Page 54 of Marked By the Mob

“I don’t care about your conflicts,” I snap. “My best friend is out there, and you’re telling me we can’t act because it might be inconvenient?”

Artur’s expression hardens. “We’re telling you that rushing in without a plan gets people killed. Including Krystal. And we’re not even sure she’s the asset mentioned.”

I want to argue, want to demand they do something immediately. But the rational part of my brain, the part trained to think strategically, knows he’s right. If Volkov has spent a year turning Krystal into an asset, he won’t give her up easily. And if we push too hard, too fast, he might decide she’s more valuable dead than compromised.

I sink back into my chair, my hands shaking slightly. “So what do we do?”

Rurik returns to his seat, his gaze never leaving my face. “We gather more intelligence. We confirm the woman in the message is actually Krystal before we commit resources to extraction.”

“And if it is her?”

“Then we plan carefully,” Eduard says. “We find out where Volkov is keeping her, what security he has in place, and what leverage we can use to get her back without starting a war.”

I want to scream. Want to flip the table and demand they act now. But I force myself to breathe, to think like an agent instead of a desperate friend.

“How long will that take?” I ask quietly.

“Days,” Rurik says. “Maybe a week if we’re thorough.”

A week. Seven more days while Krystal is out there, trapped in whatever life Volkov has forced her into. The thought makes my chest ache.

Artur picks up his phone again, scrolling through the message. “There’s an attachment. A photograph taken at one of the gatherings.”

My pulse spikes. “Show me.”

He hesitates, glancing at Rurik and Eduard. Some silent communication passes between them, too fast for me to read. Then Artur nods and places the phone on the table, turning it so I can see the screen.

The photograph is blurry, taken from across a crowded room. Expensive suits and evening gowns fill the frame, champagne glasses catching the light. In the center, partially obscured by other guests, stands a tall man with dark blond hair and sharp features. Beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, is a blonde woman in a fitted black dress.

The image quality is poor, the woman’s face partially turned away from the camera. But the honey-blonde hair falling straight down her back, the delicate build, the way she holds herself with careful poise?—

My breath catches.

It’s her.

It’s Krystal.

24

RURIK

The photograph disappears from Artur’s phone screen, but the image burns in my mind. The blonde woman standing beside Aleksander Volkov, her hand resting lightly on his arm like she belongs there. The honey-colored hair falling straight down her back. The delicate build and careful poise.

Emma didn’t react the way I expected. No tears. No desperate demands. Instead, she leaned closer to the phone, her gray-green eyes sharp and focused as she studied every detail of the blurry image. Her breathing stayed controlled, her hands steady against the table’s edge.

She’s not reacting like a captive anymore. She’s thinking like an investigator.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. I’ve watched her move through different versions of herself since we brought her here. The furious prisoner. The reluctant participant. The woman who came apart in our bed. But this is something else entirely. This is Special Agent Emma Moore, and she’s locked onto a target.

“We need to move this to the study,” I say quietly, already standing. “If we’re going to confirm this is Krystal, we need everything we have on Volkov and the auction network in one place.”

Eduard nods and begins gathering the files spread across the dining table. Artur pockets his phone, his dark eyes tracking Emma as she pushes away from the table. She’s already moving toward the hallway, her boots clicking against marble floors with purpose.

The study is exactly as we left it earlier. The old ledger sits open on the massive desk, our fathers’ handwriting visible across yellowed pages. Financial records are stacked beside it, thick folders containing years of intelligence we’ve collected on rival organizations.

Emma stops in the doorway, her gaze sweeping across the room. For a moment, I think she’s going to comment on the controlled chaos. Instead, she moves directly to the desk and begins sorting through the documents with practiced efficiency.

“Show me everything you have on the auction,” she says, not looking up. “Dates, locations, and known organizers. I need to cross-reference it with what the Bureau collected.”