Page 28 of Marked By the Mob

Or was it someone higher up? Someone with enough authority to coordinate the entire setup without raising immediate alarms?

The questions spiral, unanswerable in the dark.

And then there’s Krystal. The underground bride auction was my best lead, my only real connection to what happened to her that night.

Is she still alive? The question haunts me. Did someone buy her the way these men bought me? Is she trapped somewhere, scared and alone, wondering why I haven’t found her yet?

The guilt is crushing. I promised myself I’d bring her home. Instead, I’m locked in a bedroom with three Bratva bosses, my own escape seeming more impossible by the hour.

I shift on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position. The movement is small, but Artur’s voice cuts through the darkness immediately.

“Can’t sleep?”

I freeze. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” There’s amusement in his tone. “You’ve been staring at the ceiling for two hours.”

Two hours. Has it only been that long?

“Go to sleep, Artur,” I mutter.

“Can’t. Not when you’re over there plotting your next escape attempt.”

“I’m not plotting anything.”

“Sure you’re not.” The recliner creaks as he shifts. “For what it’s worth, you won’t make it past the first checkpoint. We’ve already increased security after tonight.”

I force myself to stay still, to breathe evenly, and to give the appearance of someone settling in for the night. But my mind continues racing, cataloging every detail of the room. The distance to the door. The lock mechanism. The windows and their reinforced glass. The security panel near the entrance.

This estate was designed by people who understand how to keep things locked down. Every entrance, every exit, every corridor is monitored and controlled. The guards rotate on schedules I haven’t fully mapped yet. The cameras cover angles I’m still discovering.

For the first time since arriving, I begin to understand just how carefully this place was built. It’s not just a mansion. It’s a fortress designed to keep threats out and valuable things in.

And right now, I’m one of those valuable things.

The thought should terrify me. Should make me more desperate to escape. But lying here in the dark, listening to the steady breathing of three men who’ve already crossed lines with me I never expected, I feel something more complicated than fear.

I feel trapped, yes. But I also feel something dangerously close to curiosity.

These men aren’t what I expected. They’re criminals, killers, everything I’ve been trained to oppose. But they’re also more complex than the files suggested. The way they move together, the unspoken communication between them, the careful balance of power and respect.

And the way they look at me. A shiver runs down my spine. Their eyes roam my body as if they could eat me alive—and I’d love every minute of it, judging from my experience already.

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. This is survival. Strategy. Nothing more. I can’t afford to let attraction or curiosity cloud my judgment.

Hours pass in silence. The estate remains quiet except for the distant hum of climate control and the occasional crackle of a radio from somewhere in the corridors beyond. I watch the shadows shift across the ceiling as moonlight moves through the windows.

My body aches from tension, from lying rigid on the uncomfortable couch, from the adrenaline that’s been flooding my system since the alarm went off. But I can’t relax. I’m too aware ofthem.

I turn my head slightly and let my gaze drift toward the bed. Rurik sleeps on his back, one arm thrown across his chest. Even in sleep, he looks powerful, controlled. His face is softer now,the hard edges smoothed by sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady, deep breaths.

Eduard lies on his side, facing away from me, but I can see the strong line of his shoulders, the way his body curves naturally into the mattress. There’s something peaceful about him in sleep, something that makes the constant vigilance he shows when awake seem even more deliberate.

Artur has finally gone still in the recliner, his head tilted back, his breathing even. His face is relaxed, the usual sharp humor and intensity replaced by something younger, almost vulnerable.

They’re beautiful. All three of them. The thought surfaces unbidden, and I can’t push it away.

I’ve already crossed lines with them. Lines I never should have crossed. The memory of Rurik against the wall, of Eduard’s hands on my skin, of Artur’s mouth claiming mine—all of it burns through me with uncomfortable clarity.