Chapter Twelve #2
Zoya stepped up beside her twin, emboldened by Tamara’s kindness. "Because... because Katerina said he was a beast. She said he was scary, and that he hurts people."
Vadim squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for death.
Sasha’s chest rumbled with a dark, humorless breath, his eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of Katerina’s toxic gossip. But before the Bratva heir could speak, Tamara reached up, her small hand resting flat against the lapel of Sasha’s tuxedo.
Tamara looked up at her towering husband, her silver eyes shining with a devotion so pure that it practically illuminated the space between them. Then, she looked back at the twins.
"He is the safest person I have ever known," Tamara stated gently, the truth of her words ringing with undeniable clarity. "I do not know why I should be afraid. He is my sanctuary."
The tense silence that followed those words was broken only by the sharp intake of Sasha’s breath.
The Butcher of Moscow was humbled. In front of rival lieutenants and a family that had openly mocked him, his delicate, angelic wife had effortlessly, beautifully laid waste to his monstrous reputation, replacing it with a crown of honor.
Sasha closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, overwhelmed by the fierce, protective love expanding in his chest. He tightened his arm around Tamara’s waist, pulling her flush against his side, silently vowing to burn down the world before he ever proved her wrong.
Zara and Zoya stared at the mob boss holding his wife as if she were the most precious object on earth.
The twins exchanged a highly communicative, deeply skeptical look.
If this brute was a sanctuary for this delicate angel, then he wasn't a brute at all.
Which meant their older sister, Katerina, was a liar who had thrown away a kingdom for a fabricated tragedy.
The teenage girls looked at Sasha with a sudden, newfound respect, dismissing the narrative they had been fed.
Sasha caught the shift in the girls' expressions. A slow, deeply amused smirk touched the corner of his mouth as he looked down at Tamara, his thumb brushing affectionately against her waist.
***
Across the ballroom, unaware that her younger sisters were systematically dismantling her victim narrative, Katerina Volkov was executing a profoundly clumsy tactical maneuver.
She had drifted away from the ice sculptures, positioning herself near a marble pillar on the edge of the dance floor.
She was attempting to casually hover in the periphery of Marco Falco, sighing delicately, looking out into the crowd with wide, tragic eyes, waiting for the Italian Capo to notice the beautiful, lonely girl in need of a savior.
Marco noticed her.
A man who had spent a decade surviving the chaotic, hyper-violent streets of Naples and navigating the toxic psychological warfare of his brother’s ex-fiancée possessed a radar that was virtually infallible.
Marco took a slow sip of his bourbon, his dark eyes flickering toward the marble pillar before returning instantly to the blonde woman standing at his side.
He leaned down, pressing his lips close to Raisa’s ear, the warmth of his breath sending a familiar shiver down her spine. "Do not turn around immediately," Marco murmured, his deep voice laced with dark amusement. "But we have a vulture circling the perimeter."
Raisa’s sea-green eyes sharpened instantly, the Bratva princess rising to the surface. She took a sip of her champagne, seamlessly turning her body to scan the crowd under the guise of admiring the orchestra.
Her gaze locked onto the pale blue chiffon of Katerina Volkov’s gown.
"The Volkov girl," Raisa identified, her voice dropping into a cold, flat register. She watched Katerina strike a delicate, mournful pose against the marble. "She is trying to catch your eye. Would you like me to blind her? I have a hairpin that could do the job very cleanly."
Marco let out a low, rumbling laugh, burying his face in Raisa’s neck for a second to hide his amusement from the room. "Tempting, moya zvezda. But let's not bleed on your father’s imported marble. Let's keep it tame tonight."
Raisa turned back to her husband, her brow furrowing in genuine, tactical confusion.
"But what is her objective? What is she doing? A month ago, she burned down her family’s alliance because she claimed my brother was a bloodthirsty beast. Now that she is free of the beast, she has set her sights on you? "
"I am vastly better looking than your brother," Marco offered with a charming, arrogant wink.
Raisa rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress a small smile. "Be serious, Italian. What does she want?"
"She wants an audience," Marco explained, his tone sobering slightly, though the deep amusement never fully left his eyes.
"Women like Katerina do not operate on logic, Raisa.
They operate on attention. I suspect she never actually wanted to marry your brother in the first place.
The Bratva life is cold, brutal, and demands genuine strength.
She was just looking for an excuse to break it off while still playing the victim. "
Raisa scoffed, taking another sip of her champagne. "Fine. She broke it off. Her father kept his shipping lanes. Why is she circling us? She knows you are my husband."
"She thinks she can orchestrate a rescue," Marco said, his gaze flicking briefly toward the pillar where Katerina was now pretending to fan herself in distress. "I have known women exactly like her, Raisa. I told you about Willa Contarini."
Raisa’s expression darkened. She remembered the stories Marco had shared late at night in their suite.
She knew the history of the woman who had manipulated Lorenzo Falco for ten years, utilizing fake tears, manufactured illnesses, and weaponized innocence to isolate the Don and wage psychological warfare against Roselia.
"Willa spent a decade playing the victim," Marco continued softly, his thumb drawing slow circles against Raisa’s waist. "She believed that if she looked fragile enough, Lorenzo would feel obligated to protect her, even at the expense of his own sanity.
Katerina operates on the exact same frequency.
She thinks that if she looks tragic enough tonight, I will suddenly forget that I am married to the most magnificent, woman on earth, and I will rush to save her. "
Raisa stared at him, her mind struggling to process the sheer, staggering stupidity of the Volkov heiress’s strategy.
"So," Raisa summarized, her voice flat. "Your older brother fell for this exact same performance? For ten years?"
"He was young," Marco defended weakly, wincing slightly. "And our father orchestrated the engagement."
"Your brother was a blind idiot," Raisa declared ruthlessly, unapologetic. "If you had ever allowed a woman to manipulate you with fake tears for a decade, I would have stabbed you myself. I would not have waited for you to wake up."
Marco threw his head back, laughing aloud, a rich, booming sound that turned the heads of several nearby lieutenants. He loved her brutal, unyielding honesty. He loved that she never minced words.
Marco pulled Raisa flush against his chest, wrapping both of his large arms around her waist. He looked down into her fierce, beautiful eyes, all traces of humor vanishing into a deep, intense devotion.
"I know you would have stabbed me, cara," Marco swore softly, his voice a low, gravelly vow meant only for her.
"Which is exactly why I am not blind. I see every shadow in this room, and I see exactly who she is.
Do not worry. The Volkov girl could weep an ocean of tears on this floor tonight, and I still wouldn't look twice. "
Raisa felt a hot flush of soul-deep satisfaction wash over her. She reached up, resting her hand against his strong jaw, offering him a brilliant, victorious smile.
Near the marble pillar, Katerina Volkov watched the devastatingly handsome Italian Capo pull his wife into his arms ignoring her perfectly executed sighs of distress.
Katerina’s chest tightened with a furious, baffling frustration.
The walls of the fortress were impenetrable, but the delusional princess simply set her jaw, refusing to accept that her fairy tale was already dead.