18. Rurik
RURIK
Emma walks into the smaller dining room like she owns the place, and I can’t decide if that irritates me or turns me on. Probably both.
She’s wearing dark jeans that hug her ass perfectly and a fitted black sweater that shows off her curves without trying too hard. Her dark hair is pulled back in that practical braid she favors.
The dining room overlooks the gardens, and the afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows, casting warm light across the polished table. It’s a smaller, more intimate space than the formal dining hall we use for business meetings. The kind of room meant for family.
Eduard is already seated, reviewing something on his phone.
Artur lounges in his chair with that casual confidence he always has, his dark eyes tracking Emma as she takes the seat across from me.
The way he looks at her makes something possessive tighten in my chest. I know exactly what he’s thinking because I’m thinking the same damn thing.
“Sleep well?” Artur asks, his lips curving into that crooked smile.
Emma meets his gaze without flinching. “Better than the couch, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t asking about the couch.” His grin widens. “I was asking if you slept well between the three of us.”
Heat crawls up Emma’s neck, but she doesn’t look away. “I slept fine. Thanks for your concern.”
Eduard chuckles quietly, setting his phone aside as the staff brings in lunch. Grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread still warm from the kitchen.
Emma picks up her fork and starts eating without waiting for the rest of us. No hesitation. No deference. Just a woman who’s hungry and doesn’t give a fuck about protocol.
I like that about her.
“We have a shipment moving through Portland tomorrow,” Eduard says, cutting into his salmon. “The route Emma suggested yesterday is working better than expected. We’re cutting transit time by nearly forty percent.”
Artur raises his glass in Emma’s direction. “Look at that. Our little fed is making us more efficient.”
“Don’t call me that,” Emma says automatically, but there’s no real heat in it.
“What should I call you then?” Artur leans forward, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Sweetheart? Baby? My favorite pain in the ass?”
“How about Emma?” She takes a bite of salmon, chewing slowly while she holds his gaze. “You know, my actual name.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
I watch the exchange with quiet satisfaction. This is different from the first meals we shared. Emma isn’t acting like a prisoner anymore. She’s engaging, pushing back, and inserting herself into the conversation.
She’s becoming part of this. Part of us.
“After lunch,” I say, drawing her attention, “you’re coming with me to the garage.”
Emma’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “Why?”
“Because I want you to see how the operation actually functions.” I cut into my own meal, keeping my tone casual. “You’ve seen the security, the meetings, and the planning. Now you’ll see the execution.”
She sets her fork down carefully. “You’re taking me to watch a shipment being prepared?”
“Unless you’d rather stay in your room.”
Her gray-green eyes narrow slightly, searching my face for the trap. She won’t find one. I’m being completely honest. If she’s going to be here, if she’s going to keep offering suggestions that improve our logistics, she might as well understand the full scope of what we do.
“Fine,” she says finally. “I’ll come.”
Artur grins. “This should be interesting.”
The rest of the meal passes with easier conversation. Eduard discusses updates to the estate’s security systems. Artur complains about one of the captains who keeps requesting unnecessary equipment upgrades.
After lunch, I lead Emma through the main house toward the eastern wing where the garage complex sits. The corridor is quiet, our footsteps echoing against marble floors. She walks beside me, close enough that I catch the clean scent of her soap.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Showing me all of this.” She gestures vaguely around us. “The meetings, the operations, the way everything works. You know I’m going to use it against you eventually.”
I stop walking and turn to face her. She’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, pull her against me the way I did that night against the wall. The memory of how she felt, how she tasted, sends heat through my blood.
“Maybe,” I say, my voice low.
The garage complex is massive, easily large enough to house twenty vehicles. Mechanics work on several armored SUVs, their tools clanging against metal as they inspect engines and reinforce panels. One of our senior captains stands near the far wall, reviewing delivery schedules with two drivers.
Emma stops just inside the entrance, her eyes sweeping across the space. I watch her take it all in. The organized chaos, expensive equipment, and careful coordination that keep our operations running smoothly.
“This is where we prepare the convoy vehicles,” I explain, moving to stand beside her. “Every shipment gets inspected before it leaves the estate. Engines, armor, communications systems. Nothing moves until we’re certain it’s secure.”
One of the mechanics glances up and notices Emma. His expression shifts from curiosity to wariness, but he doesn’t stop working. Word has spread through the estate about the FBI agent living in our wing. Most of the men don’t know what to make of her yet.
The captain approaches, nodding respectfully in my direction before his gaze slides to Emma. “Sir. The vehicles are ready for tomorrow’s run.”
“Show me the route,” I say.
He spreads a map across the hood of the nearest SUV, tracing the planned convoy path with one thick finger.
“We’re taking Highway 26 through the Coastal Range like the agent suggested.
The logging routes give us cover, and we’ve confirmed the patrol schedules.
We’ll move during the shift change window. ”
Emma steps closer, studying the map. I watch her eyes track the route, noting checkpoints and potential complications. When she speaks, her voice is calm and professional.
“You’re planning to stop here?” She points to a rest area marked on the map. “That’s a mistake. State troopers use that location for speed traps during afternoon hours. You’d be better off pushing through to this junction and refueling there instead.”
The captain’s eyebrows rise. He looks at me, waiting for permission to respond.
I nod once.
“How do you know about the speed traps?” he asks Emma.
“Because the FBI uses the same data to track criminal transport patterns.” She taps the map again. “If I know about it, other agencies do too. You want to avoid predictable stops.”
The captain studies the alternative route she’s suggesting, his expression thoughtful. “That adds fifteen minutes to the drive.”
“It also keeps you from getting pulled over and searched.” Emma crosses her arms. “Your call.”
Several of the mechanics have stopped working now, watching the exchange with barely concealed interest. An FBI agent is standing in our garage, casually improving our smuggling routes. The absurdity isn’t lost on anyone.
The captain glances at me again. I can see the question in his eyes. Do we trust her? Do we take advice from someone who’s supposed to be our enemy?
“Use her route,” I say quietly.
He nods and makes notes on the map. “Yes, sir.”
As he walks away to brief the drivers, Emma turns to face me. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you’re right.” I lean against the SUV, studying her. “And because I’m not stupid enough to ignore good intelligence just because it comes from an unexpected source.”
We spend another hour in the garage while Emma asks questions about vehicle modifications, communication protocols, and backup plans.
The mechanics warm to her gradually, answering her questions with increasing detail.
By the time we leave, she’s earned a grudging respect from men who would normally never trust a federal agent.
Back in the main house, we find Eduard and Artur waiting in the study. The room is exactly as Emma left it the night she was caught snooping. Photographs still line the walls and the massive desk dominates the center of the space.
Eduard has the leather-bound ledger open in front of him, the one that belonged to our fathers. He looks up when we enter, his gray eyes serious.
“I’ve been going through the entries from the year before they died,” he says. “There’s something you both need to see.”
Emma moves closer to the desk, her curiosity obvious. I stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush.
Eduard turns the ledger so we can all see the pages. The handwriting is my father’s, neat and precise. “These entries describe meetings between our fathers and several other Bratva leaders. They were trying to restructure the bride auction network.”
“Restructure how?” Artur asks, leaning over the desk.
“They wanted to shut down the trafficking side entirely.” Eduard’s finger traces one of the entries. “The auction was originally meant to arrange marriages between families, political alliances. But outside money corrupted it. Turned it into something darker.”
Emma’s breath catches. “They were trying to stop it?”
“They were trying to take control of it,” I correct. “Clean it up. Make it what it was supposed to be before it was used to move kidnapped women across borders.”
Eduard flips through several more pages, translating passages written in Russian. The entries paint a picture of our fathers working together, planning to eliminate the trafficking elements and restore the auction to its original purpose.
“That’s why they were killed,” Emma says quietly. “Someone didn’t want them to succeed.”
“We’ve always suspected that,” Artur says. “But we never had proof.”
Eduard turns another page and Emma stills beside me. I follow her gaze to a short entry near the bottom of the page.
The handwriting is rushed, less careful than the others. It records a meeting between our three fathers and an unnamed American observer. The date is only days before the night they were killed.
“An American observer,” Emma breathes. “Who the hell was that?”
Eduard’s jaw tightens. “We don’t know. The entry doesn’t give a name.”
I stare at the words, my mind racing. An American involved in Bratva business days before our fathers were murdered. Someone important enough to warrant a meeting but not important enough to be named in the ledger.
Or someone dangerous enough that my father didn’t want to write down their identity.
Emma’s hand trembles slightly as she reaches toward the page, her fingers hovering just above the faded ink.
“This changes everything,” she whispers.