28. Emma
EMMA
I stand near the window in Rurik’s study, my arms crossed as I watch the three men work.
They’re scattered around the room. Rurik is behind the massive desk reviewing documents, Eduard leans against the bookshelf with his phone pressed to his ear, and Artur is pacing near the fireplace while he argues with someone in rapid Russian.
They’re trying to help me.
The realization settles in my chest with uncomfortable weight. These men kidnapped me from an auction where I was chained and displayed like property. They’ve held me captive in this estate for weeks. I watched them execute a man in the courtyard without hesitation.
And yet…
My gaze drifts from one to the next, cataloging details I’ve tried not to notice.
The way Rurik’s jaw tightens when he’s concentrating, his pale blue eyes sharp as he reads through intelligence reports.
How Eduard’s shoulders relax slightly when he thinks no one is watching, his gray eyes softening when they land on me.
The controlled energy in Artur’s movements, all that restless power barely contained beneath expensive clothes.
They haven’t hurt me. Not really. They’ve fed me, protected me, and given me more freedom than I probably deserve, considering I’m supposed to be their prisoner. The guards who used to follow me everywhere are gone now. It’s just the three of them watching over me when I’m in the house.
My three men.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I don’t push it away as quickly as I should.
I never imagined dating a mafia guy, much less three at once.
The idea should horrify me. I’m an FBI agent…
or I was, before the Bureau declared me dead.
Everything about this situation violates every principle I’ve built my life around.
But somehow, it feels right. Or almost right.
I’m afraid to examine it too closely, afraid of what I’ll find if I dig beneath the surface.
What if I discover I’ve fallen for my captors in some twisted version of Stockholm syndrome?
Or worse, that what I feel is real, and I’ll have to reconcile that with everything I thought I knew about myself.
Rurik’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and vicious. “Fuck.”
I straighten immediately, my attention snapping to him. Eduard ends his call and moves closer to the desk. Artur stops pacing mid-stride, his dark eyes locked on Rurik’s face.
“What is it?” Eduard asks.
Rurik sets down the document he was reading, his expression hard. “The other families know Emma is FBI. They’re claiming she’s a resource that belongs to the entire Bratva, not just us.”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“It means they want access to you.” Artur’s voice is tight with barely controlled anger. “They think because you have federal training and intelligence, you should be shared among the families.”
The implications crash over me. I thought being claimed by three pakhans was complicated enough. Now the entire damn Bratva wants a piece of me?
“That’s not happening,” Rurik says flatly, his pale eyes meeting mine. “You’re ours. And we don’t share with others.”
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat through me despite the seriousness of the situation. Eduard moves to stand beside me, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that’s become familiar. Protective.
“We need to make a statement,” he says quietly. “Show the other families that Emma isn’t available for negotiation.”
Artur grins, though there’s nothing friendly about it. “I have an idea.”
Later that evening, I find myself in the back of one of their armored SUVs, sandwiched between Eduard and Artur while Rurik sits up front with the driver. We’re heading into the city, toward one of the clubs the three men own together.
“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter, tugging at the hem of the fitted black dress they insisted I wear. It’s shorter than anything I’d normally choose, the fabric clinging to my curves in ways that make me hyperaware of every movement.
“It’s a perfect idea,” Artur counters, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. “We show up with you on our arms, make it clear you belong to us, and the other families back off.”
“Or they see it as a challenge,” I argue.
Eduard’s fingers brush along my bare shoulder, sending shivers down my spine. “Let them try.”
The club is called Midnight, and it’s exactly what I’d expect from a Bratva-owned establishment.
Sleek, expensive, and packed with people who look like they have money and connections.
Security is tight with guards at every entrance.
Cameras cover every possible angle, and there’s a VIP section on the second floor that overlooks the main dance floor, with guards stationed at the entrance.
We bypass the line outside, moving through a private entrance that leads directly to the VIP area. The music is loud, bass thumping through the floor, and the lighting shifts between deep blues and purples that make everything feel intimate and dangerous.
Rurik orders drinks while Eduard guides me to one of the leather couches positioned near the railing. From here, I can see the entire club spread out below us. Bodies move together on the dance floor, the crowd a blur of motion and heat.
Artur appears with a glass of something amber and hands it to me. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe here.”
I take a sip, the whiskey burning pleasantly down my throat. “Don’t call me that.”
His grin widens. “You don’t mean that anymore.”
He’s right, and we both know it. The nickname has shifted from irritating to almost affectionate, though I’ll never admit it out loud.
The alcohol helps ease the tension in my shoulders. I finish the first drink faster than I should and accept a second when Artur offers. The music pulses around us, and I find myself relaxing into the rhythm, my body swaying slightly to the beat.
“Dance with me,” Eduard says, standing and offering his hand.
I hesitate for only a second before taking it. He leads me down to the main floor, his hand warm and steady in mine. The crowd parts slightly as we move through, people recognizing Eduard and giving him space.
On the dance floor, he pulls me close, his hands settling on my hips as we move together. The music is fast, energetic, and I let myself get lost in it. Eduard’s body moves with surprising grace, his gray eyes locked on mine as we dance.
Artur joins us moments later, pressing against my back so I’m caught between them. The position should feel overwhelming, but instead it feels safe. Protected. Like nothing can touch me as long as I’m with them.
Rurik watches from the VIP section, his pale eyes tracking our every movement. Even from here, I can feel the weight of his attention, possessive and heated.
The music shifts to something slower, more sensual, and the dancing changes with it. Eduard’s hands slide lower, gripping my ass as he pulls me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is through his pants, the evidence of his desire pressing against my stomach.
Artur’s mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “You’re fucking beautiful like this.”
I should tell them to stop. We’re in public, surrounded by people who work for them and probably report everything they see. But the alcohol has loosened my inhibitions, and the heat building between us is impossible to ignore.
My hands slide up Eduard’s chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. His breathing quickens, his grip on me tightening. Behind me, Artur’s hands roam over my hips, my waist, everywhere he can reach.
“We should go back upstairs,” Eduard murmurs against my ear.
Before I can respond, someone calls my name.
“Emma!”
The voice cuts through the music, sharp and urgent. I turn, my heart stuttering when I see who’s pushing through the crowd toward us.
Krystal.
She’s wearing an emerald green dress that shows off her delicate frame, her honey-blonde hair falling in perfect waves down her back. But her hazel eyes are wide, almost frantic, as she reaches us.
“I need to talk to you,” she says breathlessly.
Eduard’s hands tighten on my hips, protective. Artur moves closer, his body tense. But I step away from them, moving toward my friend.
“What’s wrong?”
Krystal glances around nervously, then leans in close so only I can hear. “Not here. Somewhere private.”
I look back at the men. Rurik has appeared at the edge of the dance floor, his expression hard. He doesn’t trust this. Neither do I, really. But this is Krystal, and she looks genuinely scared.
“The bathroom,” I say quietly. “We can talk there.”
Krystal nods quickly and grabs my hand, pulling me through the crowd. The men follow at a distance, giving us space but staying close enough to intervene if needed.
The bathroom is empty when we enter, all sleek marble and expensive fixtures. Krystal checks each stall to make sure we’re alone, then she turns to face me.
“I want out,” she says, her voice shaking. “I want out of this life, Emma. But I have to be careful. I have to play the game or Volkov will know something’s wrong.”