Page 37 of Marked By the Mob

We leave the meeting room and move deeper into the estate, Artur heading off to his duties. Emma walks beside me, her steps quiet against the marble floors. I’m acutely aware of how close she is, the way her shoulder occasionally brushes mine whenwe turn corners. The scent of her clean, a contrast to the cigar smoke from the office.

“You didn’t have to help them,” I say quietly.

“I know.” She doesn’t look at me. “But if I’m stuck here, I might as well make myself useful.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Making yourself useful?”

Her jaw tightens. “What else would I be doing?”

“Gathering intelligence. Planning your next escape. Figuring out how to bring us down from the inside.”

She stops walking and turns to face me, her gray-green eyes sharp. “Would you expect anything less?”

“No.” I hold her gaze. “But I’d be disappointed if you weren’t honest about it.”

For a moment, something shifts in her expression. Not quite trust, but maybe the beginning of understanding. Then she looks away and continues walking.

We pass through a corridor I know she hasn’t seen before, one that leads to the estate’s operational nerve center. The security room sits behind a reinforced door with biometric locks. I press my palm against the scanner and the mechanism disengages with a soft click.

Inside, three guards monitor a wall of screens showing camera feeds from every angle of the property. The main gates, the gardens, the perimeter fence, and the forest beyond. Everything is visible, recorded, and archived.

Emma’s attention locks onto the screens immediately. I watch her eyes move across the feeds, tracking patterns, noting blindspots, and memorizing guard rotations. She’s good at hiding it, pretending to only glance casually, but I see the way her gaze lingers on the eastern service gate where deliveries enter each morning.

She’s already planning.

“Impressive setup,” she says, her tone carefully neutral.

“It needs to be.” I move closer to the screens, pointing out specific feeds. “We have over two hundred cameras covering the estate and surrounding property. Motion sensors along the fence line. Thermal imaging in the forest. Guards rotate every six hours on staggered schedules.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re going to figure it out anyway.” I turn to face her. “And I’d rather you understand how thorough we are than waste time testing weaknesses that don’t exist.”

Her lips curve slightly. “You think there are no weaknesses?”

“I think any weakness you find will cost you more than it’s worth.”

She doesn’t respond, but I see the challenge in her eyes. She’s already calculating, already searching for the flaw in our system. It’s what makes her dangerous. It’s also what makes her fascinating.

We leave the security room and head outside. The afternoon sun is warm against my skin as we cross the courtyard toward the training range on the estate’s western edge. The sound of gunfire echoes across the grounds, sharp cracks that punctuate the otherwise quiet afternoon.

Artur is already there, leaning against a post while several guards practice with handguns and rifles. He grins when he sees us approaching, that cocky smile that usually means he’s about to cause trouble.

“Perfect timing,” he calls out. “We were just discussing whether FBI agents can actually shoot or if it’s all Quantico propaganda.”

Emma’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the flash of irritation in her eyes. “You want to find out?”

“Absolutely.” Artur pushes away from the post and gestures toward the range. “Show us what you’ve got, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t correct him for calling her “sweetheart” this time. Instead, she walks to the weapons table and selects a Glock 19, checking the magazine and chamber with practiced efficiency. The guards watch with barely concealed skepticism. They’ve seen plenty of people who think they can shoot. Most of them can’t.

Emma takes her position at the firing line, her stance perfect. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t show off. She just breathes, aims, and fires.

The first shot hits the center mass. So does the second. And the third. By the time she empties the magazine, every round has landed within a tight grouping that would make most of our men jealous.

The range goes quiet.

Artur whistles low. “Well, fuck me.”