Page 115 of Marked By the Mob

“Fuck,” Artur says, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re going to be fathers.”

Emma laughs, the sound watery but genuine. “Yes, you are.”

Eduard cups her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “When?”

“About seven months, I think.”

I press my hand against her stomach, feeling nothing yet but knowing our child is growing inside her. The possessiveness I feel is overwhelming, primal.

Emma pulls back slightly, looking at each of us with that determined expression again. “And there’s something else.”

“What?” I ask.

“We’re getting married,” she says firmly. “Within a month. I’m not having this baby without making this official.”

48

RURIK

I stand at the window in my office, watching the convoy of SUVs pull through the estate gates. My men move between the vehicles, opening doors and helping women step out onto the gravel drive. Even from this distance, I can see the fear written across their faces, the way they huddle together like prey animals expecting another predator.

I still can’t believe I was instrumental in helping the FBI shut down the bride auction.

The thought sits uncomfortably in my chest. I wasn’t upset that the auction was closed. I’d never approved of what it had become, the trafficking and exploitation that corrupted what was once a sacred tradition. But helping the cops? That was new. And not something I’d be making a habit of doing.

But this was different. This was the bride auction that even our fathers didn’t agree with. The one that drove a wedge between them and ultimately contributed to their deaths. Shutting it down felt like finishing what they started, like honoring their memory in a way that actually mattered.

And it was Emma’s idea, which made it impossible to refuse.

I watch another woman emerge from the second vehicle, her blonde hair tangled and her clothes wrinkled from days of captivity. She looks around the estate with wide, terrified eyes, probably expecting another cage. My jaw tightens. These women have been through hell, and now they’re here because Emma convinced me that bringing them to a Bratva stronghold was somehow the compassionate choice.

The crazy thing is, she’s right.

If we’d immediately turned them over to the FBI, they’d face hours, maybe days of questioning. Interrogations disguised as interviews. Bureaucratic processing that treats them like evidence instead of victims. Emma didn’t want to subject them to that, not after everything they’d already endured.

So instead, they’re here. In my home. Under my protection.

I turn from the window and head downstairs, my boots echoing against marble floors. The main room has been prepared for this, with furniture rearranged to create comfortable seating areas instead of the formal setup we usually maintain. Staff members move quietly through the space, setting out water, coffee, and food.

The women are already being ushered inside when I arrive. I count twelve of them, ranging in age from maybe twenty to mid-thirties. They look exhausted, relieved, and terrified all at once as they’re guided to the various couches and chairs. Some sit immediately, their legs giving out from exhaustion. Others remain standing, backs pressed against walls, eyes darting toward exits.

Krystal is there, moving among them with gentle confidence. She’s wearing a cream-colored sweater that makes her look approachable and safe. She crouches beside one of the younger women, speaking quietly, her hand resting lightly on the girl’s shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” Krystal says, her voice carrying across the room. “I know you’re scared. I know you don’t know what’s happening. But I promise you, no one here is going to hurt you.”

Several women look at her with desperate hope, wanting to believe but too traumatized to trust easily. One woman, dark-haired and maybe thirty, speaks up in heavily accented English.

“Where are we? Who are you people?”

Krystal straightens, her hazel eyes warm and steady. “My name is Krystal. I was taken by the same auction network that took you. I know what you’ve been through because I lived it.”

The admission ripples through the room. Women who were staring at the floor look up. The ones pressed against walls shift slightly forward. Krystal has their attention now, their trust beginning to form.

“The people who run this estate helped rescue me,” Krystal continues. “And now they’re helping you. You’re not prisoners here. You’re guests. We’re going to make sure you’re safe, fed, and cared for while we figure out what comes next.”

I lean against the doorframe, watching Krystal work. She’s good at this, better than I expected. The warmth in her voice, the way she moves among the women without crowding them, and the careful balance of honesty and reassurance. She’s found her purpose, I realize. This is what she wants to do with her freedom.

My gaze shifts to Emma, standing off to the side near the windows. She’s wearing dark jeans that hug her ass perfectly and a loose black sweater that hides the small bump of her pregnancy. Her dark hair is pulled back in that practical braid, and there’s a slight, satisfied smile on her face as she watches Krystal interact with the rescued women.