Chapter Sixteen #2
"Oh, let him suffer, cara," Renzo chuckled, reaching out to capture Roselia’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
He looked at his younger brother with vindictive satisfaction.
"This is simply the universe correcting itself.
You spent months mocking my devotion. You teased me relentlessly when I was losing my mind over Roselia.
Now, you are pacing the floors, obsessing over a woman whose name you do not even know. Karma is a beautiful, merciless thing."
"I am not obsessing," Marco lied through his teeth, though he immediately turned back to the security file, frantically flipping pages. "I am conducting a thorough threat assessment."
Enzo snorted loudly. "You are conducting a manhunt for your future wife. It’s pathetic. At least Renzo actually knew Roselia’s name."
Before Marco could throw a crystal ashtray at his brother’s head, the doors of the parlor opened. Salvatore Falco strode into the room, followed closely by Andre Zanetti. The amusement instantly drained from the patriarch's face, replaced by the gravity of syndicate politics.
"Clear the fabrics," Salvatore ordered gruffly, waving his hand at the women. "We have a diplomatic situation. Sergei Voronin has reached out."
The temperature in the room dropped. The Voronin Alliance—the most brutal, deeply entrenched Bratva faction in Eastern Europe—did not reach out for casual conversation. Sergei "The Crow" Voronin was a ruthless operator, and a sudden line of communication usually meant blood or business.
"What does the Crow want?" Renzo asked, his posture straightening into that of the Don.
Salvatore walked over to the liquor cabinet, pouring a measure of scotch. "He is looking to solidify his western borders. The Russians want an alliance with the Falcons. A permanent one."
Andre crossed his arms, looking directly at Marco and Enzo. "Voronin has formally proposed a marriage alliance. His daughter for one of you."
Marco and Enzo reacted simultaneously, a chorus of vehement refusal.
"Absolutely not," Marco barked, tossing the file onto the table. "I am not marrying some sheltered, vodka-drinking mob princess just to secure a shipping route. Tell the Russians to go to hell."
"I second that," Enzo agreed instantly. "I value my freedom more than an alliance. Marry off a cousin. We aren't doing it."
Salvatore sighed, rubbing his temples. "We cannot simply tell Sergei Voronin to go to hell without sparking a turf war in Milan. I agreed to host them for a formal dinner on Saturday to discuss the parameters. You will both attend. You will be polite. And we will navigate the rejection carefully."
***
Saturday evening descended with the tense, suffocating pressure of a ticking bomb.
The Falco estate was secured tighter than a military compound. The grand dining room was set with the finest crystal and silver, the chandeliers burning brightly over the mahogany table.
The Voronin family arrived with the cold, imposing presence of a winter storm. Sergei Voronin was a mountain of a man with iron-gray hair and eyes like flint. Beside him stood his wife, Yelena—a woman of terrifying, composed elegance, clearly the quiet, calculating power behind the throne.
Their two eldest sons, Sasha and Dmitri, flanked their parents, exuding the arrogant, muscular confidence of men groomed for violence.
But it was the final member of the Voronin party who derailed the evening.
As the Russians stepped into the dining room, Renzo and Salvatore stepped forward to offer the formal greetings.
Marco stood in the background, nursing a glass of wine, bored by the political theater.
He casually glanced toward the doorway to evaluate the supposed 'mob princess' he was being ordered to reject.
The wine glass slipped from Marco’s hand, shattering against the marble floor.
Standing behind Dmitri, wearing a sleek, dark emerald gown that she clearly despised, was the shadow ninja.
Her pale blonde hair was swept up into a severe twist, and her sea-green eyes swept over the room with boredom. Raisa Voronin did not look like a sheltered princess. She looked like a blade sheathed in expensive silk.
Marco stopped breathing. The blood rushed in his ears as he stared at the woman who had been haunting his every waking thought.
Raisa’s eyes lazily tracked the sound of the breaking glass.
She looked at Marco. A flicker of recognition passed through her vivid green eyes, followed instantly by a deep look of disdain.
She looked at him precisely the way she had on the docks—like he was an incompetent buffoon who couldn't hold a perimeter to save his life.
Marco’s heart hammered a violent, captivated rhythm against his ribs.
"Apologies," Marco choked out, waving a hand for the staff to clear the glass. He could not tear his eyes away from her.
As the families took their seats around the table, the dynamics shifted with terrifying speed.
Roselia, seated securely beside Renzo, studied the Russian daughter across the table.
She noted the callouses on Raisa’s knuckles, the way her eyes constantly scanned the exits, and the rigid, coiled tension in her shoulders.
Roselia recognized a fellow warrior instantly.
She offered a slow, deeply respectful nod across the crystal centerpieces.
Raisa paused, evaluating the tall, dark-haired Italian woman. Recognizing the mutual lethality, Raisa returned the nod, a silent truce established between the only two women in the room who knew how to dispose of a body.
The truce, however, was interrupted by a low, rumbling sound.
Bruno had trotted into the dining room. The Cane Corso bypassed his usual spot beneath Roselia’s chair, padding directly across the Persian rug toward the Russian side of the table.
To the horror of Sasha and Dmitri, the hundred-and-fifty-pound beast sat heavily beside Raisa’s chair, resting his blocky head on her lap.
Raisa blinked in surprise, her icy exterior thawing for a fraction of a second as she reached down to scratch the dog behind his cropped ears.
Marco stared at the dog in sheer disbelief. Bruno hated strangers. Bruno hated everyone except Roselia. And yet, the dog was practically purring under Raisa's touch.
"Well," Renzo murmured under his breath, leaning slightly toward his father and Andre. "It seems the dog has approved the alliance."
Salvatore and Andre exchanged a thoughtful, calculating look.
They had expected a soft, diplomatic liability.
Instead, Sergei Voronin’s daughter, commanded respect from their top enforcer and their guard dog.
The elders were suddenly very interested in the prospect of adding a woman like Raisa to the Falco dynasty.
"She is magnificent," Marco whispered to Enzo, his eyes glazed over as he watched Raisa casually ignore his eldest brother’s commanding tone.
"You are drooling," Enzo hissed back, kicking him under the table. "Pull yourself together."
At the head of the table, the matriarchs were discovering a terrifying synergy. Ana, Valentina, and Yelena Voronin had bypassed the men, bonding over the exhausting logistics of managing mafia empires.
"I tried to shelter her," Yelena sighed elegantly, taking a sip of wine as she gestured gracefully toward her daughter. "I wanted her to study art in Paris. Instead, she demanded to learn close-quarters combat with the soldiers. She refuses to behave like a proper lady."
Raisa stabbed a piece of roasted duck with her fork, glaring daggers at her mother. "I am not political currency, Matushka. I am not marrying into an Italian syndicate to subsidize Sasha's gambling debts."
Sasha scowled, opening his mouth to reprimand her, but Raisa shot him a look so violently cold he snapped his jaw shut.
Ana’s eyes lit up with brilliant, chaotic inspiration. She looked at Marco, who was practically vibrating with desperate intrigue, and then back to Yelena.
"You know, Yelena," Ana suggested, her voice light and musical, "if my Marco can manage to convince your daughter that he is not a complete idiot, we could perhaps arrange a double wedding. The planning is already in motion. We simply add another tier to the cake."
Renzo choked on his wine, laughing into his napkin. Enzo buried his face in his hands.
Raisa dropped her fork. She leveled a glare of withering hellfire across the table, her sea-green eyes pinning Marco to his chair.
"I would rather walk barefoot across broken glass than marry a man who couldn't even secure a blind flank against low-level Calabrian thugs," Raisa announced, her Russian accent curling sharply around the insult.
The entire table fell dead silent.
Marco didn't flinch. He didn't look insulted. Instead, a slow, dark, incredibly dangerous smile spread across his handsome face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany table and smitten by the violence in her eyes.
"I will give you the flank," Marco murmured smoothly, his voice dropping into a low, challenging drawl. "But I promise you, moya zvezda, I excel in hand-to-hand combat. Perhaps we should spar, and you can evaluate my competence properly."
Raisa’s eyes narrowed into terrifying slits, her jaw clenching as she assessed the arrogant, impossibly handsome Italian lieutenant who was openly inviting a bloodbath.
Roselia leaned back in her chair, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she laced her fingers through Renzo’s beneath the table.
The Don squeezed her hand, shaking his head in amusement as the dining room rapidly transformed into a battlefield.
The Falco syndicate was officially at war, and this time, the casualties were going to be spectacular.