Page 72 of Marked By the Mob

“Anything that involves leaving this estate or contacting anyone outside it.” I lean down and kiss her, hard and possessively, claiming her mouth in a way that leaves no doubt who she belongs to.

When I pull back, her breathing is uneven and her pupils are dilated.

“Be careful,” she whispers.

“Always.”

The drive into the city is quiet. Eduard sits beside me in the back of the armored SUV while Artur rides up front with the driver. None of us speak, but the tension is thick enough to choke on.We’re heading into a meeting where the wrong word could ignite a war, and we all know it.

The location is neutral ground, a private club owned by one of the older Bratva families who’ve stayed out of the recent power struggles. The building is elegant and understated, the kind of place where deals are made over expensive whiskey and cigars. Security is tight, guards stationed at every entrance, their expressions carefully neutral as we’re escorted inside.

The meeting room is on the second floor, a large space with dark wood paneling and a long table that seats twenty. Eight other bosses are already present when we arrive, their conversations dying the moment we enter. I recognize most of them. All of them are watching us with expressions that range from curious to hostile.

We take our seats at the far end of the table, the three of us positioned so we can see the entire room. Artur leans back in his chair with deceptive casualness, his dark eyes watching every movement. Eduard sits forward slightly, his hands resting on the table, ready to move if needed. I keep my expression neutral and controlled, giving nothing away of the anger and fear warring inside me.

One of the older pakhans speaks first, his voice carrying the weight of age and authority. “We’ve heard interesting rumors about your estate, Novikov. An FBI agent living under your protection.”

“Not rumors,” I say flatly. “Facts.”

Another leans forward, his thick fingers drumming against the table. “An FBI agent is a resource that belongs to all of us. Shehas training, intelligence, and access to federal systems. Keeping her to yourselves is selfish.”

“She’s not a resource,” Eduard says quietly, his gray eyes hard. “She’s ours.”

A pakhan sitting across from me laughs, sharp and bitter. “You bought her at auction, and now you think that gives you exclusive rights? The auction network serves all our families. What you purchase there should be shared.”

“We paid ten million dollars for her,” Artur says, his voice edged with steel. “That’s not a shared investment. That’s ownership.”

The room erupts. Voices rise in multiple languages, arguments overlapping as the bosses debate whether our claim is legitimate. Some argue that the auction operates under collective rules, that high-value assets should be distributed among the families. Others point out that we followed the bidding process and won fairly.

I let them argue for several minutes, watching the dynamics shift and alliances form. Then I stand, and the room falls silent.

“Emma Moore belongs to us,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence. “She’s not available for negotiation, trade, or shared access. Anyone who tries to take her will answer to all three of us.”

The older pakhan’s expression hardens. “You’re making enemies, Novikov.”

“We already have enemies,” I reply. “What’s a few more?”

He slams his hand against the table. “This is unacceptable. You can’t unite three families then hoard resources that could benefit all of us.”

“Watch us,” Artur says, his crooked grin dangerous.

The tension in the room thickens. Hands move subtly toward concealed weapons. Guards stationed along the walls shift their weight, ready to intervene. For a heartbeat, I think violence is inevitable.

Then another pakhan stands slowly, his pale eyes locked on mine. “You’re willing to go to war over one woman?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

Eduard and Artur stand beside me, a united front. The message is clear. Anyone who comes for Emma comes for all three of us and our considerable, combined power.

The other bosses exchange glances, silent communication passing between them. Finally, the older pakhan nods once. “We’ll respect your claim. For now. But this conversation isn’t over.”

“It is,” I say flatly. “Emma Moore is off the table. Permanently.”

The meeting ends shortly after, the bosses filing out with barely concealed hostility. We remain seated until the room empties, then Eduard exhales slowly.

“That went better than expected,” he mutters.

“They’ll come for her eventually,” Artur says, his dark eyes following the last boss as he disappears through the door. “We just bought ourselves time.”