Page 50 of Marked By the Mob

The silence stretches for a long moment. Then Artur breaks it with a quieter remark, his dark eyes locked on mine.

“Moments like the one you just witnessed are part of the life you’ll be living beside us, whether you like it or not.”

22

EDUARD

The courtyard is still stained with blood when I finally turn away from Emma’s retreating figure. Her fury radiates off her in waves, visible in the rigid set of her shoulders and the way her hands curl into fists at her sides. One of the guards moves to escort her back to the secured wing, and for once she doesn’t fight. She just walks, her boots crunching against gravel, her spine straight despite everything she witnessed this morning.

I watch until she disappears through the main entrance then force myself to focus on the real problem we’ve been avoiding for years.

Our fathers’ alliance died with them in that shootout. The Novikov, Lenkov, and Balabanov families have operated separately ever since, maintaining contact but never truly unified. The entire reason we attended that fucking auction was to help rebuild what was lost. We needed a wife who could bind our families together, someone strong enough to stand beside all three of us and help bridge the gaps our fathers left behind.

Rurik stands near the garage entrance, his pale blue eyes tracking the guards as they clean the execution site with efficient precision. Artur leans against the stone wall, his dark eyes distant. Neither of them speak, but I know they’re thinking the same thing I am.

We can’t keep delaying this.

“We need to call the meeting,” I say quietly.

Rurik’s gaze shifts to me. “Today?”

“Yes.” I move closer, lowering my voice even though the nearest guards are too far away to hear. “The captains have been asking questions for weeks. They know we bought someone at the auction. They know she’s FBI. And after what just happened, they’re going to want answers about what the fuck we’re planning.”

Artur pushes away from the wall, his jaw tight. “They’re going to want to know if she’s a threat.”

“She is a threat,” Rurik says flatly. “The question is whether she’s a manageable one.”

I think about Emma standing in the courtyard, her gray-green eyes blazing with fury as she watched us execute a man for betrayal. The way she challenged us, demanded we stop, and refused to look away, even when we told her to go inside. She’s not manageable. She’s a fucking wildfire and we’re trying to contain her without getting burned.

But oh how fucking good that burn is when I’m deep inside her, her cries of ecstasy pushing me even further.

But we need her. Not just because we want her, though Christ knows I do. I want her in ways that have nothing to do withstrategy or family alliances. I want to strip that anger off her body and replace it with heat. Want to make her scream my name the way she did that night in the library. Want to see her smile at me the way she did when we were dancing, unguarded and real.

I shake the thoughts away and focus on what matters right now.

“Call the captains,” I say to Rurik. “The ones we trust. We need to move forward with the alliance, and they need to understand what we’re building.”

Rurik nods once and pulls out his phone, already typing messages. Within minutes, responses start coming back. The captains will arrive within the hour.

The conference room sits in the estate’s eastern wing, a large space with tall windows overlooking the gardens and a long mahogany table that can seat twenty people comfortably. Maps cover one wall, marked with territories, shipping routes, and border crossings. Financial reports are stacked on the side table, thick folders containing years of records from all three families.

By the time the captains arrive, Artur and I have already spread the current operational documents across the table. Rurik stands near the window, his posture relaxed but his attention sharp as the men file in.

There are eight of them total. Three from Rurik Novikov’s family, two from Artur Lenkov’s, and three from mine, the Balabanovs. All of them are men we’ve known for years, men who served under our fathers and stayed loyal after the shootout that killed them. They’re older, experienced, and cautious in ways that come from surviving decades in this life.

The oldest captain, a thick-shouldered man who worked directly under my father, takes his seat first. His scarred hands rest on the table as his dark eyes sweep across the documents. “You’re finally doing it.”

“Yes,” Rurik says simply.

Another captain, younger but no less experienced, leans forward. “The families have been separate for twenty years. Merging operations now will create vulnerabilities. Other organizations will see it as weakness.”

“Or strength,” Artur counters, moving to stand beside the table. “Three families operating independently can be picked off one at a time. Three families unified under a single alliance become something much harder to destroy.”

The discussion begins in earnest. Rurik focuses on the financial networks, explaining how merging certain accounts and investments will strengthen all three families without exposing individual weaknesses. He’s methodical, walking through spreadsheets and projections with the kind of precision that makes even skeptical men nod in agreement.

Artur handles the smuggling routes, pointing out overlaps and inefficiencies in the current system. His family controls several key ports along the Baltic coast, while Rurik’s network dominates the Pacific routes. My family manages overland transport through Eastern Europe. Separately, we’re effective. Together, we could control a pipeline that spans continents.

I take the security side, making it clear that bringing the families closer will require absolute loyalty from everyone involved. “We can’t afford leaks,” I say, my voice hard. “What happened thismorning was a reminder. Betrayal gets people killed. Not just the traitor, but everyone who depends on us for protection.”