Page 33 of Marked By the Mob

“When I was twenty-two, my father was killed,” I continue. “Shot during what was supposed to be a peace negotiation with a rival family. Artur’s and Eduard’s fathers died in the same shootout.”

The memory is still vivid even after all these years. The phone call in the middle of the night. The warehouse where they’d met, now a crime scene painted in blood. Three bodies on the concrete floor, their alliance finally reunited in death.

Emma’s eyes widen slightly. “All three of them? At the same time?”

“Yes.” The word comes out harder than I intend. Even after all these years, the memory of that night still burns. “We stood over their graves and made a promise. We would rebuild what they destroyed. We would unite the three families again, stronger than before.”

I remember the rain that day. The way it mixed with the dirt as we buried them side by side, the way our fathers should have lived. Artur’s face was stone. Eduard’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles went white. I felt nothing but cold fury at the waste of it all.

“And we would do it the right way,” Artur says, his dark eyes intense. “Through a shared wife who would help us unite our three families.”

Emma’s coffee cup freezes halfway to her lips. “A shared wife?”

“We’ve been looking for years,” Eduard says calmly. “Someone strong enough to survive in our world. Someone who could stand beside us without breaking. Someone who could help us build something that would last.”

“Someone who could be the bridge between three families that have spent too long at war with themselves,” I add. “Someone who could give us heirs that carry all three bloodlines, binding us together in a way that can’t be undone by pride or greed or stupidity.

Someone exactly like the woman sitting across from me, even if she doesn’t see it yet.

“And you think that’s me?” Emma’s voice is sharp with disbelief. “An FBI agent who’s sworn to bring down people like you?”

“We didn’t expect you to be FBI,” I admit. “But the moment you stood on that stage and refused to bow to anyone in that room, all three of us recognized the same thing. Strength. The kind we always said our wife would need.”

The kind that makes my blood heat every time she looks at me with those defiant eyes. The kind that makes me want to break her and worship her in the same breath.

Emma sets down her cup with deliberate care. “I never agreed to any of this.”

“No,” Eduard acknowledges. “You didn’t. And no one expects you to accept the situation overnight. But the truth remainsthat you’re here now and none of us are pretending the connection between us doesn’t exist after everything that’s already happened.”

The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken tension. Emma’s hands curl into fists on the table, and I can see the war playing out behind her eyes. Part of her wants to fight, to reject everything we’re saying. But another part, the part that responded to us this morning, can’t deny what she felt.

I lean forward slightly, holding her gaze. “You felt it, Emma. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t look away. That’s my girl. Never backing down, even when she knows she’s cornered.

“This is insane,” she says finally.

“Maybe,” Artur agrees with a slight smile. “But you’re still sitting here.”

Emma’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “Like I have a choice,” she huffs. “I need air.”

I rise as well, gesturing toward the door. “The estate has private gardens. You haven’t seen them yet.”

She looks like she wants to refuse, but after a moment she nods. Artur leads the way downstairs, his stride confident and relaxed. Eduard lingers long enough to make sure Emma actually follows then falls into step beside her.

I bring up the rear, watching the way she moves through the corridors. The gardens are on the east side of the estate, accessible through a set of French doors that open onto a stone terrace. Morning sunlight floods the space, warming the air andmaking the dew on the grass sparkle. The gardens themselves are extensive, with carefully maintained paths winding between flower beds and ornamental trees.

The estate is quiet this time of morning. Most of the staff are in the kitchens or the outer buildings, giving us privacy. Our footsteps echo on the marble floors as we descend the main staircase. Emma’s hand trails along the banister as we walk.

She’s always thinking. Always planning. It’s going to make keeping her here a hell of a lot more interesting.

Artur pushes open the doors, and fresh air rushes in. It smells like roses and wet earth, clean and alive. The gardens were Eduard’s idea when we designed this place. He said we needed something beautiful to balance out all the ugliness in our lives.

Looking at Emma as she steps outside, I think he might have been right.

Emma steps outside and stops, her eyes scanning the landscape. For a moment, I think she’s simply taking in the view. The gardens really are beautiful this time of year, with late spring flowers in full bloom and the trees heavy with new leaves. The morning light turns everything golden, peaceful in a way that feels almost foreign to men like us.

Then her entire body goes rigid.