Chapter Thirteen #2
Marco Falco was already strapped into a Kevlar vest, checking the action on his submachine gun. He turned toward the bed, fully intending to deliver a commanding, authoritative order for his wife to remain behind locked doors.
He opened his mouth, the words already forming on his tongue.
"Do not even think about saying it, Italian," Raisa’s icy, accented voice sliced through the room.
Marco blinked. Raisa was not in bed. The Bratva princess was standing near the armoire, dressed in black silk pajama pants and a fitted tank top, effortlessly strapping a tactical drop-holster to her right thigh.
She slid a sleek, suppressed pistol into the leather, her pale blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, her sea-green eyes burning with a cold, unyielding fire.
"Raisa, it is an active breach," Marco tried, stepping forward, his protective instincts warring with his sheer awe of her lethality. "Stay in the suite."
Raisa paused, looking up at him through her pale lashes. She leveled a glare of withering hellfire directly at his face.
"The last time I listened to your idiotic demands and let you clear a blind flank without me, you took buckshot to the shoulder in a Russian warehouse," Raisa reminded him, her voice dripping with pragmatism. "You are reckless, Marco. You require supervision. I am coming with you."
Marco stared at his wife. He knew that tone. He knew that look. If he tried to lock her in the room, she would likely dislocate his jaw and step over his unconscious body to get to the firefight.
A helpless, incredibly arrogant smirk touched the corners of Marco’s mouth. He was resigned to his fate.
"Fine," Marco conceded, throwing his hands up in defeat before gesturing toward the door. "But watch your corners. I am not letting your brothers kill me because I let you get scratched in my own house."
"Worry about yourself, Marco," Raisa retorted, racking the slide of her weapon and sweeping past him into the corridor, moving like a phantom in the strobe-lit darkness.
Two doors down, Enzo Falco’s suite was a masterclass in synchronized chaos.
Enzo had rolled off the mattress the second the vibration hit his comms device. He pulled on a black henley, his mind racing. His primary concern was not the servers, or the ledgers, or the armory. His singular, consuming focus was the beautiful woman currently throwing off the sheets behind him.
Enzo grabbed his customized pistol from the biometric safe. He turned around, his chest heaving with adrenaline, fully prepared to physically barricade the door to keep Arielle safely out of the line of fire.
"Ari, stay away from the door," Enzo commanded, his voice thick with territorial panic. "Lock the deadbolt. Hide in the dressing room. Do not come out until I come back for you."
Arielle did not move toward the dressing room.
She stood at the edge of the bed, wearing one of his discarded black t-shirts.
She reached beneath the mattress, pulling out the compact, weighted pistol she had stashed there the night before.
She ejected the magazine, checked the brass casings, slammed it back into the grip, and racked the slide with a sharp, metallic clack that echoed loudly in the room.
She looked up at Enzo.
She didn't argue. She didn't raise her voice. Arielle simply gave him a look.
It was a look that carried the weight of a lifetime spent in the northern training rings.
It was a look that explicitly, silently reminded the youngest Falco brother that she had dismantled six armed men in an alleyway without breaking a sweat, and had effortlessly pinned both of his sisters-in-law to a canvas mat simultaneously.
It was a look that clearly communicated: I am a vastly superior fighter than you are, and we both know it.
Enzo stopped dead in his tracks.
The frantic, overprotective panic in his chest violently collided with a sudden, overwhelming surge of blinding, breathless pride. He looked at the calm, deadly woman racking a firearm in his bedroom, and he felt a flutter of pure, unadulterated adoration.
"God, you are magnificent," Enzo breathed, unable to suppress the awe in his voice, despite the impending violence. He let out a ragged sigh, shaking his head. "Fine. But stay behind my right shoulder. If you get hurt, Lucian is going to bury me under the Mediterranean."
"Just focus on the targets, Enzo," Arielle murmured, her eyes sharp and focused as she stepped fluidly to his side, her weapon raised in perfect tactical form.
***
In the archives, Julián pulled the silver flash drive from the terminal. The dummy file was downloaded. The virus was planted. The digital frame job was complete.
"We are clear," Julián whispered into his comms, turning toward the service door. "Moving to exfiltration."
But as the cartel operative stepped out of the server room and into the main concrete corridor, the harsh, blinding glare of the overhead tactical halogens violently flickered to life, illuminating the hallway with the intensity of the midday sun.
Julián froze, his hand dropping instantly to his sidearm.
Standing at the far end of the corridor, blocking the primary exit, was Lorenzo Falco. The Don’s weapon was raised, his eyes bottomless pits of pure, unrelenting execution.