Chapter Thirteen
The sprawling, gilded confines of the Volkov estate in St. Petersburg felt less like a sanctuary and more like a beautifully decorated cage.
Outside, the punishing winds off the Baltic Sea hurled sleet against the towering arched windows, but inside her private suite, Katerina Volkov was consumed by a storm of her own making.
She paced the length of the thick Persian carpet, her silk robe snapping around her ankles as she turned sharply on her heel. The Winter Solstice Gala was over, and the harsh, unforgiving light of reality had finally pierced her delusional fairy tale.
Katerina had seen Marco Falco. She had seen the devastatingly handsome Italian Capo up close, and he was everything she had ever dreamed of—tall, dark, aristocratic, and possessing an effortless, charm. He was the prize. He was the man who was supposed to rescue her.
But there was an impenetrable wall standing between her and her fantasy.
Raisa Voronina-Falco.
Katerina dropped onto the edge of her velvet chaise lounge, pressing her manicured hands against her temples.
After the gala, the brutal mathematics of her situation had become glaringly clear.
As long as Raisa was in the picture, Marco would never look at another woman.
The devotion radiating from the Italian was absolute.
Therefore, Katerina needed Raisa to disappear.
But how?
In the cinematic romances Katerina devoured, the rival woman simply faded away or was conveniently banished. In the actual, world of the Russian mafia, getting rid of a woman like Raisa was a logistical nightmare that bordered on suicide.
Katerina bit her lower lip, her mind frantically brainstorming. Could I bribe someone? she thought, her blue eyes darting toward the locked door of her suite. A mercenary? A hitman?
The thought barely fully formed before a wave of icy, paralyzing terror washed over her.
Raisa was not some fragile socialite who could be quietly swept under the rug.
She was the only daughter of Sergei Voronin, the undisputed king of the Bratva.
She was the sister of Aleksandr and Dmitri Voronin, two men who would happily burn St. Petersburg to ash for a single scratch on her cheek.
And worse, she was the wife of Marco Falco, a Capo of the most powerful Italian syndicate in Europe, backed by Lorenzo Falco and an armada of Mediterranean killers.
Furthermore, Raisa herself was a Spetsnaz-trained assassin who could likely kill a hired gun with her bare hands.
If Katerina hired someone to hurt Raisa, and the plot failed—or worse, succeeded—the retaliation would be apocalyptic.
The Voronins and the Falcons would not just execute the assassin; they would trace the money back to the Volkov estate.
They would slaughter Vadim, they would execute Karina, they would wipe the teenage twins from existence, and they would hand Katerina over to a fate worse than death.
Katerina shuddered violently, wrapping her arms around her waist. She was a master of high society whispers, not assassination plots.
She possessed no tactical intellect, no loyal soldiers, and absolutely no margin for error.
She was out of her depth, trapped in her opulent bedroom, agonizing over an unsolvable equation.
***
A thousand miles south, inside the fortified walls of the Voronin estate in Moscow, logistics were also being discussed, though the stakes were considerably warmer.
The door to Aleksandr Voronin’s private study swung open without a single knock.
Sasha was seated behind his desk, reviewing the ledgers for the newly secured southern shipping routes.
He didn't flinch or reach for the weapon resting near his hand; only a handful of people in the world possessed the audacity to breach his sanctuary unannounced, and he knew the purposeful footfalls intimately.
Raisa marched into the room, coming to a halt directly in front of the desk. She crossed her arms over her dark cashmere sweater, fixing her eldest brother with a look of uncompromising disapproval.
"You have been married for over a month," Raisa announced bypassing a greeting.
Sasha slowly closed his leather-bound ledger, leaning back in his chair. He looked at his sister with a mixture of patience and cautious anticipation. "I am aware of my anniversary, Raisa. Thank you for the calendar update."
"Do not use sarcasm with me, Aleksandr," Raisa snapped, leaning forward and resting her hands flat on the edge of the desk.
"You have been married for over a month, and you have not taken her anywhere.
Tamara has been inside this house, walking the same corridors, eating in the same dining rooms, for weeks. You are keeping her in a gilded cage."
Sasha’s jaw tightened. The accusation hit a raw, guarded nerve. "I am keeping her safe," he corrected, his voice a low, defensive rumble. "The Odessa factions were pushing the borders. The estate is the most secure location in Moscow."
"The borders are secure now," Raisa countered relentlessly. "And she is your wife, not a political prisoner. She is a young, beautiful woman. You need to take her out. You need to take her to a restaurant that does not require clearing a security checkpoint. You need to take her on a date, Sasha."
Sasha looked down at his hands resting on the desk.
A sudden, pang of genuine regret washed over him.
Raisa was right. He had been so consumed with the territorial disputes and the paralyzing fear of anything threatening Tamara’s safety that he had essentially locked her away.
He had given her a fortress, but he hadn't given her a life.
Sasha exhaled a slow breath, the stubborn Bratva boss yielding to his sister’s logic. "You are right. I should not keep her cooped up. I will have the perimeter guards secure a reservation at the Pushkin. I will take her out tonight."
Raisa’s stern expression instantly brightened into a brilliant, victorious smile. She clapped her hands together once. "Excellent. Marco and I will join you."
Sasha’s head snapped up, his cold eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
"Marco and I will join you," Raisa repeated breezily, turning to inspect a silver paperweight on the edge of the desk.
"Absolutely not," Sasha refused, his voice dropping into a dangerous, commanding baritone. "We are newlyweds, Raisa. If I am taking my wife out for a romantic evening, I require privacy. I am not bringing a chaperone, and I am certainly not bringing your husband."
"I was the one who gave you the idea," Raisa argued, turning back to him with an obstinate tilt of her chin. "Therefore, I am claiming the credit, and I am coming to ensure you do not spend the entire dinner discussing shipping tariffs."
"I know how to speak to my own wife without discussing tariffs," Sasha growled, standing up from the desk his tall frame towering over her.
"I severely doubt that," Raisa shot back, unfazed by his height.
"Can I also come?"
Both siblings turned sharply toward the open doorway. Dmitri was leaning casually against the doorframe, munching on a green apple, a wicked, delighted grin spread across his face.
"I would love to bring a camera," Dmitri continued, taking a loud crunch of the apple. "I want to record the Butcher of Moscow acting like a nervous schoolboy on a date. I can show the footage to the regional lieutenants at the next syndicate meeting. It will do wonders for your reputation, Sasha."
"If you step foot outside this estate tonight, Dmitri, I will shoot you in your good leg," Sasha threatened softly, his eyes promising violence.
Dmitri laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I will stay and guard the fortress. But Raisa and the Italian are definitely going. You cannot stop her, Sasha. You know this."
Sasha looked back at Raisa, seeing the unyielding stubbornness in his sister’s sea-green eyes. He let out a long, suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But Marco pays for the wine."
***
Later that evening, the crisp, freezing air of the Russian capital was illuminated by the golden glow of the streetlamps and the falling snow.
The black, armored Maybach pulled up to the curb outside one of Moscow’s most exclusive, historic restaurants. The establishment had been quietly, ruthlessly vetted by Voronin security hours prior, ensuring a flawless perimeter.
When the two couples stepped out onto the snowy pavement, the visual contrast between them was nothing short of cinematic.
Marco and Raisa emerged first, moving with the synchronized grace of apex predators.
They were a perfectly matched set. Marco wore a tailored, charcoal-gray topcoat over a dark suit, his imposing height and sharp features radiating effortless Italian danger.
Beside him, Raisa was breathtaking in a sweeping black trench coat, her blonde hair falling in striking waves, matching his stride perfectly.
They looked like two halves of the same beautiful weapon.
Sasha and Tamara, stepping out of the second vehicle, were the antithesis.
Aleksandr Voronin was a mountain of a man. Standing well over six feet, wrapped in a dark wool overcoat, his chiseled, severe features and cold eyes made him look like a warlord stepping onto a battlefield. But the moment Tamara stepped onto the curb beside him, the warlord vanished.
Tamara wore a stunning, soft cream-colored coat lined with pale fur, looking incredibly petite and delicate next to her towering husband.
She possessed a serene, angelic sweetness that seemed incongruous with the dangerous man holding her hand.
Yet, the dynamic was profoundly beautiful.
Sasha didn't just walk with her; he hovered.
He placed himself directly in the path of the biting wind to shield her.
He kept his large hand firmly, possessively on the small of her back, guiding her over the icy pavement with a staggering, meticulous care, treating her as if she were made of the most precious, fragile glass on earth.