Page 111 of Marked By the Mob

“Bullshit.” I turn to face him fully, letting him see the fury in my eyes. “You knew exactly what happened to me. You set me up.”

For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to deny it. Then something shifts in his expression, the warm concern replaced by cold calculation. “You’re recording this conversation.”

It’s not a question.

“No,” I lie smoothly. “You just patted me down. You checked the bleachers. There’s nothing here.”

Langford studies my face, and I force myself to hold his gaze without flinching. After a long moment, he nods slowly. “Then we can speak freely.”

My pulse quickens. This is it. This is where he either confesses or walks away and everything we’ve planned falls apart.

“Why did you do it?” I ask quietly. “Why did you sell me out?”

Langford leans back against the bleacher behind us, his posture relaxed despite the tension crackling between us. “Because you were getting too close to something you didn’t understand. Something bigger than one trafficking network.”

“The auction,” I say.

“The auction is just one piece.” His voice is calm, almost professorial, like he’s explaining a case study instead of his own corruption. “The network intersects with senators, defense contractors, and intelligence operations that span multiple countries. Exposure would collapse federal funding channels we’ve spent decades building.”

My stomach drops. It’s nothing we haven’t already suspected, but hearing the admission still stings. “You’re protecting politicians who use the auction.”

“I’m protecting national security.” Langford’s tone hardens. “The men who participate in those networks provide intelligence, funding, and political leverage we can’t get through official channels. They’re assets, Emma. Valuable ones.”

“They’re criminals who buy and sell women like property.”

“They’re necessary evils in a world that doesn’t operate on idealism.” He turns to look at me, and there’s something almost pitying in his expression. “You were always too idealistic. Too focused on individual justice to see the bigger picture.”

The words hit like a slap. “So you sold me to them. Damage control.”

“It was nothing personal.” Langford’s voice softens slightly. “I hoped you’d disappear quietly. That whoever bought you would keep you contained, maybe even turn you into an asset yourself. I never expected you to survive.”

The admission steals my breath. He’d expected me to die. Hoped for it, even, because it would be cleaner than having to deal with me as a loose end.

“You were like a father to me,” I whisper, my voice breaking despite my effort to stay controlled.

Something flickers across Langford’s face. Regret, maybe. Or just discomfort at being confronted with the human cost of his decisions. “I know. And I’m sorry it had to be you. But when you started investigating the auction, you became a threat I couldn’t ignore.”

“So you used Cole’s credentials to access my files. You fed my location to the auction organizers. You made sure my backup never arrived.” Each accusation comes out flat and cold.

Langford doesn’t deny any of it. “Yes.”

The single word hangs between us, final and damning.

My entire body shakes with rage and grief. This is the man who held my hand at my parents’ funeral. Who encouraged me to join the FBI. Who praised my work and supported my career.And he sold me to criminals without a second thought because I threatened his carefully constructed web of corruption.

I stand slowly, my legs unsteady beneath me. Langford watches me with those calm brown eyes, probably already calculating his next move.

“Got that?” I say clearly, my hand moving to touch the hidden microphone in my jacket.

Langford’s eyes widen, genuine shock breaking through his controlled facade. “What?—”

Before he can finish, movement catches my attention near the equipment shed. A figure steps into view, walking toward us across the empty field with steady, purposeful strides.

Not Eduard. Not Artur. Not Rurik.

An FBI agent in full tactical gear, his badge visible even from this distance.

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