Marked By the Mob (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection #29)

Emma

The warehouse smells like rust and old concrete. I press my back against the cold metal wall, my Glock steady in both hands as I listen to the muffled voices echoing from somewhere deeper inside the building.

My earpiece crackles with static then goes silent again. That’s the third time in ten minutes.

Something is wrong.

“Control, this is Moore. Comms check,” I whisper into my mic.

Nothing.

I glance at my watch. Backup should have been in position five minutes ago. The plan was simple. I go in first, confirm the auction is happening, identify the organizers, then the tactical team moves in and shuts it down.

Clean. Efficient. The kind of operation I’ve run a dozen times before.

Except tonight feels different.

I’ve spent the past year building this case, following every lead no matter how thin, chasing shadows and financial records so tangled it took months to unravel them.

The underground bride auction isn’t just some urban legend whispered about in organized crime circles.

It’s real.

Women disappear into it and never come out. Women like Krystal.

My best friend vanished a year ago after attending a private party that I connected to this network. The official investigation went cold within weeks, but I never stopped looking. I couldn’t.

Krystal was the kind of person who saw the best in everyone, who trusted too easily and gave second chances when she shouldn’t. She didn’t deserve whatever happened to her that night.

I move forward carefully, keeping to the shadows as I approach the main floor of the warehouse.

Voices grow louder. I catch fragments of conversation in Russian and English, the kind of mix you hear when Bratva families do business together.

My pulse quickens. This is it.

The auction is happening tonight, just like my informant said it would.

I reach the edge of a catwalk overlooking the warehouse floor and crouch low behind a stack of old crates.

Below me, at least twenty men gather in clusters, smoking and talking in low voices. A makeshift stage has been set up at the far end of the space, lit by harsh industrial lights. My stomach twists when I see the heavy chains bolted to the floor near the stage.

This is real. This is actually happening.

I pull out my phone to document what I’m seeing, but before I can take a single photo, footsteps echo behind me. Fast. Too close.

I spin around, raising my weapon, but three men are already on me. I fire once, the shot going wide as one of them slams into me from the side. My gun skitters across the metal grating.

I drive my elbow into the closest man’s ribs and hear him grunt in pain, but another grabs my arm and twists it behind my back hard enough to make my vision blur.

“Federal agent!” I shout, hoping someone, anyone, will hear me. “FBI!”

The man holding me laughs. “We know.”

My whole body stiffens. They know. And they don’t care. In fact, they don’t seem surprised to see me. They seem happy, in fact.

I thrash harder, managing to stomp on one man’s instep before driving my head backward into another’s face.

Bone crunches.

Blood sprays hot across the back of my neck. Someone curses in Russian.

I break free for half a second and lunge for my gun, but a boot comes down on my wrist before I can reach it.

Pain explodes up my arm. I roll, kicking out, and catch someone in the knee. He goes down hard. I scramble to my feet and run, but there are too many of them.

Hands grab my jacket, my hair, and my arms. I fight like my life depends on it, because it does. My training kicks in automatically. Strike the throat. Go for the eyes. Use their weight against them.

I manage to break another man’s nose before they finally drag me to the ground.

My cheek slams against cold metal. Someone pins my arms.

Zip ties bite into my wrists, tight enough to cut off circulation.

“Where’s my backup?” I spit blood onto the grating. “Where the hell is my team?”

“Not coming,” one of them says in accented English. He crouches beside me, and I get my first clear look at his face. Scarred. Cold. The kind of man who has done terrible things and never lost sleep over it. “You were sold, Agent Moore. Someone wanted you here tonight.”

The words hit me harder than any of the blows I just took. Sold. Someone inside the Bureau betrayed me.

That’s the only explanation that fits.

My mind races through the list of people who knew about tonight’s operation. Deputy Assistant Director Victor Langford approved the sting personally.

Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Hayes coordinated logistics. Special Agent Marcus Cole handled the digital surveillance and comms.

A handful of tactical team members knew the location and timing. Was it one of them or someone else?

They haul me to my feet and drag me toward a service exit I didn’t even know existed.

I try to memorize the route, counting turns and doorways, but everything blurs together.

Outside, a black van waits with its engine running. They shove me inside and slam the doors.

The interior is dark except for a single overhead light. Two more men sit on the bench across from me, watching with the kind of detached interest you’d give a package being delivered.

I test the zip ties, but they’re industrial strength. My wrists are already going numb.

“Who paid you?” I demand. “Who set this up?”

Neither man answers.

The van lurches forward. I brace myself against the wall and try to think. I have to escape.

If I don’t find a way out of this fucked up situation, then…I don’t even want to go down that road.

Krystal. I’m the only one still looking for her. If something happens to me, then she’s lost forever.

The drive feels like it lasts hours, though it’s probably only twenty minutes. When the van finally stops, they pull me out into what looks like the loading dock of another warehouse.

This one is cleaner, more organized.

Expensive.

I catch glimpses of well-dressed men moving through the shadows, the kind who wear tailored suits and Rolex watches while they buy and sell human beings.

Dammit, the other location was a setup too.

They drag me through a side entrance and down a narrow hallway.

My boots scrape against polished concrete. Somewhere ahead, I hear music.

Laughter.

The low murmur of conversation in multiple languages.

One of my captors grabs my chin and forces my head up. “You fight when you go out there, we hurt you. You stay quiet, maybe you live long enough to regret tonight.”

I jerk my face away from his grip. “Go to hell.”

He backhands me hard enough that my ears ring. Blood fills my mouth and I spit it at his feet.

Before he can hit me again, someone calls out in Russian.

My captors exchange glances, then one of them pulls a syringe from his jacket pocket. I try to twist away, but there’s nowhere to go. The needle pierces my upper arm and within seconds the world starts to tilt.

My thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. I try to hold onto something, anything, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. Langford’s face swims through my mind. He’ll realize something went wrong. He’ll come looking for me. He has to.

The last thing I remember before darkness swallows me completely is being dragged forward, toward the lights, toward the stage, toward whatever nightmare waits on the other side of those curtains.

I wake to the sound of chains.

The metallic clink echoes in my skull as consciousness drags me back to the surface. Everything hurts. My wrists. My face. My ribs. I try to move and realize I can’t. Heavy shackles circle my wrists and ankles, connected by short lengths of chain that rattle when I shift.

Bright lights blind me. I squint against the glare and slowly become aware of my surroundings. I’m kneeling on a raised platform. A stage. The floor beneath me is polished wood, and beyond the lights I can make out the shapes of people sitting in darkness.

An audience. My heart slams against my ribs as reality crashes down on me. I’m at the bride auction, but not as an agent. I’m the merchandise.

A voice booms through speakers somewhere above me, speaking in Russian first then switching to English. “Our next offering is particularly special, gentlemen. Twenty-six years old. American…”

I try to stand, but the chains are too short. I’m forced to stay on my knees, displayed like an animal. Rage burns through the lingering fog of whatever they drugged me with. I scan the audience, trying to see faces, trying to memorize anyone I can identify for when I get out of here.

Because I will get out of here. I will accept nothing less. And when I do, every single person in this room is going to pay.

The auctioneer continues speaking, listing details about me like I’m a car being sold at auction. Then he offers me up to the audience.

“Bidding starts at five hundred thousand dollars.”