Page 122 of Marked By the Mob

I turn and walk away without looking back, my spine straight and my head held high. The guard opens the door for me, and I step through into the corridor beyond.

Rurik, Eduard, and Artur are waiting for me near the courthouse exit. They straighten when they see me approaching, their expressions shifting from tense to relieved.

We don’t speak as we leave the building, the media shouting questions that we ignore. The SUV is waiting at the curb, engine running, and we slide into the back seat in perfect synchronization.

The moment the door closes, sealing us away from the outside world, I exhale slowly. The tension I’ve been holding for three months finally releases, leaving me boneless and exhausted.

“It’s over,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s finally over.”

51

ARTUR

I watch Emma waddle around the dining table, her hand reaching out to snag a slice of freshly baked bread as she passes by. She hates when I use that word, “waddle,” always swatting at me when I tease her about it, but fuck if it isn’t accurate. Her belly is massive now, round and tight, stretching the fabric of her dress. She’s due any day now, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she rubs her lower back when she thinks no one’s watching.

But Christ, she’s beautiful. My heart swells every damn time I look at her, every time I see her carrying our child. Our daughter. The ultrasound confirmed it months ago, and I’ve been walking on air ever since.

“The damn baby needs to be born already,” Emma mutters, lowering herself carefully into a chair. “I’m so fucking done with being pregnant.”

Eduard chuckles from across the table. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until this kid decides to make an appearance.” She tears off a piece of bread and pops it into her mouth, chewing with more aggression than necessary.

Rurik slides a plate of food in front of her. “Eat something more substantial than bread.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snaps, but she picks up her fork anyway.

I grin. She’s been grouchy as hell lately, restless and uncomfortable, snapping at all of us over the smallest things. We take it in stride. She’s carrying our child, dealing with the physical toll of that, and still managing to oversee the transition of power in the city. She’s earned the right to be a little bitchy.

The house feels different now without Krystal. She moved out a couple of months ago, finally ready to stand on her own two feet. Eduard’s still funding her underground operation, helping women escape situations like the one she was in. Rurik bought her a nice cottage-type house on the outskirts of the city, something cozy and safe. I provided the security, making sure the place is locked down tight. She deserves that much after everything she’s been through.

The bride auction is thoroughly shut down now. We made sure of that. A couple of families tried to start another one a few weeks back, thinking they could slip under the radar. They were wrong. Eduard, Rurik, and I shut it down quickly, making an example of the bastards who thought they could continue that sick tradition. No one’s tried since.

The corruption in the FBI and among the politicians has been decimated. The investigation Emma helped facilitate tore through the city like wildfire, burning out the rot that hadfestered for years. Those positions are slowly being filled now with people who actually give a shit about the law. That’s good for Emma and her vision for a cleaner city, but for the Bratva? Not so much. We don’t have as many law enforcement officers on our payrolls anymore, which makes certain operations more complicated.

Langford committed suicide. Or so the official report claims. I know better. We all do. But Emma didn’t blink an eye when she heard the news. She just nodded, her expression neutral, and continued with her business. Whatever she felt about his death, she kept it locked away.

I’m about to reach for my own plate when the first shot rings out.

The window shatters, glass exploding inward. I duck instinctively, my hand already reaching for my gun. More shots follow, rapid-fire, tearing through the walls and furniture.

“Emma!” I shout, my heart lurching into my throat.

But Rurik’s already moving. He’s closest to her, and he covers her body with his own, carefully but quickly taking her to the ground. His hand cradles her head, protecting her from the falling debris.

Eduard and I have our guns drawn, scanning the room for the source of the attack. My pulse pounds in my ears, adrenaline flooding my system. Someone’s shooting into our fucking home. Someone has the balls to attack us here, where Emma is.

“Stay down!” I bark at Emma, though I know Rurik won’t let her move.

More shots pepper the walls. I move toward the window, keeping low, trying to get a visual on the shooter. Eduardmirrors my movements on the opposite side of the room, his expression cold and focused.

Rurik gets Emma to the hallway, out of the direct line of fire, then returns to us. His jaw is tight, his eyes blazing with fury. “She’s safe for now.”

“How many?” Eduard asks, his voice clipped.

“Can’t tell yet,” I reply, peering carefully around the edge of the broken window.

Then the front door bursts open, wood splintering as it’s kicked in. Volkov storms through, his gun raised, bullets flying in all directions. His cronies follow behind him, at least four of them, all armed and firing wildly.