Page 47 of Marked By the Mob

He’s quiet for a moment, his gray eyes thoughtful. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not actually dead.”

“That makes two of us.”

Ahead of us, Artur turns and walks backward so he can face me, his crooked grin already in place. “So, sweetheart, now that you’re officially deceased, does that mean you’re free from all those pesky FBI rules?”

“Don’t call me that,” I say automatically, but there’s no heat in it.

“What should I call you then? My favorite dead federal agent?”

“How about Emma?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He spins back around, laughing when I flip him off.

The easy banter feels surreal yet familiar. Not long ago, I was an FBI agent investigating the Bratva. Now I’m walking through a criminal estate, trading inside jokes with three men who own me in ways that have nothing to do with purchasing me from the bride auction.

Artur starts another playful argument about whether my FBI training would have prepared me for the kind of situations the three men deal with regularly. I rise to the challenge immediately, defending my training even though I know he’s partly right. The Bureau taught me how to investigate, how to gather evidence, and how to build cases. But it didn’t teach me how to survive in a world where violence is currency and loyalty is everything.

Eduard turns the conversation into something lighter, asking me about the cases I worked before the auction investigation. For the first time since arriving at the estate, I find myself speaking more openly about my work. I tell them about the trafficking ring I helped dismantle in Seattle. The weapons smuggling operation that took six months to crack. The financial fraud case that nearly bored me to death but resulted in three major arrests.

They listen with genuine interest, asking questions that show they understand the complexity of what I did. Rurik wants to know about surveillance techniques. Artur is curious about how we built informant networks. Eduard asks about the legal frameworks that govern undercover operations.

It’s strange, talking shop with criminals. But it’s also oddly comfortable.

Later that morning, I follow the men toward the garage where several of their drivers are preparing vehicles for the day’s operations. The garage is busy, mechanics working on engines while guards check weapons and communications equipment.

I watch Rurik move through the space, stopping to speak with different men. His presence commands immediate attention, but it’s not just fear that makes them straighten when he approaches. It’s respect. The same respect I see when Eduard reviews shipping manifests with one of the captains or when Artur jokes with a driver while checking the vehicle’s armor plating.

These men are respected by the people who work for them. Loyal even.

The realization unsettles me more than I want to admit. I expected ruthless criminals who ruled through fear alone. Instead, I see something more complicated. The guards aren’t just following orders. They believe in what they’re protecting. They trust the three men leading them.

I think about my own organization, the FBI I dedicated my life to serving. My loyalty was returned with someone inside betraying me, selling me out to the very criminals I was investigating. My less trusting coworkers had been right, and their weak loyalty remained with whomever paid their next paycheck or approved their investigations. Meanwhile, these three Bratva bosses have built something that inspires genuine loyalty from the men under their command.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

I’m standing near one of the SUVs, watching a mechanic adjust the suspension, when Artur appears at my side. He leans against the vehicle, his shoulder brushing mine.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly.

“How nothing is what I expected it to be.”

“Good or bad?”

I consider the question. “I don’t know yet.”

His hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine in a gesture that feels both possessive and comforting. “You’ll figure it out.”

Before I can respond, shouting erupts near the storage building at the edge of the courtyard.

My head snaps toward the sound. Two guards drag a struggling man into the open while several others surround him. He’s fighting hard, but the guards have him completely controlled, with his head bowed by a tight grip in his dark hair.

Rurik moves immediately, his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to lethal in the space of a heartbeat. Eduard and Artur follow, and I find myself trailing behind them, my pulse quickening.

One of the captains steps forward, his expression grim. He’s the older man I recognize from the meeting, the one with scarred hands and decades of enforcement work written across his weathered face.

“Boss,” he says to Rurik, his accent thick. “We caught this man stealing from the estate.”

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