Page 83 of Marked By the Mob

The financial trails I’ve been following through the bride auction funds are complex, deliberately obscured through multiple shell companies and offshore accounts. But I’m good at this. Better than good. I peel back layer after layer, tracking the money as it moves through the system.

That’s when I find it.

A significant portion of the funds are being laundered through a private security firm. Sentinel Strategic Solutions. The name sounds legitimate and professional. I dig deeper, pulling up their corporate filings, their board of directors.

My breath catches.

Third name on the list: Marcus Whitfield. Langford’s brother-in-law.

I stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my ears. It has to be a coincidence. Whitfield is a common enough name in security circles. Langford’s brother-in-law runs a legitimate firm. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.

But my hands are shaking as I cross-reference the data. The money flowing through Sentinel Strategic Solutions connects directly to three of the shell companies I’ve already identified as part of the auction’s financial network.

I sit back in my chair, my mind racing. Langford wouldn’t be involved in human trafficking. He’s dedicated his entire career to fighting it. He’s the one who taught me how to track these bastards, how to build cases that stick.

There has to be an explanation. Maybe Whitfield doesn’t know his company is being used. Maybe it’s a front that someone else is operating without his knowledge. Maybe Langford is investigating it himself and hasn’t told me because he didn’t have any concrete evidence yet.

Yes. That must be it.

I save my findings to an encrypted file and close the laptop. My head aches and the walls of the office suddenly feel too close.

I need air. I need to move.

The sound of voices downstairs draws my attention. Male voices, unfamiliar ones, mixed with the deeper tones I’ve come to recognize as Rurik, Artur, and Eduard.

And one female voice.

Krystal.

I’m out of my chair and moving before I can think better of it. My feet carry me down the hallway, toward the stairs. As I descend, I can see into the foyer.

Krystal stands near the door, looking every inch the professional in dark slacks and a fitted blouse that shows off her curves. But it’s the man beside her that makes my blood run cold.

Volkov.

He’s not alone. Four other men flank him, all wearing expensive suits that can’t quite hide the violence in their eyes. These are predators, every one of them.

I start to move toward Krystal, relief flooding through me at seeing my friend. But then her eyes meet mine, and she gives the slightest shake of her head. A warning.

I freeze on the stairs.

Rurik, Artur, and Eduard stand between the visitors and the rest of the house. Between the visitors and me. Their posture is deceptively casual, but I can see the tension in every line of their bodies. Rurik’s hand rests near his hip, where I know he keeps a gun. Artur’s shoulders are squared, his height making him tower over most of the other men. Eduard’s gray eyes are cold, calculating.

“Gentlemen.” Rurik’s voice is smooth, but there’s steel underneath. “To what do we owe this visit?”

Volkov’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We heard you have a guest. We thought it would be polite to pay our respects.”

“How thoughtful.” Artur’s tone could freeze vodka.

Volkov’s gaze slides past them, finding me on the stairs. His eyes travel slowly down my body, lingering on my breasts, my hips, and my legs. I feel stripped bare under that stare, and nausea churns in my stomach.

“There she is,” Volkov says softly. “Even more beautiful than the rumors.”

“The office,” Eduard says, his voice cutting through the tension. “We can talk there.”

It’s not a suggestion.

We all move into the large office off the main hallway. The room is dominated by a massive desk and leather furniture. Rurik takes position behind the desk, a clear power move. Artur and Eduard flank him.