Page 35 of Marked By the Mob

I use the moment to fall slightly behind the others. Artur and Eduard are discussing something about the vehicle’s modifications, their voices low. Rurik walks ahead, his attention on his phone, his thumb scrolling across the screen.

“Excuse me,” I say quietly to the servant.

She stops, her eyes widening slightly as she looks at me. There’s wariness in her expression, like she’s not sure whether speaking to me will get her in trouble. Her grip tightens on the crate, knuckles going white.

“Where do the deliveries enter the property?” I keep my voice casual, like I’m just curious. Friendly. Harmless.

She hesitates, glancing toward the men ahead of us. Her throat works as she swallows. “The service gate. East side.”

“How often?”

“Every morning. Sometimes afternoon if there’s a special order.” Her accent is thick, Russian. She shifts her weight, clearly wanting to leave but not sure if she’s been dismissed.

“What time in the morning?” I press gently.

“Between seven and eight. Always the same truck.” Her eyes dart toward Eduard again, and I can see the fear there. She’s terrified of being caught talking to me.

“Thank you,” I say softly, trying to put her at ease. “I appreciate it.”

Before I can ask anything else, Eduard notices I’ve lagged behind. “Emma,” he calls, his tone carrying just enough edge to make it clear I should catch up.

I jog forward to rejoin the group, my mind already cataloging what I learned. Daily deliveries are between seven and eight at the east side service gate. Same truck every time, which means the same driver. Someone cleared. Someone the guards wouldn’t search too thoroughly.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

Back inside the house, we pass through a long corridor lined with dark wood paneling. The temperature drops as we move deeper into the building, away from the sunlight. Our footsteps echo against marble floors beneath high ceilings. The artwork on the walls is museum quality—original pieces, not prints. I recognize a Kandinsky among them, worth a fortune.

The corridor opens toward the central staircase, the same one I descended this morning. Voices echo faintly from another room somewhere to our left. Male voices, speaking in rapid Russian. I catch fragments of conversation, words I recognize from my limited language training. Business. Territory. Numbers. Something about shipments and schedules.

I realize with sudden clarity that while I’ve been focused on escaping, the three men are still running entire criminal organizations from this estate. This isn’t just their home. It’s their headquarters. Their command center.

The thought sends a chill down my spine. What does it mean that I’ve been sleeping in their bed? That I’ve let them touch me? That some part of me has started to respond to them in ways that have nothing to do with survival?

Artur catches me staring toward the voices and grins. “Curious?”

“About what?”

“How we actually run things.” He gestures vaguely toward the room where the meeting is happening. “You’ve been here long enough to see the surface. The guards, the security, and the pretty courtyard. But you haven’t seen how the machine actually works.”

Eduard glances at Rurik, something passing between them again. A question, maybe. Or a warning. Rurik’s expression doesn’t change, but after a moment he nods slightly.

“She might as well understand what she’s gotten herself into,” Rurik says quietly.

My pulse quickens. They’re offering me access. Information. A glimpse behind the curtain I’ve been trying to see past since I arrived. Every instinct I have as an agent screams at me to take it. To learn everything I can. To gather intelligence that could bring down their entire operation.

But another part of me hesitates. Once I see how deep this goes, there’s no going back. No pretending I don’t know. And worse, no pretending I’m just a victim. If I walk into that roomwillingly, I’m choosing to be part of this world. The line between undercover and complicit has always been thin. I’ve walked it before. But this feels different. More personal.

As we reach the staircase, Artur stops and turns to face me fully. His dark eyes are amused but serious underneath, testing me. The light from the window catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slight curve of his mouth. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that makes me want to lean closer.

I don’t.

“If you want to understand the world you’ve landed in,” he says casually, “you might as well see how it actually works.”

Then he gestures toward the meeting room and the voices beyond. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s show you a real Bratva strategy session.”

16

EDUARD