Page 52 of Marked By the Mob

She shoves against my chest with her free hand, and this time I let her go. She stumbles back a step, her face flushed. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to kill someone in front of me and then act like we’re building something together.”

“We are building something,” I say quietly. “Whether you want to admit it or not.”

“No.” She shakes her head, her dark hair falling loose from its braid. “You’re building an empire on blood and violence. I’m just trapped in the middle of it.”

The words sting more than I expect them to. I want to argue, to make her see that what we’re trying to create is more than just criminal enterprise. But I know she won’t listen. Not tonight. Not after what she witnessed.

I turn toward the door, my hand on the handle, when her voice stops me.

“Eduard.”

I pause, looking back at her.

Her gray-green eyes are hard, her jaw set with determination. “After what I saw today, I will never submit to becoming your shared wife.”

The words hang in the air between us, final and absolute.

I hold her gaze for a long moment then step through the door and pull it closed behind me. The lock engages with a soft click, and I stand there in the hallway, her warning echoing in my mind.

She thinks she has a choice. She doesn’t understand yet that the moment we bought her, the moment she walked into our lives,her fate was already sealed. Whether she submits or not, she’s ours.

And we’re never letting her go.

23

EMMA

The dining room feels different tonight.

I’m escorted downstairs by two guards who don’t speak, their boots echoing against marble floors as we move through corridors I’ve memorized. It’s the first time since the execution that I’ve been allowed to leave the secured wing for anything other than brief walks in the courtyard under heavy supervision.

The first time since I told Eduard I would never submit to becoming their shared wife.

My stomach twists as we approach the main dining room. I don’t know what to expect. Another confrontation? More justifications for what they did? Part of me wants to refuse, to stay locked in that room and avoid facing them. But another part, the part that’s been an FBI agent longer than I’ve been their captive, knows I need information more than I need pride right now.

The guards open the doors and step aside.

Rurik, Artur, and Eduard are already seated at the long table, their conversation pausing as I enter. The room is warm, lit by the chandelier overhead and the fading evening light through the tall windows. Plates are already set, wine poured, and the smell of roasted meat and herbs fills the air.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Rurik’s pale blue eyes track me as I cross the room, his expression unreadable. Eduard’s gaze is warmer, though there’s caution underneath. Artur leans back in his chair, his dark eyes assessing me with that familiar mix of amusement and something deeper.

“Sit,” Rurik says quietly, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

I take the seat without arguing. The guards close the doors behind me, and I hear them take positions outside.

Eduard passes me a plate of food without comment. Roasted chicken, vegetables, and fresh bread. My stomach growls despite everything, and I realize I’m actually hungry. I haven’t eaten much over the past few days, too angry and too stubborn to accept more than the bare minimum.

The conversation resumes as if my presence changes nothing. Rurik discusses a shipment moving through one of his Pacific routes, something about customs delays and rerouting through Vancouver. Eduard mentions updates to security protocols at one of the family warehouses. Artur is complaining again about a captain who keeps requesting unnecessary equipment upgrades, his tone light but his words sharp.

I listen more than I speak, cataloging details the way I’ve been trained. Port names. Delivery schedules. The casual waythey discuss criminal operations like they’re running legitimate businesses. It should disgust me. It does disgust me. But I can’t deny the efficiency of what they’ve built.

The meal continues in relative quiet. I eat slowly, my attention drifting between the three men and the guards I know are stationed just outside. For the first time since arriving at this estate, dinner feels almost normal. Almost like I’m sitting with people instead of captors.

Then Artur’s phone vibrates against the table.

He glances at the screen and something shifts in his expression. Not alarm exactly, but heightened focus. He picks up the phone and reads for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.