Page 103 of Marked By the Mob

And Emma is about as far from decorative and obedient as it’s possible to get.

I love that about her. We all do. But I’m terrified these old-guard bastards will see her fire and decide she’s a liability instead of the asset we know she is.

“What if they don’t accept her?” I ask, voicing the fear I’ve been carrying all week.

Rurik turns from the window, his expression hard. “Then they leave. We made our choice.”

“And if they try to force the issue?”

“Then we remind them why forcing issues with us is a bad idea.” His tone is flat, final, and leaves no room for argument.

Eduard finally looks up from his phone, his gray eyes meeting mine. “The families will follow our lead. They always have. A few might grumble, but they’ll fall in line once they see we’re serious.”

I want to believe him. I want to trust that years of loyalty and respect will outweigh the shock of us claiming an FBI agent as our wife. But I’ve seen how quickly loyalty can turn when people feel threatened or confused.

Footsteps echo from the staircase, and all three of us turn simultaneously.

Krystal appears first, descending the stairs in a soft blue dress that makes her blonde hair glow in the chandelier light. Shelooks nervous but composed, her hazel eyes scanning the room before settling on us with a small, uncertain smile.

Then Emma steps into view behind her, and my mouth goes dry.

Holy fuck.

She’s wearing a fitted black dress that hugs every curve of her body in ways that make my cock harden immediately. The neckline is modest enough to be appropriate but low enough to show the swell of her breasts. The hem falls just above her knees, showing off her legs, and all I want to do is run my hands up her thighs right here in the hallway. Her dark hair is down for once, falling in loose waves around her shoulders instead of pulled back in that practical braid she usually wears.

She looks absolutely fucking stunning, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

Neither can Rurik nor Eduard. I catch them both staring, their expressions shifting from professional composure to something much more primal. Rurik’s jaw tightens, his pale eyes darkening as they travel down Emma’s body. Eduard’s hand curls into a fist at his side, like he’s physically restraining himself from crossing the room and pulling her against him.

Emma reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops, her gray-green eyes narrowing as she takes in our reactions. “What are you staring at?”

The question comes out sharp and defensive, like she’s expecting criticism instead of the raw appreciation that’s probably written all over our faces.

“You,” I say, my voice rough. “You look incredible.”

Her cheeks flush slightly, and she crosses her arms over her chest in a gesture that’s pure Emma. Defensive, uncomfortable with compliments, and ready to deflect. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress,” Eduard says quietly, moving closer. His hand finds the small of her back, warm and possessive. “You’re beautiful, Emma.”

She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “I feel ridiculous. I can barely move in this thing, and these shoes are going to kill me before the night’s over.”

I glance down at the heels she’s wearing, black and elegant but definitely not her usual boots. “You didn’t have to wear them.”

“Yes, I did.” Her tone is flat. “You said this meeting was important and that first impressions matter. So I’m playing the part.”

The words sting more than they should. Playing the part. Like this is just another undercover operation instead of her actual life now.

Rurik’s hand finds her chin, tilting her face up so she has to meet his pale blue eyes. “This isn’t a part, Emma. This is real.”

Something flickers across her expression. Doubt, maybe. Or fear. But she nods once, and Rurik releases her.

Krystal moves to stand beside Emma, her delicate frame a stark contrast to Emma’s curves. “You all look amazing,” she says softly, her hazel eyes warm with genuine affection.

Emma’s expression softens slightly as she looks at her friend. “So do you.”

The moment of tenderness is broken by the sound of vehicles pulling up the drive. I move to the window and count four SUVs, their headlights cutting through the evening darkness. The captains are arriving.

“Showtime,” I mutter, straightening my jacket.