Page 39 of Marked By the Mob

The three men exchange a look I can’t quite read. It’s quick, barely a flicker of eye contact, but I catch it anyway. Something about Baltic Logistics makes them cautious. Whether that’s because they suspect the company is compromised or because they know more than they’re saying, I can’t tell yet.

“You should rest,” Eduard says, effectively ending the conversation. “It’s been a long day.”

I want to argue, want to push for more information, but I recognize a dismissal when I hear one. Instead, I nod and turn, feeling their eyes on my back as I walk away, two guards appearing from nowhere to follow me.

Back in my room, I shower away the afternoon dust and change into fresh clothes. The hot water helps settle my racing thoughts, though it does nothing to ease the tension coiled in my chest. The connection I’ve been chasing for a year is suddenly, impossibly real.

I spend an hour lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, running through everything I know. The dates, names, and pieces that don’t quite fit together yet. My mind circles back to the meaningful glances between the three men when I asked about the shipment. They know something. Or they’re about to receive something that matters.

By the time I leave my room, the afternoon light has shifted. The house is quieter now, the men presumably still occupied with their business outside or scattered throughout the estate. I find myself drawn to the library on the second floor, tucked into the eastern wing, where I know the quiet will help me think.

The library is massive, with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books in multiple languages. Leather chairs sit near the tall windows where afternoon light streams through, and a heavy wooden desk dominates one corner.

Eduard is already there when I arrive, seated at the desk with shipping manifests spread across the surface. He glances up when I enter, his gray eyes warm despite the serious set of his jaw.

“Couldn’t stay away?” His voice carries a hint of amusement.

“Needed somewhere quiet.” I move to the shelves, running my fingers along the spines. Most of the titles are in Russian, Cyrillic letters that I can’t fully read. But some are in English, and I recognize several books about organized crime history.

Eduard watches me for a moment then returns his attention to the documents in front of him. The scratch of his pen against paper fills the silence as he makes notes in the margins.

I pull a book from the shelf at random. It’s a history of the Russian Bratva families, thick and well-worn. The pages fall open to a section about territorial disputes in the 1990s, complete with photographs of men in expensive suits standing beside luxury cars.

“Looking for something specific?” Eduard asks without looking up.

“Just curious.” I flip through the pages, studying the images. “Trying to understand the world I’ve landed in.”

He sets down his pen and leans back in his chair, his broad shoulders relaxing slightly. “That book won’t tell you much about the current landscape. Most of those families are gonenow. Absorbed by larger organizations or destroyed in the wars that followed the Soviet collapse.”

“What about your families?” I close the book and turn to face him. “The three of you rebuilt after your fathers died. How did you manage it without getting swallowed up?”

Eduard is quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. “We were careful. We made alliances where we could and eliminated threats when we had to. And we stayed united, even when our fathers’ deaths could have torn us apart.”

I move closer to the desk, drawn by the honesty in his voice. “The other families didn’t try to take your territories?”

“They tried.” His lips curve slightly. “We made sure they regretted it.”

The casual way he says it sends a chill down my spine. These men have killed to protect what’s theirs. I already knew that intellectually, but hearing it stated so plainly makes it real in a way that’s hard to ignore.

I gesture to the manifests on his desk. “Is that for the Baltic Logistics shipment?”

“Part of it.” He slides one of the documents toward me. “We coordinate with several companies for different routes. Baltic handles the European connections.”

I study the manifest, noting the listed cargo and delivery schedules. Everything looks legitimate on the surface, the kind of paperwork that would pass inspection without raising flags. But I know how these operations work. The real cargo is never listed on official documents.

“What are you actually moving?” I ask quietly.

Eduard’s gray eyes meet mine, assessing. “Does it matter?”

“It might.” I set the manifest down carefully. “If I’m going to be stuck here, I’d rather know what I’m stuck in the middle of.”

He considers this for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the desk. Then he stands and moves to the window, looking out over the estate grounds.

“We move money mostly,” he says finally. “Cash that needs to be cleaned and redistributed through legitimate businesses. Sometimes we transport high-value items that can’t go through normal channels. Art, jewelry, things that are easier to sell overseas.”

“And women?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.

Eduard turns to face me, his expression hardening. “No. That’s a line we don’t cross.”