Page 64 of Marked By the Mob

My three men.

The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I don’t push it away as quickly as I should. I never imagined dating a mafia guy, much less three at once. The idea should horrify me. I’m an FBI agent…or I was, before the Bureau declared me dead. Everything about this situation violates every principle I’ve built my life around.

But somehow, it feels right. Or almost right.

I’m afraid to examine it too closely, afraid of what I’ll find if I dig beneath the surface. What if I discover I’ve fallen for my captors in some twisted version of Stockholm syndrome? Or worse, that what I feel is real, and I’ll have to reconcile that with everything I thought I knew about myself.

Rurik’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and vicious. “Fuck.”

I straighten immediately, my attention snapping to him. Eduard ends his call and moves closer to the desk. Artur stops pacing mid-stride, his dark eyes locked on Rurik’s face.

“What is it?” Eduard asks.

Rurik sets down the document he was reading, his expression hard. “The other families know Emma is FBI. They’re claiming she’s a resource that belongs to the entire Bratva, not just us.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

“It means they want access to you.” Artur’s voice is tight with barely controlled anger. “They think because you have federal training and intelligence, you should be shared among the families.”

The implications crash over me. I thought being claimed by three pakhans was complicated enough. Now the entire damn Bratva wants a piece of me?

“That’s not happening,” Rurik says flatly, his pale eyes meeting mine. “You’re ours. And we don’t share with others.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends heat through me despite the seriousness of the situation. Eduard moves to stand beside me, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that’s become familiar. Protective.

“We need to make a statement,” he says quietly. “Show the other families that Emma isn’t available for negotiation.”

Artur grins, though there’s nothing friendly about it. “I have an idea.”

Later that evening, I find myself in the back of one of their armored SUVs, sandwiched between Eduard and Artur while Rurik sits up front with the driver. We’re heading into the city, toward one of the clubs the three men own together.

“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter, tugging at the hem of the fitted black dress they insisted I wear. It’s shorter than anything I’dnormally choose, the fabric clinging to my curves in ways that make me hyperaware of every movement.

“It’s a perfect idea,” Artur counters, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. “We show up with you on our arms, make it clear you belong to us, and the other families back off.”

“Or they see it as a challenge,” I argue.

Eduard’s fingers brush along my bare shoulder, sending shivers down my spine. “Let them try.”

The club is calledMidnight, and it’s exactly what I’d expect from a Bratva-owned establishment. Sleek, expensive, and packed with people who look like they have money and connections. Security is tight with guards at every entrance. Cameras cover every possible angle, and there’s a VIP section on the second floor that overlooks the main dance floor, with guards stationed at the entrance.

We bypass the line outside, moving through a private entrance that leads directly to the VIP area. The music is loud, bass thumping through the floor, and the lighting shifts between deep blues and purples that make everything feel intimate and dangerous.

Rurik orders drinks while Eduard guides me to one of the leather couches positioned near the railing. From here, I can see the entire club spread out below us. Bodies move together on the dance floor, the crowd a blur of motion and heat.

Artur appears with a glass of something amber and hands it to me. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe here.”

I take a sip, the whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat. “Don’t call me that.”

His grin widens. “You don’t mean that anymore.”

He’s right, and we both know it. The nickname has shifted from irritating to almost affectionate, though I’ll never admit it out loud.

The alcohol helps ease the tension in my shoulders. I finish the first drink faster than I should and accept a second when Artur offers. The music pulses around us, and I find myself relaxing into the rhythm, my body swaying slightly to the beat.

“Dance with me,” Eduard says, standing and offering his hand.

I hesitate for only a second before taking it. He leads me down to the main floor, his hand warm and steady in mine. The crowd parts slightly as we move through, people recognizing Eduard and giving him space.