Page 42 of Marked By the Mob

“Maybe,” I say, my voice low.

The garage complex is massive, easily large enough to house twenty vehicles. Mechanics work on several armored SUVs, their tools clanging against metal as they inspect engines and reinforce panels. One of our senior captains stands near the far wall, reviewing delivery schedules with two drivers.

Emma stops just inside the entrance, her eyes sweeping across the space. I watch her take it all in. The organized chaos, expensive equipment, and careful coordination that keep our operations running smoothly.

“This is where we prepare the convoy vehicles,” I explain, moving to stand beside her. “Every shipment gets inspected before it leaves the estate. Engines, armor, communications systems. Nothing moves until we’re certain it’s secure.”

One of the mechanics glances up and notices Emma. His expression shifts from curiosity to wariness, but he doesn’t stop working. Word has spread through the estate about the FBI agent living in our wing. Most of the men don’t know what to make of her yet.

The captain approaches, nodding respectfully in my direction before his gaze slides to Emma. “Sir. The vehicles are ready for tomorrow’s run.”

“Show me the route,” I say.

He spreads a map across the hood of the nearest SUV, tracing the planned convoy path with one thick finger. “We’re taking Highway 26 through the Coastal Range like the agent suggested. The logging routes give us cover, and we’ve confirmed the patrol schedules. We’ll move during the shift change window.”

Emma steps closer, studying the map. I watch her eyes track the route, noting checkpoints and potential complications. When she speaks, her voice is calm and professional.

“You’re planning to stop here?” She points to a rest area marked on the map. “That’s a mistake. State troopers use that location for speed traps during afternoon hours. You’d be better off pushing through to this junction and refueling there instead.”

The captain’s eyebrows rise. He looks at me, waiting for permission to respond.

I nod once.

“How do you know about the speed traps?” he asks Emma.

“Because the FBI uses the same data to track criminal transport patterns.” She taps the map again. “If I know about it, other agencies do too. You want to avoid predictable stops.”

The captain studies the alternative route she’s suggesting, his expression thoughtful. “That adds fifteen minutes to the drive.”

“It also keeps you from getting pulled over and searched.” Emma crosses her arms. “Your call.”

Several of the mechanics have stopped working now, watching the exchange with barely concealed interest. An FBI agent is standing in our garage, casually improving our smuggling routes. The absurdity isn’t lost on anyone.

The captain glances at me again. I can see the question in his eyes.Do we trust her? Do we take advice from someone who’s supposed to be our enemy?

“Use her route,” I say quietly.

He nods and makes notes on the map. “Yes, sir.”

As he walks away to brief the drivers, Emma turns to face me. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you’re right.” I lean against the SUV, studying her. “And because I’m not stupid enough to ignore good intelligence just because it comes from an unexpected source.”

We spend another hour in the garage while Emma asks questions about vehicle modifications, communication protocols, and backup plans. The mechanics warm to her gradually, answering her questions with increasing detail. By the time we leave, she’s earned a grudging respect from men who would normally never trust a federal agent.

Back in the main house, we find Eduard and Artur waiting in the study. The room is exactly as Emma left it the night she was caught snooping. Photographs still line the walls and the massive desk dominates the center of the space.

Eduard has the leather-bound ledger open in front of him, the one that belonged to our fathers. He looks up when we enter, his gray eyes serious.

“I’ve been going through the entries from the year before they died,” he says. “There’s something you both need to see.”

Emma moves closer to the desk, her curiosity obvious. I stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush.

Eduard turns the ledger so we can all see the pages. The handwriting is my father’s, neat and precise. “These entries describe meetings between our fathers and several other Bratva leaders. They were trying to restructure the bride auction network.”

“Restructure how?” Artur asks, leaning over the desk.

“They wanted to shut down the trafficking side entirely.” Eduard’s finger traces one of the entries. “The auction was originally meant to arrange marriages between families, political alliances. But outside money corrupted it. Turned it into something darker.”