23. Emma
EMMA
The dining room feels different tonight.
I’m escorted downstairs by two guards who don’t speak, their boots echoing against marble floors as we move through corridors I’ve memorized.
It’s the first time since the execution that I’ve been allowed to leave the secured wing for anything other than brief walks in the courtyard under heavy supervision.
The first time since I told Eduard I would never submit to becoming their shared wife.
My stomach twists as we approach the main dining room.
I don’t know what to expect. Another confrontation?
More justifications for what they did? Part of me wants to refuse, to stay locked in that room and avoid facing them.
But another part, the part that’s been an FBI agent longer than I’ve been their captive, knows I need information more than I need pride right now.
The guards open the doors and step aside.
Rurik, Artur, and Eduard are already seated at the long table, their conversation pausing as I enter. The room is warm, lit by the chandelier overhead and the fading evening light through the tall windows. Plates are already set, wine poured, and the smell of roasted meat and herbs fills the air.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Rurik’s pale blue eyes track me as I cross the room, his expression unreadable. Eduard’s gaze is warmer, though there’s caution underneath. Artur leans back in his chair, his dark eyes assessing me with that familiar mix of amusement and something deeper.
“Sit,” Rurik says quietly, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.
I take the seat without arguing. The guards close the doors behind me, and I hear them take positions outside.
Eduard passes me a plate of food without comment. Roasted chicken, vegetables, and fresh bread. My stomach growls despite everything, and I realize I’m actually hungry. I haven’t eaten much over the past few days, too angry and too stubborn to accept more than the bare minimum.
The conversation resumes as if my presence changes nothing.
Rurik discusses a shipment moving through one of his Pacific routes, something about customs delays and rerouting through Vancouver.
Eduard mentions updates to security protocols at one of the family warehouses.
Artur is complaining again about a captain who keeps requesting unnecessary equipment upgrades, his tone light but his words sharp.
I listen more than I speak, cataloging details the way I’ve been trained. Port names. Delivery schedules. The casual way they discuss criminal operations like they’re running legitimate businesses. It should disgust me. It does disgust me. But I can’t deny the efficiency of what they’ve built.
The meal continues in relative quiet. I eat slowly, my attention drifting between the three men and the guards I know are stationed just outside. For the first time since arriving at this estate, dinner feels almost normal. Almost like I’m sitting with people instead of captors.
Then Artur’s phone vibrates against the table.
He glances at the screen and something shifts in his expression. Not alarm exactly, but heightened focus. He picks up the phone and reads for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.
“What is it?” Eduard asks, setting down his fork.
Artur doesn’t answer immediately. He scrolls through whatever message he received, his jaw tightening. Then he pushes his chair back and stands, moving to the window where the light is better.
Rurik watches him carefully. “Artur.”
“Intelligence contact,” Artur says, his voice clipped. “Intercepted communication between two Baltic traffickers.”
My pulse quickens. Baltic. The same network connected to Krystal’s disappearance.
Artur reads from the screen, his tone flat and professional. “They’re discussing a private gathering scheduled for next week. One of them mentions a ‘blonde American asset’ who’s been appearing at events connected to their leadership.”
The words hit me hard enough to stall my breath. Blonde American asset. Could it be Krystal? I mentally shake my head. There are plenty of blonde people. I shouldn’t be getting my hopes up so easily.
My hands curl into fists under the table. “What else does it say?”
Artur’s gaze flicks to me then back to the phone. “The second trafficker responds that the woman ‘learned fast.’ That she’s been useful in social settings where they need someone who can navigate elite circles without raising suspicion.”
The room goes quiet.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Blonde. American. Learned fast. It could be anyone.
It could be dozens of women caught in the same network.
But the description fits Krystal perfectly.
Her honey-blonde hair and natural warmth that made people trust her, the way she adapted to new situations because she always wanted to please.
“Emma.” Eduard’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“It’s her,” I say, my voice tight. “It has to be her.”
Rurik stands and moves to the table where several files are stacked near the edge. He pulls them closer, spreading documents across the polished surface. “We need to verify before we act on anything.”
Eduard joins him, flipping through pages with practiced efficiency.
I watch them work, my entire body tense.
They’re cross-referencing the intercepted message with information from the ledger and other intelligence they’ve collected.
Names appear. Dates and occasions connected to the Baltic network.
Then Eduard stops on a particular page, his gray eyes narrowing. “Here.”
Rurik leans over his shoulder, reading. After a moment, he nods once. “Aleksander Volkov.”
The name means nothing to me, but the way all three men react tells me it should. Artur sets his phone down and moves closer to the table, his expression hard.
“Who is he?” I ask, standing.
“Baltic syndicate leader,” Rurik says, his tone calm but edged with something darker. “He operates differently than most traffickers. He doesn’t just move women across borders. He reshapes them.”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
Eduard looks up from the files, his gaze steady on mine. “Volkov doesn’t see captives as disposable. He sees them as assets that can be trained, educated, and deployed for influence. He turns them into tools he can use in political and social circles.”
The implications crash over me. If Krystal was purchased by someone like Volkov, it would explain why no ransom demands ever surfaced. Why there were no public traces and the investigation went cold so quickly.
She wasn’t killed. She was remade.
“Where is he?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Where does Volkov operate?”
“Multiple locations,” Artur says, leaning against the table. “He has properties in Lithuania, Latvia, and connections throughout Eastern Europe. He also maintains a presence in the United States through shell companies and legitimate businesses.”
“Then we find him.” I step closer to the table, my hands bracing against the edge. “We find Volkov, and we find Krystal.”
Rurik’s pale eyes lock onto mine. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because Volkov’s network is powerful,” Eduard says quietly. “He has connections that reach into governments, law enforcement, and rival syndicates. If we move against him without careful planning, it could ignite a conflict that spreads far beyond this estate.”
“I don’t care about your conflicts,” I snap. “My best friend is out there, and you’re telling me we can’t act because it might be inconvenient?”
Artur’s expression hardens. “We’re telling you that rushing in without a plan gets people killed. Including Krystal. And we’re not even sure she’s the asset mentioned.”
I want to argue, want to demand they do something immediately.
But the rational part of my brain, the part trained to think strategically, knows he’s right.
If Volkov has spent a year turning Krystal into an asset, he won’t give her up easily.
And if we push too hard, too fast, he might decide she’s more valuable dead than compromised.
I sink back into my chair, my hands shaking slightly. “So what do we do?”
Rurik returns to his seat, his gaze never leaving my face. “We gather more intelligence. We confirm the woman in the message is actually Krystal before we commit resources to extraction.”
“And if it is her?”
“Then we plan carefully,” Eduard says. “We find out where Volkov is keeping her, what security he has in place, and what leverage we can use to get her back without starting a war.”
I want to scream. Want to flip the table and demand they act now. But I force myself to breathe, to think like an agent instead of a desperate friend.
“How long will that take?” I ask quietly.
“Days,” Rurik says. “Maybe a week if we’re thorough.”
A week. Seven more days while Krystal is out there, trapped in whatever life Volkov has forced her into. The thought makes my chest ache.
Artur picks up his phone again, scrolling through the message. “There’s an attachment. A photograph taken at one of the gatherings.”
My pulse spikes. “Show me.”
He hesitates, glancing at Rurik and Eduard. Some silent communication passes between them, too fast for me to read. Then Artur nods and places the phone on the table, turning it so I can see the screen.
The photograph is blurry, taken from across a crowded room.
Expensive suits and evening gowns fill the frame, champagne glasses catching the light.
In the center, partially obscured by other guests, stands a tall man with dark blond hair and sharp features.
Beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, is a blonde woman in a fitted black dress.
The image quality is poor, the woman’s face partially turned away from the camera. But the honey-blonde hair falling straight down her back, the delicate build, the way she holds herself with careful poise—
My breath catches.
It’s her.
It’s Krystal.