15. Emma
EMMA
I stop walking the moment I see the black SUV parked near the far side of the courtyard.
My breath catches. The shape is unmistakable. Government-grade tint on the windows. Reinforced bumper. Even the way it sits low on its suspension screams federal vehicle. It’s the same model used by the FBI task force I worked with before everything went to hell.
For one dangerous second, hope flares in my chest. Someone from the Bureau found me. They tracked me down. They’re here to extract me from this nightmare.
My pulse hammers as scenarios flash through my mind.
A rescue team positioned beyond the walls.
Tactical units waiting for the signal. Langford coordinating the operation from a command center somewhere in the city.
Maybe Hayes pushed harder than I thought.
Maybe Marcus traced something I left behind.
Maybe someone finally noticed I’d gone dark and decided to do something about it.
The hope is so sharp it hurts. It cuts through every defense I’ve built since I arrived here, every rationalization I’ve made about why I’m still alive and why they’re keeping me.
For just a moment, I let myself believe that this nightmare has an end.
That I’m not completely alone. That someone out there still gives a damn about what happened to me.
My throat tightens and my hands want to shake, but I force them still at my sides.
Artur notices the change in my expression immediately.
His dark eyes follow my gaze across the courtyard to the SUV and something shifts in his posture.
Not alarm exactly, but heightened awareness.
He glances at Rurik, some silent communication passing between them that I can’t read.
Rurik’s pale eyes narrow slightly, his attention shifting from the vehicle to my face.
Eduard walks ahead toward the vehicle while Rurik remains beside me. I feel his pale blue eyes on my face, watching my reaction more than the SUV itself. Studying me. Reading me. I force my expression neutral, burying the hope before it shows too clearly.
We cross the courtyard together, my boots crunching against the gravel path.
Morning sunlight warms the stone walls surrounding the estate, and somewhere beyond the outer gate, I hear the distant sound of traffic, normal life continuing while I’m trapped here.
The contrast makes my chest ache. Out there, people are going to work, buying coffee, and complaining about mundane problems. In here, I’m walking toward what I thought might be salvation with three men who could kill me without a second thought.
The gravel shifts under my feet with each step. I notice the way the stones have been carefully raked into patterns, like a zen garden. Someone maintains this. Someone takes pride in making sure every detail of this place looks perfect. It’s such a normal observation that it feels surreal.
When Eduard reaches the SUV and opens the driver’s door, the illusion shatters.
The interior has been heavily modified. Hidden compartments line the console where standard equipment should be.
Encrypted radios replace the Bureau-issue communications gear.
The rear seating has been reinforced with materials I recognize from prisoner transport vehicles, but the configuration is all wrong.
This isn’t law enforcement. This is something else entirely.
My stomach drops. Not a rescue. Just another reminder that these men operate in a world that mirrors mine but exists completely outside the law.
The disappointment hits harder than it should.
I knew it was unlikely. I knew the chances of the Bureau finding me here were slim to none.
But some stupid, desperate part of me had let that hope take root anyway, and now it’s being ripped out.
Even worse, I feel a bit of relief. My mind may scream for rescue, but something else is happy I won’t be leaving here so soon.
That I won’t be leaving Rurik, Eduard, and Artur.
God, I’m sick.
I swallow hard and focus on the vehicle instead of the crushing weight in my chest.
Artur leans casually against the hood, his arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, and I catch myself noticing the way the fabric stretches over muscle before I force my attention back to the vehicle.
Even now, even when I’m fighting disappointment, fear, and anger, my body still reacts to him.
“Vehicles like this move through cities without attracting attention,” he says, his tone conversational. “Most people assume they belong to some branch of government and never question them.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. They’re using our own tactics against us. Hiding in plain sight by looking exactly like what people expect to see. It’s brilliant and infuriating in equal measure.
Eduard runs his hand along the door frame, checking something I can’t see from this angle. His fingers trace the edge with practiced familiarity, like he’s done this a thousand times. “We have three more just like it. Different plates, different registration, all clean if anyone runs them.”
“How?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
Rurik’s lips curve slightly. “Connections. Money. The same way anyone acquires things they shouldn’t have.”
I want to ask more. I need to know exactly how deep their network runs, who they’re paying off, and what other resources they have access to.
But I bite my tongue. Every piece of information I gather is another weapon I can use later, but only if I’m careful about how I collect it.
If I push too hard, they’ll shut down. If I seem too interested, they’ll wonder why.
Instead, I walk slowly around the courtyard, pretending to admire the stone paths and manicured gardens.
The morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of flowers I can’t name.
Roses climb a trellis near the eastern wall, their blooms a deep crimson that reminds me uncomfortably of blood.
The hedges are trimmed into precise geometric shapes, and even the grass looks manicured, each blade the exact same height.
As we circle back toward the house, a servant crosses the courtyard carrying a crate of supplies toward the kitchen wing.
She’s older, maybe fifty, with graying hair pulled back in a practical bun.
She doesn’t look at us as she passes, her eyes fixed on the ground in a way that suggests she’s learned not to draw attention.
Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her movements efficient but careful.
She’s been here long enough to know the rules.
I use the moment to fall slightly behind the others. Artur and Eduard are discussing something about the vehicle’s modifications, their voices low. Rurik walks ahead, his attention on his phone, his thumb scrolling across the screen.
“Excuse me,” I say quietly to the servant.
She stops, her eyes widening slightly as she looks at me. There’s wariness in her expression, like she’s not sure whether speaking to me will get her in trouble. Her grip tightens on the crate, knuckles going white.
“Where do the deliveries enter the property?” I keep my voice casual, like I’m just curious. Friendly. Harmless.
She hesitates, glancing toward the men ahead of us. Her throat works as she swallows. “The service gate. East side.”
“How often?”
“Every morning. Sometimes afternoon if there’s a special order.” Her accent is thick, Russian. She shifts her weight, clearly wanting to leave but not sure if she’s been dismissed.
“What time in the morning?” I press gently.
“Between seven and eight. Always the same truck.” Her eyes dart toward Eduard again, and I can see the fear there. She’s terrified of being caught talking to me.
“Thank you,” I say softly, trying to put her at ease. “I appreciate it.”
Before I can ask anything else, Eduard notices I’ve lagged behind. “Emma,” he calls, his tone carrying just enough edge to make it clear I should catch up.
I jog forward to rejoin the group, my mind already cataloging what I learned. Daily deliveries are between seven and eight at the east side service gate. Same truck every time, which means the same driver. Someone cleared. Someone the guards wouldn’t search too thoroughly.
It’s not much, but it’s something.
Back inside the house, we pass through a long corridor lined with dark wood paneling.
The temperature drops as we move deeper into the building, away from the sunlight.
Our footsteps echo against marble floors beneath high ceilings.
The artwork on the walls is museum quality—original pieces, not prints.
I recognize a Kandinsky among them, worth a fortune.
The corridor opens toward the central staircase, the same one I descended this morning.
Voices echo faintly from another room somewhere to our left.
Male voices, speaking in rapid Russian. I catch fragments of conversation, words I recognize from my limited language training.
Business. Territory. Numbers. Something about shipments and schedules.
I realize with sudden clarity that while I’ve been focused on escaping, the three men are still running entire criminal organizations from this estate. This isn’t just their home. It’s their headquarters. Their command center.
The thought sends a chill down my spine. What does it mean that I’ve been sleeping in their bed? That I’ve let them touch me? That some part of me has started to respond to them in ways that have nothing to do with survival?
Artur catches me staring toward the voices and grins. “Curious?”
“About what?”
“How we actually run things.” He gestures vaguely toward the room where the meeting is happening. “You’ve been here long enough to see the surface. The guards, the security, and the pretty courtyard. But you haven’t seen how the machine actually works.”
Eduard glances at Rurik, something passing between them again. A question, maybe. Or a warning. Rurik’s expression doesn’t change, but after a moment he nods slightly.
“She might as well understand what she’s gotten herself into,” Rurik says quietly.
My pulse quickens. They’re offering me access. Information. A glimpse behind the curtain I’ve been trying to see past since I arrived. Every instinct I have as an agent screams at me to take it. To learn everything I can. To gather intelligence that could bring down their entire operation.
But another part of me hesitates. Once I see how deep this goes, there’s no going back.
No pretending I don’t know. And worse, no pretending I’m just a victim.
If I walk into that room willingly, I’m choosing to be part of this world.
The line between undercover and complicit has always been thin.
I’ve walked it before. But this feels different. More personal.
As we reach the staircase, Artur stops and turns to face me fully.
His dark eyes are amused but serious underneath, testing me.
The light from the window catches the sharp line of his jaw, the slight curve of his mouth.
He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that makes me want to lean closer.
I don’t.
“If you want to understand the world you’ve landed in,” he says casually, “you might as well see how it actually works.”
Then he gestures toward the meeting room and the voices beyond. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s show you a real Bratva strategy session.”