Page 32 of Marked By the Mob

I watch Emma climb out of the massive bed, her movements careful and measured. She’s always calculating, always watching for exits even when she pretends not to be. She moves to the window first, her naked body silhouetted against the morning light. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curl slightly at her sides. But she’s not embarrassed. Not shy about what we’ve done, not if her strolling around naked is any indication.

The morning sun catches the curve of her spine, highlighting every line of muscle beneath smooth skin. She’s strong in a way that has nothing to do with physical power and everything to do with will.

“You should eat something,” Eduard says quietly from his position near the door. He’s already dressed, having slipped into jeans and a fitted black shirt while Emma was distracted by the view outside.

She turns to face us and I see the moment she realizes she’s still completely naked. Heat floods her cheeks, but she doesn’tscramble to cover herself. Instead, she walks calmly to where her clothes are scattered across the floor and begins dressing with deliberate movements.

I admire that about her. The refusal to show weakness even when she’s vulnerable.

My eyes track the way she pulls on each piece of clothing like armor. The jeans that hug her hips. The shirt that covers the marks we left on her skin. She’s rebuilding her defenses, and I let her.

For now.

Artur stretches lazily on the bed, watching her with open appreciation. “Breakfast should be here soon. Unless you’d rather stay in bed a while longer.”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, her voice flat as she pulls on her jeans, but a tinge of hot color stains her cheeks. I smile. She always wants to appear in control, as if nothing affects her, so I enjoy these rare moments when she can’t hide how she feels.

A knock at the door interrupts whatever Artur was about to say next. I call out permission to enter, and one of the household staff wheels in a cart laden with coffee, fresh fruit, warm bread, and what smells like eggs and bacon. The woman keeps her eyes down as she arranges everything on the small table near the window then leaves without a word.

The scent of fresh coffee fills the room, mixing with the lingering smell of sex and expensive sheets. It’s a strange combination, domestic and primal all at once. The breakfast spread is elaborate for just the four of us. Silver coffee service, crystal juice glasses, and porcelain plates with delicate gold trim. Everythingin this estate is designed to project power and wealth, even something as simple as breakfast.

Emma eyes the food warily, like she’s expecting it to be poisoned.

“It’s safe,” I say, moving to pour coffee into four cups. “We eat the same food as everyone else in this house.”

She doesn’t respond, but after a moment she sits at the table. Her posture is rigid, her hands folded in her lap. She’s still watching everything, cataloging details she thinks might be useful later.

I hand her a cup of coffee and take the seat across from her. Eduard settles into the chair to my right while Artur finally drags himself out of bed and joins us, stealing a piece of bread from the tray.

For several minutes, no one speaks. The only sounds are the clink of silverware and the quiet hum of the estate waking up around us. I can feel Emma’s tension radiating across the table, but I don’t push. She needs time to process what happened between us, what continues to happen.

I study her face as she sips her coffee. The way her jaw tightens when she thinks no one is looking. The slight tremor in her hands that she hides by wrapping both palms around the warm cup. She’s not as unaffected as she wants us to believe and that knowledge sends satisfaction through my chest.

She felt what we did this morning. The connection that goes beyond physical pleasure. It scared her, and Emma Moore doesn’t scare easily.

“This place is huge,” Emma says finally, her voice carefully neutral. “How long have you lived here?”

Eduard glances at me then answers. “About five years. We designed it specifically for the three of us to live here together.”

Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Together? All three of you?”

“It was meant to be neutral territory,” I explain, setting down my coffee cup. “A place where our families could reconnect after years of distance.”

Emma’s gaze sharpens. “What happened? Why the distance?”

The question hangs in the air. I exchange looks with Artur and Eduard. We’ve kept this story private for so long, shared it with so few people. But if Emma is going to be part of our lives, if she’s going to understand why we bought her at that auction, she needs to know the truth.

The whole fucking truth, no matter how much it still cuts.

“Our fathers were close once,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “Best friends, actually. They built their organizations together, supported each other through wars and betrayals. But they had a falling out. A disagreement over territory and business practices that turned ugly.”

I can still remember the shouting matches that echoed through our home when I was a boy. My father’s rage when Artur’s and Eduard’s fathers refused to back his play against a rival family. The way alliances crumbled overnight, turning brothers into enemies.

“They forbade us from seeing each other,” Artur adds, his usual humor absent from his voice. “We were teenagers at the timeand didn’t understand why our friendship had to end because of their bullshit.”

Eduard leans back in his chair. “We found ways to stay in contact anyway. Secret meetings. Coded messages. It wasn’t easy, but we refused to let their fight destroy what we had.”

Emma listens quietly, her expression unreadable. I can see her mind working, filing away information while looking for weaknesses she can exploit.