Page 34 of Marked By the Mob

I follow her gaze and see what caught her attention.

Parked near the far end of the courtyard is a black vehicle. A Ford Explorer with tinted windows and government plates barely visible from this distance.

It’s the exact same make and model used by the FBI task force she worked with before her disappearance.

15

EMMA

I stop walking the moment I see the black SUV parked near the far side of the courtyard.

My breath catches. The shape is unmistakable. Government-grade tint on the windows. Reinforced bumper. Even the way it sits low on its suspension screams federal vehicle. It’s the same model used by the FBI task force I worked with before everything went to hell.

For one dangerous second, hope flares in my chest. Someone from the Bureau found me. They tracked me down. They’re here to extract me from this nightmare.

My pulse hammers as scenarios flash through my mind. A rescue team positioned beyond the walls. Tactical units waiting for the signal. Langford coordinating the operation from a command center somewhere in the city. Maybe Hayes pushed harder than I thought. Maybe Marcus traced something I left behind. Maybe someone finally noticed I’d gone dark and decided to do something about it.

The hope is so sharp it hurts. It cuts through every defense I’ve built since I arrived here, every rationalization I’ve made about why I’m still alive and why they’re keeping me. For just a moment, I let myself believe that this nightmare has an end. That I’m not completely alone. That someone out there still gives a damn about what happened to me.

My throat tightens and my hands want to shake, but I force them still at my sides.

Artur notices the change in my expression immediately. His dark eyes follow my gaze across the courtyard to the SUV and something shifts in his posture. Not alarm exactly, but heightened awareness. He glances at Rurik, some silent communication passing between them that I can’t read. Rurik’s pale eyes narrow slightly, his attention shifting from the vehicle to my face.

Eduard walks ahead toward the vehicle while Rurik remains beside me. I feel his pale blue eyes on my face, watching my reaction more than the SUV itself. Studying me. Reading me. I force my expression neutral, burying the hope before it shows too clearly.

We cross the courtyard together, my boots crunching against the gravel path. Morning sunlight warms the stone walls surrounding the estate, and somewhere beyond the outer gate, I hear the distant sound of traffic, normal life continuing while I’m trapped here. The contrast makes my chest ache. Out there, people are going to work, buying coffee, and complaining about mundane problems. In here, I’m walking toward what I thought might be salvation with three men who could kill me without a second thought.

The gravel shifts under my feet with each step. I notice the way the stones have been carefully raked into patterns, like a zen garden. Someone maintains this. Someone takes pride in making sure every detail of this place looks perfect. It’s such a normal observation that it feels surreal.

When Eduard reaches the SUV and opens the driver’s door, the illusion shatters.

The interior has been heavily modified. Hidden compartments line the console where standard equipment should be. Encrypted radios replace the Bureau-issue communications gear. The rear seating has been reinforced with materials I recognize from prisoner transport vehicles, but the configuration is all wrong. This isn’t law enforcement. This is something else entirely.

My stomach drops. Not a rescue. Just another reminder that these men operate in a world that mirrors mine but exists completely outside the law.

The disappointment hits harder than it should. I knew it was unlikely. I knew the chances of the Bureau finding me here were slim to none. But some stupid, desperate part of me had let that hope take root anyway, and now it’s being ripped out. Even worse, I feel a bit of relief. My mind may scream for rescue, but something else is happy I won’t be leaving here so soon. That I won’t be leaving Rurik, Eduard, and Artur.

God, I’m sick.

I swallow hard and focus on the vehicle instead of the crushing weight in my chest.

Artur leans casually against the hood, his arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders,and I catch myself noticing the way the fabric stretches over muscle before I force my attention back to the vehicle. Even now, even when I’m fighting disappointment, fear, and anger, my body still reacts to him.

“Vehicles like this move through cities without attracting attention,” he says, his tone conversational. “Most people assume they belong to some branch of government and never question them.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. They’re using our own tactics against us. Hiding in plain sight by looking exactly like what people expect to see. It’s brilliant and infuriating in equal measure.

Eduard runs his hand along the door frame, checking something I can’t see from this angle. His fingers trace the edge with practiced familiarity, like he’s done this a thousand times. “We have three more just like it. Different plates, different registration, all clean if anyone runs them.”

“How?” The question escapes before I can stop it.

Rurik’s lips curve slightly. “Connections. Money. The same way anyone acquires things they shouldn’t have.”

I want to ask more. I need to know exactly how deep their network runs, who they’re paying off, and what other resources they have access to. But I bite my tongue. Every piece of information I gather is another weapon I can use later, but only if I’m careful about how I collect it. If I push too hard, they’ll shut down. If I seem too interested, they’ll wonder why.

Instead, I walk slowly around the courtyard, pretending to admire the stone paths and manicured gardens. The morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of flowers I can’t name. Roses climb a trellis near the eastern wall, their bloomsa deep crimson that reminds me uncomfortably of blood. The hedges are trimmed into precise geometric shapes, and even the grass looks manicured, each blade the exact same height.

As we circle back toward the house, a servant crosses the courtyard carrying a crate of supplies toward the kitchen wing. She’s older, maybe fifty, with graying hair pulled back in a practical bun. She doesn’t look at us as she passes, her eyes fixed on the ground in a way that suggests she’s learned not to draw attention. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her movements efficient but careful. She’s been here long enough to know the rules.