Page 7 of Marked By the Mob

The third man, lighter brown hair and gray eyes, sits to my left, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

None of them have introduced themselves. I haven’t asked.

My wrists ache where the zip ties cut into them earlier. My face throbs where I was hit. But pain is familiar. Pain I can work through. What I can’t afford is panic.

I study the blond man’s watch. Expensive. Swiss, probably. His suit is tailored perfectly, dark and understated. Everything about him screams control and discipline.

The dark-haired one catches me looking and grins. “You’re quiet.”

I don’t respond.

“She’s planning,” the blond one says without looking away from me. His voice is deep, accented, and maddeningly calm.

My jaw tightens. He’s right, and I hate that he can read me so easily.

The man beside me shifts slightly. “Can you blame her?”

“No,” the blond one replies. “I would do the same.”

We drive for what feels like an hour, though it’s probably less. The city gives way to suburbs, then to darker roads lined with trees. Wealth insulates itself from the world, and these men clearly have plenty of it. I know they’re Bratva, but I don’t recognize them.

When we finally turn through a set of massive iron gates, I lean forward slightly to get a better view. The estate beyond is enormous, with stone walls surrounding the property.

Security cameras are positioned at regular intervals while floodlights illuminate manicured grounds that stretch into the darkness.

This isn’t just a house. It’s a damn fortress. Great, just great.

The SUV pulls up to the main entrance, and the men exit first. The one with gray eyes offers me his hand. I ignore it and climb out on my own, my boots crunching against gravel as I take in my surroundings.

The mansion looms above us, all sharp angles and cold stone. Windows glow with warm light, but there’s nothing welcoming about this place.

I count the visible security personnel. At least six are within immediate sight. Probably more I can’t see.

“This way,” the blond one says, gesturing toward the entrance.

I follow because I don’t have a choice yet. But I’m already mapping the layout in my head.

The distance between the main house and the outer wall. The placement of cameras. The blind spots I might be able to exploit.

Inside, the mansion is as cold and expensive as I expected. Marble floors. High ceilings. Art that probably costs more than my entire childhood home. A woman in her fifties appears from a side hallway, her expression neutral as she approaches.

“Show her to the east wing,” the blond one instructs her.

The woman nods and gestures for me to follow. I glance back at the three men, but they’ve already turned away, speaking quietly among themselves while guards follow the woman and me up the stairs.

The east wing is just as opulent as the rest of the house. The woman leads me to a large bedroom with an attached bathroom and what looks like a sitting area.

Everything is pristine. Untouched. Like a hotel room designed for someone who will never truly live there.

“There are clothes in the closet,” the woman says in accented English.

She leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind her. I wait thirty seconds, then try the handle and am surprised to find it unlocked.

A trap of some kind, I’m sure.

I move through the room quickly, checking windows, testing locks, looking for anything I can use.

The windows are reinforced, probably bulletproof. Through the partially open door, I can make out a hallway with cameras positioned at both ends.