Page 43 of Marked By the Mob

Emma’s breath catches. “They were trying to stop it?”

“They were trying to take control of it,” I correct. “Clean it up. Make it what it was supposed to be before it was used to move kidnapped women across borders.”

Eduard flips through several more pages, translating passages written in Russian. The entries paint a picture of our fathers working together, planning to eliminate the trafficking elements and restore the auction to its original purpose.

“That’s why they were killed,” Emma says quietly. “Someone didn’t want them to succeed.”

“We’ve always suspected that,” Artur says. “But we never had proof.”

Eduard turns another page and Emma stills beside me. I follow her gaze to a short entry near the bottom of the page.

The handwriting is rushed, less careful than the others. It records a meeting between our three fathers and an unnamed American observer. The date is only days before the night they were killed.

“An American observer,” Emma breathes. “Who the hell was that?”

Eduard’s jaw tightens. “We don’t know. The entry doesn’t give a name.”

I stare at the words, my mind racing. An American involved in Bratva business days before our fathers were murdered. Someone important enough to warrant a meeting but not important enough to be named in the ledger.

Or someone dangerous enough that my father didn’t want to write down their identity.

Emma’s hand trembles slightly as she reaches toward the page, her fingers hovering just above the faded ink.

“This changes everything,” she whispers.

19

ARTUR

The house settles into unusual quiet after dinner. Most of the staff have disappeared into the back halls, and the estate takes on that slower rhythm that comes once the sun drops below the horizon. I stretch out on one of the lounge chairs, my body relaxed but my mind still turning over the day’s revelations.

Rurik moves to the bar cart and pours drinks with his usual methodical precision. Eduard flips through the old music collection near the stereo system, his fingers trailing across vinyl sleeves our fathers collected decades ago. Emma lingers near the windows, her silhouette outlined by the fading light as she looks out over the gardens.

I watch her standing there, the way her dark hair catches the last rays of sunlight, the curve of her ass in those fitted jeans. Even when she’s quiet like this, there’s tension in her shoulders. She’s always thinking, always planning. It’s one of the things that makes her so damn attractive—and so fucking dangerous.

My mind drifts back to the moment earlier when Emma noticed that entry in the ledger. The reference to an American observerattending a meeting with our fathers just days before they died. For years, we believed the story that our fathers were killed because of a territorial feud that spiraled out of control. Now that single line suggests there may have been someone else involved that night. Someone outside our world.

I don’t say anything about it yet. Neither do Rurik nor Eduard. But the thought lingers in the back of my mind like a splinter I can’t quite dig out.

Eduard eventually settles on an old Russian folk recording and lively music fills the lounge. The familiar melody makes me grin immediately. I recognize it from countless family celebrations, weddings, and gatherings where the vodka flowed and everyone danced until their feet hurt.

“I know this one,” I say, sitting up.

Emma turns from the window, her gray-green eyes curious. “What is it?”

“Traditional circle dance.” I stand and move toward her, already feeling the rhythm in my bones. “Used at celebrations and weddings. My father taught me when I was maybe seven years old.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You dance?”

“Sweetheart, I do a lot of things that might surprise you.” I hold out my hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

She hesitates, glancing at Rurik and Eduard like she’s looking for permission or maybe an escape route. Rurik just smiles slightly over the rim of his glass. Eduard grins and gestures for her to go ahead.

“Don’t be scared,” I tease. “I promise not to step on your feet.”

“I’m not scared,” Emma says, but she doesn’t take my hand yet.

“Then prove it.”