Page 41 of Marked By the Mob

Eduard is already seated, reviewing something on his phone. Artur lounges in his chair with that casual confidence he always has, his dark eyes tracking Emma as she takes the seat across from me. The way he looks at her makes something possessive tighten in my chest. I know exactly what he’s thinking because I’m thinking the same damn thing.

“Sleep well?” Artur asks, his lips curving into that crooked smile.

Emma meets his gaze without flinching. “Better than the couch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t asking about the couch.” His grin widens. “I was asking if you slept well between the three of us.”

Heat crawls up Emma’s neck, but she doesn’t look away. “I slept fine. Thanks for your concern.”

Eduard chuckles quietly, setting his phone aside as the staff brings in lunch. Grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread still warm from the kitchen.

Emma picks up her fork and starts eating without waiting for the rest of us. No hesitation. No deference. Just a woman who’s hungry and doesn’t give a fuck about protocol.

I like that about her.

“We have a shipment moving through Portland tomorrow,” Eduard says, cutting into his salmon. “The route Emma suggested yesterday is working better than expected. We’re cutting transit time by nearly forty percent.”

Artur raises his glass in Emma’s direction. “Look at that. Our little fed is making us more efficient.”

“Don’t call me that,” Emma says automatically, but there’s no real heat in it.

“What should I call you then?” Artur leans forward, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Sweetheart? Baby? My favorite pain in the ass?”

“How about Emma?” She takes a bite of salmon, chewing slowly while she holds his gaze. “You know, my actual name.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

I watch the exchange with quiet satisfaction. This is different from the first meals we shared. Emma isn’t acting like a prisoner anymore. She’s engaging, pushing back, and inserting herself into the conversation.

She’s becoming part of this. Part of us.

“After lunch,” I say, drawing her attention, “you’re coming with me to the garage.”

Emma’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “Why?”

“Because I want you to see how the operation actually functions.” I cut into my own meal, keeping my tone casual. “You’ve seen the security, the meetings, and the planning. Now you’ll see the execution.”

She sets her fork down carefully. “You’re taking me to watch a shipment being prepared?”

“Unless you’d rather stay in your room.”

Her gray-green eyes narrow slightly, searching my face for the trap. She won’t find one. I’m being completely honest. If she’s going to be here, if she’s going to keep offering suggestions that improve our logistics, she might as well understand the full scope of what we do.

“Fine,” she says finally. “I’ll come.”

Artur grins. “This should be interesting.”

The rest of the meal passes with easier conversation. Eduard discusses updates to the estate’s security systems. Artur complains about one of the captains who keeps requesting unnecessary equipment upgrades.

After lunch, I lead Emma through the main house toward the eastern wing where the garage complex sits. The corridor is quiet, our footsteps echoing against marble floors. She walks beside me, close enough that I catch the clean scent of her soap.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Showing me all of this.” She gestures vaguely around us. “The meetings, the operations, the way everything works. You know I’m going to use it against you eventually.”

I stop walking and turn to face her. She’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, pull her against me the way I did that night against the wall. The memory of how she felt, how she tasted, sends heat through my blood.