Page 125 of Marked By the Mob

“She asleep?” Krystal asks softly, moving into the room.

“Just about.” I stand carefully, moving to the crib to lay Ana down. She doesn’t even stir as I settle her on her back, tucking a light blanket around her.

“You’re getting good at that,” Krystal observes.

“Third time’s the charm.” I grin at her then link my arm through hers as we head downstairs. “How’s business?”

Her eyes light up. “We just secured another safe house in Connecticut. That makes fifteen total. We’ve helped over two hundred women and children in the last year alone.”

Pride fills my chest. Krystal’s underground network has become something incredible. And the best part? My men support it completely. More than that, they’ve made it part of their business model. Any Bratva caught trafficking on their territory gets eliminated. No questions, no mercy.

“That’s amazing, Krystal.”

“Couldn’t do it without the intel your boys provide.” She squeezes my arm. “Speaking of which, Eduard asked me to look into a rumored operation in Boston. Apparently, they’ve been moving girls through the port.”

My jaw tightens. “What did you find?”

“Enough to bury them.” Her smile is sharp, dangerous. “I’m meeting with your husbands tomorrow to go over everything.”

We step out onto the patio and the noise of the party washes over us. There must be forty people here, maybe more. Family, friends, and close business associates. I even spot Agent Morrison from the FBI near the drink table, laughing at something Artur’s cousin is saying. The fact that we have FBI agents at our family barbecue still blows my mind, but the alliance my men forged has held strong. Information for protection. Everyone wins.

“Mama!” Katya barrels into my legs, nearly knocking me over. Her face is flushed and sweaty, her dress grass-stained. “Mikhail said I can’t climb the big tree, but I can, right?”

“Your brother is being protective,” I tell her, smoothing her wild hair. “But yes, you can climb the tree. Just be careful.”

“Ha!” She sticks her tongue out at Mikhail, who’s appeared behind her, scowling.

“Papa said girls shouldn’t climb trees,” he insists stubbornly.

“Which papa?” I ask, amused.

He thinks about this. “Papa Artur.”

Of course. I glance over at the grill where Artur is now arguing with Rurik about proper meat temperature, their voices carrying across the yard. “Well, Papa Artur is wrong. Girls can do anything boys can do.”

Katya beams triumphantly and races off. Mikhail looks uncertain, then shrugs and follows her. I watch them go, shaking my head.

Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and I lean back into Eduard’s solid chest. His lips brush my ear. “The baby sleeping?”

“Out like a light.” I turn in his embrace, tilting my head back to look at him. I raise my hand, showing him the baby monitor I’m carrying so I can hear her when she wakes up. Five years, and he still makes my heart race. “You having fun?”

“I’m watching my wife, my children, my brothers, and my family all in one place. Safe. Happy.” His gray eyes soften. “Yes, Emma. I’m having fun.”

I stretch up to kiss him, soft and sweet. He tastes like whiskey and smoke.

“Get a room!” Rurik calls out, and I flip him off without breaking the kiss. Eduard chuckles against my mouth.

When we finally part, he keeps me close, one hand splayed possessively across my lower back. “Krystal told me about Boston.”

“I figured she would.”

“We’ll handle it.” His voice drops, taking on that cold edge that still sends shivers down my spine. “No one moves product like that in our territory. Not anymore.”

This is the reality of my life. Beautiful children and family barbecues, yes. But also violence and blood and the constant threat of danger. My men are killers. They’ve done terrible things and will continue to do terrible things. But they’ve also built something better. A code. Standards. Protection for the innocent.

It’s not perfect. But it’s ours.

The afternoon bleeds into evening. We eat too much food, the kids consume their weight in watermelon and cookies, and someone breaks out a bottle of vodka that’s probably older than I am. Toasts are made, stories are told, and laughter fills the air.