20. Emma
EMMA
I wake later than I intended, sunlight already streaming through the tall windows of the bedroom. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, my body warm and relaxed between the three men who claimed me in every possible way last night.
Then reality crashes back.
According to the FBI, I’m officially dead.
The thought sits strangely in my mind, heavy and surreal.
I’ve spent my entire adult life working for the Bureau, building cases, chasing criminals, and believing in the system.
Now that same system has erased me. Declared me presumed dead and closed the investigation into the auction network that claimed both Krystal and me.
Someone made that decision. Someone with enough authority to shut down an active case and bury the truth about what happened to me. The betrayal cuts deeper than anything I’ve felt since my parents were murdered.
I slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake the others. Rurik stirs slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. Eduard’s breathing remains steady and deep. Artur is sprawled across his side of the massive bed, one arm flung over his face.
In the bathroom, I shower quickly, letting the hot water ease the tension in my shoulders.
My reflection in the mirror shows faint marks on my neck and collarbone from last night, evidence of hands and mouths that claimed every inch of me.
I should feel ashamed, should feel like I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross.
Instead, I just feel alive. Despite being declared dead. What an odd contradiction my life has become.
I dress in jeans and a fitted black sweater, pulling my hair back into a practical braid.
By the time I leave the bathroom, the house is already awake.
Rurik, Eduard, and Artur are gone, and I can hear voices echoing from somewhere downstairs, the familiar sounds of the estate coming to life.
Two guards wait for me outside the room, already my silent tail.
I find Rurik, Artur, and Eduard in the smaller dining room, waiting for me.
They must have woken when I’d taken my shower.
The morning light streams through the windows, casting warm shadows across the polished table.
They look up when I enter, and something passes between the four of us.
An acknowledgment of what happened last night. I fight the blush creeping up my neck.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Artur says, his dark eyes warm. “Sleep well?”
“Better than I should have.” I take the seat across from him and reach for the coffee pot. The rich smell helps ground me.
Eduard slides a plate of food in my direction. Fresh fruit, toast, scrambled eggs. “You need to eat.”
I don’t argue. My stomach is empty, and I realize I’m actually hungry. As I eat, the conversation returns to the information Rurik received last night from his tech contact.
“The Bureau moved fast,” Rurik says, his pale blue eyes serious. “Too fast. They declared you presumed dead within days of your disappearance and closed the auction investigation completely.”
“Someone wanted it buried.” I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. “Someone with enough pull to make it happen without raising flags.”
“Your supervisor?” Eduard asks.
“Hayes opposed the operation from the start, but I don’t think he has that kind of authority.” I shake my head. “It would have to come from higher up. Someone at the deputy director level or above.”
Artur leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “So either someone very powerful wanted you gone, or they wanted the investigation shut down before you found something they couldn’t afford to have exposed.”
“Or both,” I mutter.
The thought makes my chest tight. I’ve spent a year chasing the auction network, convinced it would lead me to Krystal. Now I’m starting to realize the network might be connected to something much bigger. Something that reaches into the very organization I trusted with my life.
After breakfast, the four of us move outside into the gardens behind the estate.
The morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass.
The grounds are quiet except for a few guards moving through their patrol routes, their presence a constant reminder of the world I’ve landed in.
I walk beside Eduard while Rurik and Artur move slightly ahead, discussing something in low voices.
The gravel path crunches under my boots, and I find myself lost in the details around me.
The way the hedges are trimmed into precise geometric shapes.
The stone benches are positioned to catch the morning sun.
The careful maintenance that keeps everything looking perfect.
“You’re quiet,” Eduard says, glancing at me.
“Just thinking.”
“About being dead?”
The bluntness of the question makes me smile despite everything. “Among other things.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his gray eyes thoughtful. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not actually dead.”
“That makes two of us.”
Ahead of us, Artur turns and walks backward so he can face me, his crooked grin already in place. “So, sweetheart, now that you’re officially deceased, does that mean you’re free from all those pesky FBI rules?”
“Don’t call me that,” I say automatically, but there’s no heat in it.
“What should I call you then? My favorite dead federal agent?”
“How about Emma?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He spins back around, laughing when I flip him off.
The easy banter feels surreal yet familiar. Not long ago, I was an FBI agent investigating the Bratva. Now I’m walking through a criminal estate, trading inside jokes with three men who own me in ways that have nothing to do with purchasing me from the bride auction.
Artur starts another playful argument about whether my FBI training would have prepared me for the kind of situations the three men deal with regularly.
I rise to the challenge immediately, defending my training even though I know he’s partly right.
The Bureau taught me how to investigate, how to gather evidence, and how to build cases.
But it didn’t teach me how to survive in a world where violence is currency and loyalty is everything.
Eduard turns the conversation into something lighter, asking me about the cases I worked before the auction investigation.
For the first time since arriving at the estate, I find myself speaking more openly about my work.
I tell them about the trafficking ring I helped dismantle in Seattle.
The weapons smuggling operation that took six months to crack.
The financial fraud case that nearly bored me to death but resulted in three major arrests.
They listen with genuine interest, asking questions that show they understand the complexity of what I did. Rurik wants to know about surveillance techniques. Artur is curious about how we built informant networks. Eduard asks about the legal frameworks that govern undercover operations.
It’s strange, talking shop with criminals. But it’s also oddly comfortable.
Later that morning, I follow the men toward the garage where several of their drivers are preparing vehicles for the day’s operations. The garage is busy, mechanics working on engines while guards check weapons and communications equipment.
I watch Rurik move through the space, stopping to speak with different men.
His presence commands immediate attention, but it’s not just fear that makes them straighten when he approaches.
It’s respect. The same respect I see when Eduard reviews shipping manifests with one of the captains or when Artur jokes with a driver while checking the vehicle’s armor plating.
These men are respected by the people who work for them. Loyal even.
The realization unsettles me more than I want to admit. I expected ruthless criminals who ruled through fear alone. Instead, I see something more complicated. The guards aren’t just following orders. They believe in what they’re protecting. They trust the three men leading them.
I think about my own organization, the FBI I dedicated my life to serving.
My loyalty was returned with someone inside betraying me, selling me out to the very criminals I was investigating.
My less trusting coworkers had been right, and their weak loyalty remained with whomever paid their next paycheck or approved their investigations.
Meanwhile, these three Bratva bosses have built something that inspires genuine loyalty from the men under their command.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I’m standing near one of the SUVs, watching a mechanic adjust the suspension, when Artur appears at my side. He leans against the vehicle, his shoulder brushing mine.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly.
“How nothing is what I expected it to be.”
“Good or bad?”
I consider the question. “I don’t know yet.”
His hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine in a gesture that feels both possessive and comforting. “You’ll figure it out.”
Before I can respond, shouting erupts near the storage building at the edge of the courtyard.
My head snaps toward the sound. Two guards drag a struggling man into the open while several others surround him. He’s fighting hard, but the guards have him completely controlled, with his head bowed by a tight grip in his dark hair.
Rurik moves immediately, his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to lethal in the space of a heartbeat. Eduard and Artur follow, and I find myself trailing behind them, my pulse quickening.
One of the captains steps forward, his expression grim. He’s the older man I recognize from the meeting, the one with scarred hands and decades of enforcement work written across his weathered face.
“Boss,” he says to Rurik, his accent thick. “We caught this man stealing from the estate.”