Page 24 of Marked By the Mob

“A fox.” Artur’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “We mobilized the entire estate for a fucking fox.”

“Better to overreact than underreact.” That’s Rurik, his tone flat and controlled. “Increase patrols along that fence line for the rest of the night. And I want that section repaired within the hour.”

Their voices fade as they move past the corridor entrance. I wait until I can’t hear them anymore then continue forward, my steps quick and silent.

The side corridor leads me deeper into a section of the estate that feels different from the rest. The lights are dimmer here, the air slightly stale like rooms that haven’t been opened in months. The furniture I pass looks expensive but untouched, covered in a fine layer of dust that suggests the cleaning staff doesn’t come through regularly.

This part of the house isn’t used anymore. The realization sends a chill down my spine. Why would they maintain an entire wing then abandon it?

I move carefully, testing each floorboard before putting my full weight down. The alarm has finally stopped, leaving behind a ringing silence that feels almost as loud. Without the noise to cover my movements, every sound I make seems amplified. The rustle of my clothes. The soft exhale of my breath. The faint creak of wood beneath my boots.

The hallway stretches ahead, lined with closed doors on either side. I try the first one. Locked. The second opens into what looks like a bedroom frozen in time, the furniture draped in white sheets. I close it quickly and move on.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden door stands slightly ajar. Unlike the others, this one looks deliberately maintained. The wood is polished, the brass handle gleaming even in the dimlight. And it’s open just enough that I can see warm light spilling through the gap.

I should turn back. Should return to my room before someone realizes I’m gone. But curiosity pulls me forward, stronger than caution. I need to understand these men. Need to know what drives them, what they’re hiding, what weaknesses I can exploit.

I push the door wider and step inside.

The room beyond takes my breath away. It’s a study, large and richly appointed, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining three walls. A massive desk dominates the center of the space, its surface covered in papers and photographs. More photographs hang on the walls, interspersed with framed documents and what looks like military medals behind glass.

But it’s the photographs that draw my attention. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, covering every available surface. Men in expensive suits standing beside luxury cars. Groups gathered around restaurant tables, glasses raised in toasts. Formal portraits of families dressed in their finest.

And in almost every photograph, I see younger versions of Rurik, Artur, and Eduard.

They can’t be more than teenagers in some of these images, their faces less hardened, their expressions more open. They’re always together, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera with the easy confidence of boys who’ve never known real loss.

But there are older men in the photographs too. Men who share Rurik’s pale eyes, Artur’s sharp features, and Eduard’s steady presence. Their fathers, I realize. These are probably their fathers.

I move closer to the desk, studying the documents scattered across its surface. Financial records. Property deeds. Letters written in Russian that I can’t fully read. And more photographs, these ones more recent, showing the estate as it’s being built. Construction crews working on the walls. Security systems being installed. The three men standing together in front of the unfinished mansion, their expressions serious and determined.

This room is a shrine. A preserved piece of their past, maintained exactly as it was when their fathers were alive. The realization sends something cold sliding down my spine. These men aren’t just criminals. They’re sons trying to honor family legacies.

I pick up one of the photographs, studying it more closely. The three fathers stand together in what looks like a restaurant’s private room, their expressions relaxed and confident. Behind them, barely visible in the background, I can make out other faces. Men I don’t recognize. And one woman, her features partially obscured by shadow.

Something about her seems familiar, but I can’t place why.

I’m about to set the photograph down when voices echo in the corridor outside. Male voices, speaking in Russian, growing louder as they approach.

My heart slams against my ribs. I spin toward the door, but it’s too late to run. They’re too close. If I try to leave now, they’ll see me immediately.

I’m trapped.

The voices grow clearer, and I catch fragments of conversation. They’re discussing the alarm, the perimeter sweep, and thedamaged fencing. And then one voice rises above the others, sharp and commanding.

Rurik.

The footsteps stop just outside the door.

11

EDUARD

The study door swings open under my hand, and I step inside just behind Rurik. My pulse is still elevated from the sprint through the estate, from the moment I saw Emma’s empty room on the security feed and realized she’d used the chaos to slip away.

And there she is.

Emma stands behind the massive desk, her gray-green eyes wide but defiant as she watches us enter. She doesn’t try to bolt for the window or make some desperate play for freedom. She just stands there, chin lifted, shoulders squared, like she’s ready to face whatever comes next.