Page 121 of Marked By the Mob

Good. Let them be nervous.

Langford is already seated at the defense table when I enter. He looks older than I remember, his silver hair thinner, his face drawn. But his posture is still straight and his expression composed. He doesn’t look at me as I pass, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him.

The prosecution calls me to the stand after the opening statements. My legs are unsteady as I cross the courtroom, my hand automatically going to my belly. The bailiff swears me in and I settle into the witness chair, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

The prosecutor is a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She walks me through my testimony, asking questions designed to build the case against Langford piece by piece.

I tell them everything. How I was investigating the bride auction network. How my operation was compromised. How I ended up chained on a stage while men bid on me like property. How I traced the betrayal back to Langford through financial records, access logs, and his own confession.

“And the men who purchased you,” the prosecutor says, gesturing toward the back of the courtroom. “Rurik Novikov, Eduard Balabanov, and Artur Lenkov. What was their role in all of this?”

I turn slightly in my seat, my gaze finding my husbands’. They’re watching me with identical expressions of fierce protectiveness, their bodies tense like they’re ready to intervene if anyone so much as looks at me wrong.

“Money was exchanged,” I say carefully, choosing my words with precision. “But they rescued me.” I pause, letting the distinction sink in before I turn to look directly at Langford. “Then they helped me find the mole.”

Langford’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

The testimony continues for another hour. The prosecutor walks me through the evidence, the recordings, and the connectionsbetween Langford and the auction network. By the time she’s finished, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’s guilty.

The defense attorney tries to discredit me during cross-examination, suggesting I’m biased because of my relationship with the Bratva. That I’m lying to protect my criminal husbands. But the evidence speaks for itself and the jury sees through his attempts.

When the verdict comes back, it’s unanimous. Guilty on all counts.

The judge sentences Langford to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The courtroom erupts with murmurs and whispers, but I barely hear them. I’m watching Langford’s face as the sentence is read, looking for some sign of remorse or regret.

There’s nothing. Just that same blank composure, like he’s already accepted his fate.

After the sentencing, I request permission to see Langford in the temporary holding cell where he’ll wait before being transferred to prison. The prosecutor tries to talk me out of it, but I insist. I need this. I need closure.

The holding cell is small and sterile, with concrete walls and a metal bench. Langford sits with his hands cuffed in front of him, his expensive suit looking out of place in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

He looks up when I enter, and something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. Or regret.

“Emma,” he starts, his voice rough. “I’m sorry. I need you to know that I’m?—”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, cutting him off. “You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to make yourself feel better by saying you’re sorry.”

His mouth closes, his jaw working.

I step closer to the bars separating us, my hands curling around the cold metal. “You were a father figure to me. After my parents died, you were all I had. Ilovedyou. Itrustedyou completely.”

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

“I never thought you’d betray me like this,” I continue, my voice shaking despite my effort to stay controlled. “I never thought you’d sell me to criminals. That you’d try to have me killed when I got too close to the truth.”

Langford’s expression crumbles slightly, genuine pain breaking through his composure. “I didn’t want it to be you. I hoped?—”

“I don’t care what you hoped.” My voice rises, echoing off the concrete walls. “You made your choice. You chose your career, your connections, and your corrupt network over me. Over every woman who disappeared into that auction.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m not finished.

“But now I’ll sleep easy,” I say, my voice dropping to something cold and final. “Knowing you’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life. Knowing you’ll never hurt another innocent person. And that you’ll never have a life outside these walls.”

I lean closer to the bars, making sure he can see the determination in my eyes.

“And know this. After this moment, I will never think of you again. You are dead to me.”

The words hang in the air between us, absolute and irreversible. Langford’s face goes pale, his hands trembling slightly in the cuffs.