10. Emma
EMMA
The alarm tears through the estate like a living thing, loud and relentless.
I press my back against the bedroom wall, my heart hammering as I listen to the chaos erupting in the hallway outside.
Boots thunder past my door. Voices shout in Russian, sharp and urgent.
Radios crackle with static and rapid-fire updates I can’t fully understand.
Was it a raid? Had the FBI found me? My heart jolts with the thought.
My guys could be out there right now, working their way in to rescue me.
I grin at the thought then frown. What if Rurik or Artur or Eduard get hurt?
I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t, but the thought of one or all of them bleeding or dead makes my heart drop to my toes. I need to see what’s going on.
Or maybe it’s an attack from another Bratva family. But wouldn’t there be gunshots already? The FBI would come in quietly, but the mafia would come in with guns blazing. Either way, this is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. It’s probably my best chance for escape.
I move to the door and press my ear against the wood, straining to hear past the wailing alarm.
The guards who were stationed outside are gone.
I can tell by the absence of their low conversation and the shuffle of their boots as they shifted positions.
They’ve probably been pulled away to deal with whatever emergency is unfolding.
My hand closes around the door handle. I expect resistance, expect the electronic lock to hold firm like it has every other time I’ve tested it. But when I twist, the mechanism gives way with a soft click.
The door swings open.
For a heartbeat I just stand there, staring at the empty hallway beyond.
The alarm must have triggered some kind of system-wide unlock, a failsafe designed to prevent people from being trapped during an emergency.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Their security protocols just gave me exactly what I need.
I slip into the corridor and move quickly, keeping close to the wall.
The alarm continues its relentless wail, covering the sound of my footsteps against the marble floor.
Ahead of me, more guards rush past the intersection, their weapons drawn as they head toward the outer grounds. None of them look in my direction.
I count to three, then dart across the open space and into the shadows on the opposite side. My pulse pounds in my ears, but my hands are steady. Years of training kick in automatically. Stay low. Move fast. Don’t hesitate.
The hallway branches in two directions. I choose left, away from the main staircase where most of the guards seem to be converging.
The alarm is slightly quieter here, muffled by distance and the thick walls of the estate.
I can hear radios crackling somewhere behind me, voices reporting updates about the perimeter sweep.
The fragments of conversation confirm what I suspected. Something triggered the motion sensors along the property boundary. Whether it’s an actual threat or a false alarm doesn’t matter. What matters is that every guard in this place is focused on the exterior, leaving the interior vulnerable.
I move deeper into the house, following corridors I’ve only glimpsed through doorways during my brief time here. Everything is expensive and cold, all marble and dark wood.
As I round another corner, voices echo ahead. Male voices, speaking in low, controlled tones that cut through the alarm’s wail. I freeze, pressing myself against the wall as I strain to identify them.
Rurik. I’d recognize that deep, measured voice anywhere. And Artur’s sharper tone, edged with frustration. Eduard’s calmer presence balancing between them.
They’re close. Too close.
I glance around frantically and spot a side corridor branching off to my right. It’s narrower than the main hallway, dimly lit, and looks like it leads away from the central part of the house. I duck into it just as footsteps approach the intersection behind me.
“It’s confirmed it was an animal,” Eduard says, his voice carrying clearly now. “A fox squeezed through damaged fencing near the drainage culvert.”
“A fox.” Artur’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “We mobilized the entire estate for a fucking fox.”
“Better to overreact than underreact.” That’s Rurik, his tone flat and controlled. “Increase patrols along that fence line for the rest of the night. And I want that section repaired within the hour.”
Their voices fade as they move past the corridor entrance. I wait until I can’t hear them anymore then continue forward, my steps quick and silent.
The side corridor leads me deeper into a section of the estate that feels different from the rest. The lights are dimmer here, the air slightly stale like rooms that haven’t been opened in months.
The furniture I pass looks expensive but untouched, covered in a fine layer of dust that suggests the cleaning staff doesn’t come through regularly.
This part of the house isn’t used anymore. The realization sends a chill down my spine. Why would they maintain an entire wing then abandon it?
I move carefully, testing each floorboard before putting my full weight down.
The alarm has finally stopped, leaving behind a ringing silence that feels almost as loud.
Without the noise to cover my movements, every sound I make seems amplified.
The rustle of my clothes. The soft exhale of my breath.
The faint creak of wood beneath my boots.
The hallway stretches ahead, lined with closed doors on either side. I try the first one. Locked. The second opens into what looks like a bedroom frozen in time, the furniture draped in white sheets. I close it quickly and move on.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden door stands slightly ajar. Unlike the others, this one looks deliberately maintained. The wood is polished, the brass handle gleaming even in the dim light. And it’s open just enough that I can see warm light spilling through the gap.
I should turn back. Should return to my room before someone realizes I’m gone. But curiosity pulls me forward, stronger than caution. I need to understand these men. Need to know what drives them, what they’re hiding, what weaknesses I can exploit.
I push the door wider and step inside.
The room beyond takes my breath away. It’s a study, large and richly appointed, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining three walls.
A massive desk dominates the center of the space, its surface covered in papers and photographs.
More photographs hang on the walls, interspersed with framed documents and what looks like military medals behind glass.
But it’s the photographs that draw my attention. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, covering every available surface. Men in expensive suits standing beside luxury cars. Groups gathered around restaurant tables, glasses raised in toasts. Formal portraits of families dressed in their finest.
And in almost every photograph, I see younger versions of Rurik, Artur, and Eduard.
They can’t be more than teenagers in some of these images, their faces less hardened, their expressions more open. They’re always together, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera with the easy confidence of boys who’ve never known real loss.
But there are older men in the photographs too. Men who share Rurik’s pale eyes, Artur’s sharp features, and Eduard’s steady presence. Their fathers, I realize. These are probably their fathers.
I move closer to the desk, studying the documents scattered across its surface.
Financial records. Property deeds. Letters written in Russian that I can’t fully read.
And more photographs, these ones more recent, showing the estate as it’s being built.
Construction crews working on the walls.
Security systems being installed. The three men standing together in front of the unfinished mansion, their expressions serious and determined.
This room is a shrine. A preserved piece of their past, maintained exactly as it was when their fathers were alive. The realization sends something cold sliding down my spine. These men aren’t just criminals. They’re sons trying to honor family legacies.
I pick up one of the photographs, studying it more closely.
The three fathers stand together in what looks like a restaurant’s private room, their expressions relaxed and confident.
Behind them, barely visible in the background, I can make out other faces.
Men I don’t recognize. And one woman, her features partially obscured by shadow.
Something about her seems familiar, but I can’t place why.
I’m about to set the photograph down when voices echo in the corridor outside. Male voices, speaking in Russian, growing louder as they approach.
My heart slams against my ribs. I spin toward the door, but it’s too late to run. They’re too close. If I try to leave now, they’ll see me immediately.
I’m trapped.
The voices grow clearer, and I catch fragments of conversation. They’re discussing the alarm, the perimeter sweep, and the damaged fencing. And then one voice rises above the others, sharp and commanding.
Rurik.
The footsteps stop just outside the door.