Page 84 of Marked By the Mob

Volkov and his men arrange themselves on the opposite side. Krystal moves to stand near the window, her posture submissive but her eyes alert. She’s playing a role, I realize. The obedient companion. The decoration.

And she’s damn good at it.

“Please, sit,” Krystal says, her voice soft. “Can I get anyone a drink?”

One of Volkov’s men nods, and she moves to the bar with practiced ease, pouring vodka into crystal glasses. Her movements are graceful, efficient. She serves the men without meeting their eyes, the perfect picture of deference.

I’m still standing near the door, uncertain where I fit in this tableau.

“Come in, Emma,” Rurik says. His dark eyes find mine, and there’s a warning in them. “Join us.”

I move into the room, acutely aware of every gaze that follows me. I choose a chair near Artur, and his hand briefly touches the small of my back as I sit. The gesture is possessive, protective. A clear message.

“So,” Volkov says, accepting a glass from Krystal. “Let’s talk business.”

“There’s no business to discuss,” Eduard says flatly.

“No?” Volkov’s eyebrows rise. “I was under the impression that the lovely Emma here was acquired through the auction. Which means she’s a commodity.”

My stomach turns. Commodity. Like I’m a car or a piece of furniture.

“She’s not for sale,” Rurik says, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

“Everything is for sale at the right price.” Volkov takes a sip of his vodka, his eyes never leaving me. “Perhaps we could negotiate a loan arrangement. A week, maybe two. I’d pay handsomely.”

Artur’s hand clenches on the arm of his chair. “No.”

“Not even to borrow,” Eduard adds, his tone making it clear the subject is closed.

But Volkov isn’t deterred. “You’re being unreasonable. Sharing resources is good business. Builds relationships.” His gaze slides over me again, lingering on the curve of my breasts beneathmy sweater. “I’m sure Emma wouldn’t mind. Would you, sweetheart?”

The endearment makes my skin crawl. I open my mouth, but Rurik speaks first.

“She’s not available. Not now, not ever. If you came here hoping to negotiate, you’ve wasted your time.”

The temperature in the room drops. Volkov’s smile fades, and the men behind him shift, their hands moving toward concealed weapons. Rurik, Artur, and Eduard don’t move, but the threat of violence hangs thick in the air.

I can barely breathe. This is what I was at the auction. A prize to be won, traded, or borrowed. These men don’t see me as a person. They see an asset, a possession, just something to be used.

Krystal moves smoothly through the tension, refilling glasses, her presence somehow diffusing the worst of the aggression. She’s remarkable, I realize. Navigating this world of dangerous men with a skill that looks effortless but must have taken years to develop.

“Gentlemen,” she says softly. “Perhaps we should all take a moment.”

Volkov’s attention shifts to her, and something predatory enters his expression. “You can see what this one has become. I can help with that for Emma.”

“That’s not training,” Artur says coldly. “That’s being smart enough to know when men are being idiots.”

A beat of silence. Then Volkov laughs, the sound harsh and unexpected. “Fair enough.” He stands, his men following suit.“We’ll be going. But the offer stands. When you tire of her, let me know.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Rurik says.

Volkov and his men file out, their footsteps echoing in the hallway. Krystal follows them to the door, and I hear the murmur of voices, the sound of the front door closing.

Then she’s back, moving quickly to my side. Her hand finds mine, squeezes briefly. In that moment of contact, I feel something pressed into my palm. A small piece of paper.

“I should go,” she says, her voice still playing the role. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Eduard escorts her out, and I slip the note into my pocket without looking at it.