gold pen.
"The Odessa have deep pockets. If we strike their warehouses, they will retaliate against our civilian fronts in St. Petersburg.
We need to cut their supply lines at the source.
We need to know how they are moving the stolen cargo out of the region. "
Marco stepped away from the fireplace, moving toward the desk. He possessed the brilliant, logistical mind of a Capo who had spent his life managing the largest maritime smuggling operation in the world.
"They cannot move munitions overland without drawing the military," Marco stated, his deep Italian accent cutting through the Russian tension.
He leaned over the map, pointing a long finger toward the southern coastal ports.
"They are moving it by sea. The Odessa do not have the naval infrastructure to bypass the Mediterranean blockades.
They are contracting independent freighters. "
Sergei looked up, his eyes sharpening with respect. "Can the Falcons track the freighters?"
"I don't just track them, Sergei, I control the straits," Marco offered, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips.
"Give me their suspected launch times. I will contact Casimir in Naples.
We will intercept the Odessa shipments before they even clear the Aegean Sea.
We will sink their cargo, bleed their finances dry, and blind their logistics. "
Sasha looked at his brother-in-law, an undeniable gratitude breaking through his cold exterior. "Your intelligence network is unparalleled, Marco. We appreciate the help."
"We are family," Marco replied simply. "Your war is our war."
The doors of the study swung open.
Raisa strode into the room, dressed in dark tactical cargo pants and a fitted black shirt. Her pale hair was pulled into a severe, tight braid, and the familiar, glint of the shadow ninja was burning brightly in her sea-green eyes. She walked directly toward the desk bypassing the pleasantries.
"I reviewed the perimeter reports," Raisa announced, leaning her hands on the edge of the map.
"The Odessa have a forward operating base hidden in the industrial sector just outside Kiev.
If Marco cuts their shipping lines, they will be trapped.
Dmitri, you and I can take a small, specialized strike team, infiltrate the base, and dismantle their leadership before they can regroup. "
For exactly two seconds, the room was silent.
Then, chaos erupted.
"Absolutely not," Sasha barked, his hand slamming down onto the desk with a concussive crack. "You are not crossing the Ukrainian border. It is a suicide mission. The Odessa have strong artillery."
"I am not sending my only daughter into a fortified combat zone," Sergei commanded, his voice booming with the unyielding authority of the patriarch. "You will remain at the estate, Raisa. This is a frontline engagement."
"You are out of your mind," Dmitri added, shaking his head vehemently. "I am not taking you into a warehouse filled with desperate, cornered Ukrainians. You stay here."
Raisa stood upright, her jaw dropping in sheer, unadulterated outrage. She stared at her father and her two brothers as if they had collectively lost their minds.
"Excuse me?" Raisa hissed, the temperature in the room plummeting. "I have trained with the Spetsnaz. I have dismantled entire ambush squads by myself! I am the most close-quarters operative in this entire bloodline, and you are telling me to stay in the house?"
Raisa turned her furious, blazing gaze toward her husband, expecting the Italian Capo to back her up. "Marco. Tell them how absurd they are being."
Marco Falco leaned back against the edge of the desk crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at the three, Voronin men, all of whom were glaring at him, silently daring him to support his wife’s suicidal battle plan. Then he looked at Raisa, his beautiful, furious, deadly wife.
A slow, amused grin spread across Marco’s face.
He knew exactly what she was capable of.
He knew she could probably slaughter the entire Odessa base single-handedly.
But watching the most hardened killers in Russia absolutely panic at the thought of her getting scratched was too entertaining to interrupt.
"Do not look at me, moya zvezda," Marco chuckled, raising his hands in a gesture of utter surrender. "I value my life. If I let you go to Ukraine, your father will shoot me, your brothers will drown me, and if by some miracle I survive, Roselia will fly to Moscow to finish the job."
"You are all insufferable!" Raisa exploded, throwing her hands in the air. "I am a weapon, not a porcelain doll!"
"You are a wife," Sasha corrected sharply.
"You are a sister," Dmitri argued loudly.
"You are a daughter," Sergei finalized, pointing a finger at the door. "And you are staying behind the gates."
Raisa let out a sound of pure, venomous frustration. She glared at the four towering men, her sea-green eyes promising retribution, before turning on her heel and storming out of the study, the doors slamming shut behind her with a force that rattled the paintings on the walls.
Marco dropped his head back, laughing aloud as the echoes of the slammed door faded. He pushed off the desk clapping Sasha on the shoulder.
"Good luck managing the Odessa," Marco grinned, turning to follow his wife. "I have a far more dangerous war to fight in the guest wing."