Page 124 of Marked By the Mob

“They’re all staying,” she says, her voice brooking no argument. “I don’t give a fuck about your policy.”

The nurses exchange glances but don’t push the issue. Smart.

Emma cusses us all out during the labor. She calls Eduard a bastard for getting her pregnant. She tells Rurik his hand-holding is useless. She informs me that I’m never touching her again. We take it in stride, letting her vent her pain and frustration. She’s bringing our child into the world. She can say whatever the hell she wants.

And then, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, the baby is born.

A healthy baby girl.

The doctor places her on Emma’s chest, and I feel something crack open inside me. She’s tiny, perfect, with a tuft of dark hair and Emma’s nose. Her cries fill the room, strong and insistent.

“She’s beautiful,” Emma whispers, tears streaming down her face.

I can’t speak. My throat is too tight, my eyes burning. I reach out, my hand trembling, and touch my daughter’s tiny fingers. She wraps her hand around my finger, her grip surprisingly strong.

“She’s perfect,” Eduard says, his voice rough with emotion.

Rurik’s eyes are wet, though he’d never admit it. “Our daughter.”

After the nurses clean her up and check her vitals, they hand her to me. I hold her carefully, terrified I’ll break her, but she settlesagainst my chest, her cries quieting. I look down at her, at this tiny life we created, and I’m overwhelmed.

Eduard takes his turn next, holding her with a gentleness I’ve rarely seen from him. He murmurs to her in Russian, his voice soft. Then Rurik, who cradles her like she’s made of glass, his expression tender.

Emma watches us from the bed, exhausted but smiling. The nurses have cleaned her up, and she’s resting now, her eyes heavy.

I sit down beside her, once again holding our daughter. “You did amazing.”

She reaches out, her hand covering mine. “We did amazing.”

I look around the room. At Emma, tired but radiant. At Eduard and Rurik, both of them staring at our daughter with wonder. At the baby in my arms, so small and fragile and ours.

For the first time in my life, I truly understand what a family is. Not the Bratva, not the brotherhood forged in blood and violence. This. This right here. The people I love and the child we created together.

This is family.

And I’ll protect it with everything I have.

52

EPILOGUE - 5 YEARS LATER

Emma

The late afternoon sun filters through the sheer curtains of the nursery, casting golden light across the pale yellow walls. I cradle my newborn daughter against my chest, her tiny mouth latched onto my breast as she nurses contentedly. Her eyes are closed, dark lashes resting against her chubby cheeks, and I can’t help but smile as I stroke the soft down of hair on her head.

Through the window, I watch the chaos unfolding in our backyard. Artur stands at the grill, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black t-shirt as he flips burgers with one hand and gestures wildly with the other, probably telling some outrageous story. Rurik leans against the patio table, arms crossed over his chest, that familiar smirk playing at his lips as he listens. Eduard moves through the crowd with practiced ease, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, every inch the diplomatic leader, even at a family barbecue.

My heart swells watching them. Five years. Five years since everything changed, since my world turned upside down andsomehow landed right-side up in the most unexpected way possible.

The baby makes a soft sound, and I look down to find her milk-drunk and sleepy, her mouth slack. I carefully adjust my nursing bra and shirt, then lift her to my shoulder to burp her. She’s so tiny, so perfect. Our third child. Our little Anastasia.

Outside, I spot my other two running wild with the neighborhood kids. Mikhail, my four-year-old son, is chasing his older sister Katya around the swing set, both of them shrieking with laughter. Katya’s dark hair flies behind her like a banner, so much like Rurik’s. Mikhail has Artur’s stubborn jaw and Eduard’s calculating eyes. And little Ana in my arms has all three of them wrapped around her tiny finger already.

I never imagined this would be my life. Emma Moore, former FBI agent, now the wife of three of the most powerful Bratva bosses. Mother to their children. Part of a world I once investigated and put behind bars.

But here I am. And I wouldn’t change a damn thing.

A knock on the doorframe makes me turn. Krystal stands there, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse. She’s come a long way from being the property of Volkov.