Chapter Thirteen #2
Inside the restaurant, secluded in a private, velvet-lined alcove, the double date flowed with a surprising, effortless warmth.
Raisa’s fears of Sasha discussing syndicate business were unfounded. The Bratva heir was captivated by his wife. He carved her steak for her without asking. He poured her sparkling water, listening to her with an intense, unwavering focus that Marco found deeply respectable.
"You look radiant tonight, Tamara," Marco offered, raising his glass of red wine in a polite salute. "The estate clearly agrees with you."
"It does," Tamara smiled, her silver eyes glowing with genuine happiness. She glanced up at Sasha, her expression softening into devotion. "Aleksandr has made it a true home for me."
Sasha cleared his throat, reaching for his vodka glass, a faint, incredibly rare flush touching the tips of his ears under the intense, amused scrutiny of his sister and brother-in-law.
After a decadent, hours-long dinner, the snow had stopped falling, leaving the streets of Moscow blanketed in a pristine, glittering white. The air was biting, but the beauty of the illuminated city called to them.
"Let us walk for a few blocks," Tamara suggested softly, pulling her fur-lined collar closer to her neck. "The square looks beautiful."
Sasha immediately nodded, signaling the discreet security detail to fall back and give them space, while Marco and Raisa fell into step beside them. They walked down the broad, historic promenade of the Arbat district, the cobblestones crunching satisfyingly beneath their boots.
They were passing a narrow, shadowed alleyway near a closed bakery when the sudden, rapid slapping of small footsteps echoed against the brick.
"Tamara! Tamara!"
A chaotic blur of motion erupted from the shadows.
Six children, ranging in age from perhaps eight to twelve years old, came sprinting out of the alleyway, making a direct, reckless line for the delicate woman in the white coat.
They wore mismatched, oversized winter coats and scuffed boots, their faces flushed from the cold.
Sasha’s syndicate instincts flared with violent speed.
Before the children could cross the halfway mark, Sasha stepped swiftly in front of Tamara, his tall frame blocking her from the sudden approach. His hand instinctively swept beneath his overcoat, resting on the grip of his concealed firearm, his eyes scanning the alley for a larger, adult threat.
"Aleksandr, wait!" Tamara gasped, immediately stepping out from behind his broad back and catching his arm.
Sasha froze, his muscles coiled tight, but he did not draw the weapon.
Tamara dropped to her knees in the snow, disregarding her expensive coat, her face breaking into a smile of unfiltered joy.
"Yuri! Anya!" Tamara cried out, opening her arms.
The children slammed into her in a chaotic, desperate tangle of hugs, nearly knocking her backward into the snow. Sasha stepped closer, his hands hovering, ready to catch her, staring in sheer bewilderment at the scruffy street orphans clinging to his wife’s neck.
"You are safe!" a young boy, perhaps ten years old, said, pulling back to look at Tamara with wide, disbelieving eyes. "The bad men... they never came back to the tunnels for us. We thought they took you!"
"I am perfectly safe, Yuri," Tamara promised, wiping a smudge of dirt from the boy’s freezing cheek, tears welling in her own silver eyes. "Thanks to you all being so brave and running when I told you to."
Tamara looked up, beaming through her tears. She gestured to the towering, imposing man standing directly over her.
"This is my husband, Aleksandr," Tamara introduced him, her voice filled with unmistakable pride. She then gestured to the tall Italian and the beautiful blonde woman standing a few feet away. "And these are Marco and Raisa. They are the ones who saved me that night. They are family."
Sasha looked down at the children. He realized with shock that these were the orphans. These were the children Tamara had thrown herself in front of Fatmir Gashi’s thugs to protect.
The children looked up at Sasha. They saw a giant. They saw a dangerous, man with cold eyes and broad shoulders. But when Tamara smiled at him, the children visibly relaxed, their street-honed instincts recognizing that the giant belonged to the angel.
"Where are you staying right now?" Raisa demanded, stepping forward. The icy, tactical Bratva princess had vanished. Her sea-green eyes were sweeping over the shivering children, her mind already moving at a thousand miles an hour.
"In the old subway station near the river," a young girl, Anya, answered timidly, shrinking back slightly from Raisa’s intense focus. "It is cold, but the police do not look there."
"Absolutely not," Raisa declared, the words ringing with finality.
Raisa didn't consult her brother. She didn't consult her husband. She simply assumed the authority of the Voronin bloodline.
"You are not sleeping in a subway station," Raisa commanded, pointing a gloved finger at Yuri. "We have an entire, fully heated wing of the estate sitting empty. It has twelve bedrooms, a kitchen, and a fireplace that could fit a horse. You are coming with us."
Tamara gasped, pressing her hands over her mouth, a fresh wave of tears spilling over her lashes as she looked up at her sister-in-law.
Sasha blinked, momentarily stunned by his sister’s sweeping unilateral decision to turn a fortified Bratva stronghold into an orphanage. He looked at Marco, seeking solidarity.
Marco Falco was standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning slightly back, grinning from ear to ear. "Do not look at me, Sasha. She is a force of nature. If you argue with her, she will adopt the entire city of Moscow just to spite you."
Sasha looked back down at Tamara. Her face was illuminated by the streetlamp, her tears catching the light as she looked at him with such overwhelming, desperate gratitude that it nearly broke his heart in two.
"Get them in the cars," Sasha ordered, turning his head to address the security detail hovering in the shadows. He reached down, offering his hand to Tamara to pull her up from the snow. "Have the staff open the south wing. Build a fire and get the kitchens to prepare food."
Tamara practically threw herself into Sasha’s arms, burying her face in his chest, crying tears of unadulterated happiness. Sasha wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head, and conquered by the joy in his wife's heart.
***
Thirty minutes later, the convoy of armored vehicles was winding its way back through the snow-swept streets toward the estate, the backseat of the trailing SUVs packed with bewildered, exhausted, and incredibly warm children.
Inside the lead Maybach, Marco sat in the quiet luxury of the leather seats. He looked to his right.
Raisa Voronina-Falco was staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights. She wasn't fuming. She wasn't analyzing perimeters or complaining about her brothers' tactical incompetence.
She was sitting with her arms crossed, wearing a look of unapologetic, towering smugness.
She had not only found the perfect bride to neutralize her brother's violent edges, but she had just secured an angel for their family who was currently filling their dark, blood-stained fortress with light and humanity.
She was a master strategist, an unparalleled judge of character, and she knew it.
Marco leaned closer, pressing his shoulder against hers in the dark cabin. He rested his hand on her thigh, squeezing gently.
"If you look any more proud of yourself, moya zvezda," Marco murmured, his breath hot against her ear, his voice thick with amusement and staggering love, "you are going to spontaneously combust."
Raisa turned her head, offering her husband a brilliant, wicked, and deeply satisfied smile.
"I am a genius, Marco," Raisa stated simply, stating it as an undeniable fact of the universe. "And you are incredibly fortunate that I am on your side."
"I am," Marco agreed, laughing softly into the darkness of the car as he pulled his brilliant, arrogant wife into his arms. "I truly, absolutely am."