29. Eduard
EDUARD
Something about Krystal’s sudden appearance doesn’t sit right with me.
The timing is too convenient, her desperation too perfectly calibrated.
I’ve spent years reading people, learning to spot the difference between genuine fear and performance, and right now I can’t tell which one Krystal Donnovan is giving us.
Emma doesn’t notice my hesitation. She’s already moving toward the bathroom with Krystal, her eyes bright with hope and determination. Artur shifts beside me, his dark eyes tracking their movement through the crowd. Rurik appears at my shoulder, his pale gaze locked on the two women.
“This feels wrong,” I say quietly.
“Everything about tonight feels wrong,” Rurik replies, his voice flat. “But we let it play out.”
I nod once and start moving through the crowd, keeping enough distance that Emma won’t notice I’m following.
The club is packed, bodies pressed together on the dance floor, and the music pounds through my chest with each step.
I use the chaos as cover, slipping between groups of dancers and staying in the shadows near the walls.
The bathroom is at the back of the club, down a narrow hallway that leads to the private offices and storage areas.
I watch Emma and Krystal disappear inside then position myself near the door.
The music is quieter here, muffled by distance and thick walls, which means I can hear their voices if I press close enough.
I lean against the wall beside the bathroom entrance, my phone in my hand like I’m checking messages. To anyone passing by, I look casual, bored even. But every sense I have is focused on the conversation happening on the other side of that door.
Emma’s voice comes through first, concerned and urgent. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I need your help.” Krystal’s tone is breathless, almost frantic. “But I have to be careful. If Volkov suspects I’m trying to leave, he’ll kill me.”
My jaw tightens. Volkov doesn’t kill assets he’s spent a year training. He repurposes them, reshapes them, or sells them to someone who will. But he doesn’t waste valuable resources on executions unless they’ve become liabilities.
“I can protect you,” Emma says firmly. “The men I’m with, they have resources. We can get you out tonight if you want.”
“No.” Krystal’s response is immediate and sharp. “Not yet. I need to gather information first. Evidence that will keep me safe once I leave.”
I frown. That’s smart, calculated even. Too calculated for someone who’s supposedly terrified and desperate.
“What kind of evidence?” Emma asks.
There’s a pause, long enough that I wonder if Krystal is choosing her words carefully.
Then she speaks again, her voice lower. “The bride auction isn’t just for the mob, Emma.
There are powerful people involved. Politicians, defense contractors, and people with connections that reach into every level of government. ”
My pulse quickens. If she’s telling the truth, this is bigger than any of us realized.
“How do you know that?” Emma’s voice is tight with tension.
“Because I’ve been to their parties. I’ve served drinks while they talked business. Volkov uses me to gather intelligence on them, and I’ve heard enough to know the auction is just one piece of a much larger operation.”
Fuck. If Volkov has been deploying Krystal in those circles, she’s seen things that could bring down entire networks. Which means she’s either incredibly valuable or incredibly dangerous, depending on who’s asking.
“What else did you hear?” Emma presses.
Another pause. Then Krystal’s voice drops even lower, barely audible through the door. “I think the entire thing was a setup just to get you.”
My whole body tenses as an icy wave of fear rushes through me. I straighten slightly, my hand tightening around my phone.
“What do you mean?” Emma’s voice is sharp now, all business.
“I don’t know all the details,” Krystal says quickly. “But I’ve heard your name mentioned multiple times. People talking about an FBI agent who was getting too close to something important. They wanted you captured, not killed. They wanted you in the auction.”
My mind races through the implications. Her betrayal is deeper than she thought. If Emma was the target from the beginning, then someone with serious resources orchestrated her capture. Someone who knew exactly where she’d be and when. Someone inside the Bureau.
“Why?” Emma demands. “Why would they want me specifically?”
“I don’t know.” Krystal sounds genuinely frustrated. “I only caught pieces of conversations. But whatever you were investigating, it scared them enough to go through a lot of trouble to stop you.”
“And then Rurik, Artur, and Eduard interfered,” Emma says quietly.
“Exactly.” Krystal’s voice softens slightly. “They weren’t supposed to buy you. Someone else was. Someone connected to the people running the auction.”
I process this information quickly, cataloging every detail. If Emma was meant for a specific buyer, our ten-million-dollar bid didn’t just save her. It fucked up someone’s carefully laid plans.
Which means we’ve made enemies we don’t even know about yet.
The conversation continues for a few more minutes, Krystal promising to gather more information and contact Emma again soon. Then I hear movement, footsteps approaching the door. I push away from the wall and move quickly down the hallway, disappearing around the corner before they emerge.
By the time Emma and Krystal return to the main club, I’m back in the VIP section with Rurik and Artur, my expression carefully neutral.
Emma’s face is flushed with excitement and determination, her gray-green eyes bright.
Krystal says something to her quietly then disappears back into the crowd with her bodyguards.
“We need to leave,” I say to Rurik.
He doesn’t question me. Within minutes, we’re in the SUV heading back to the estate, Emma sandwiched between Artur and me in the back seat. She’s practically vibrating with energy, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
“Krystal wants out,” she says the moment the doors close. “She’s gathering evidence against Volkov, but she needs help.”
“We heard,” Rurik says from the front seat.
Emma’s head snaps toward him. “You were listening?”
“Eduard was,” Artur confirms, his hand resting on her thigh. “And it’s a good thing he did.”
I watch her process this, see the flash of anger in her eyes before she forces it down. “Then you know we have to help her.”
“We know Volkov is very good at what he does,” I say carefully. “And Krystal may be playing a part for him.”
Emma’s jaw tightens. “She’s not. I know her. She wouldn’t—”
“You knew her a year ago,” I interrupt gently. “Before Volkov spent twelve months reshaping her into whatever he needed. People change, Emma. Especially when survival depends on it.”
She doesn’t respond, but I see the doubt creeping into her expression. She wants to believe Krystal is genuine, wants to trust that her friend is still the same person she remembers. But she’s also smart enough to recognize the possibility that I’m right.
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence.
Back at the estate, I expect Emma to head straight for the bedroom, maybe let us distract her the way we did in the shower earlier. Instead, she paces the main floor like a caged animal, her boots clicking against marble floors as she moves from room to room.
“I need to do research,” she says finally, stopping in the middle of the study. “The bride auction, the people involved, and the connection to whoever set me up. I want unmonitored access to a computer.”
Rurik and Artur exchange glances. I lean against the desk, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s a security risk.”
“I know.” Emma moves closer, her gray-green eyes locked on mine. “But if Krystal is right, if this goes deeper than just the Bratva, then we need to know who we’re dealing with. And I’m the only one with access to FBI databases.”
She has a point. As much as I hate the idea of giving her that kind of access, the information she could gather might be worth the risk.
“We discuss it first,” Rurik says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The three of us step into the hallway, leaving Emma in the study.
The conversation is brief but intense. Artur argues that giving her computer access is asking for trouble.
Rurik points out that her credentials are probably still active since the Bureau declared her dead.
I remind them both that Emma is smart enough to find ways around our security eventually, so we might as well control the situation now.
Finally, we agree. She gets access, but only under strict supervision. One of us will be with her at all times when she’s using the computer, as we’d done before. No unmonitored access like she’d hoped.
When we return to the study, Emma’s expression shifts from anxious to relieved. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us yet,” Artur mutters. “You fuck this up, and we pull the plug immediately.”
We move to the bedroom, and I retrieve one of our encrypted laptops from the safe. It’s clean, no personal files or operational data, just a secure connection to the internet. I set it up on the desk near the window while Rurik stretches out on the massive bed, his pale eyes already closing.
Artur pours himself a drink and settles into the leather recliner, his dark gaze tracking Emma’s movements. I pull a chair close to the desk, positioning myself where I can see the screen clearly.
Emma sits down and opens the laptop, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. Within seconds, she’s navigating to the FBI’s secure login portal. I watch her type in her credentials, half expecting the system to reject them.
It doesn’t.
The screen loads, granting her full access to the Bureau’s internal databases. Emma exhales slowly, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “I can’t believe that worked.”
“You’re officially dead,” I remind her. “They probably haven’t bothered deactivating your account yet.”
She nods and starts searching, pulling up files related to the bride auction investigation. I watch her work, impressed by how quickly she navigates the system. She knows exactly where to look, which databases to cross-reference, and how to filter results efficiently.
Hours pass. Rurik’s breathing evens out into sleep, his broad chest rising and falling steadily. Artur finishes his drink and pours another, his attention never wavering from Emma. I stay close, monitoring every search she runs, every file she opens.
She’s looking for connections between the auction network and federal personnel. Names that appear in multiple investigations or financial transactions that don’t make sense. Anything that might point to who set her up.
Then she freezes, her entire body going rigid.
“What is it?” I ask immediately.
Emma doesn’t answer. She just stares at the screen, her gray-green eyes wide with shock and something that looks like betrayal.
I lean closer, reading over her shoulder. It’s a memo filed by Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Hayes, dated two days after Emma’s disappearance. The subject line reads: Operational Assessment - Special Agent Emma Moore.
The content is brief but damning. Hayes describes Emma as “operationally impulsive” and “prone to taking unnecessary risks without proper authorization.” He recommends that her disappearance be classified as the result of poor judgment rather than external factors, effectively blaming her for what happened.
The memo became part of the official explanation for why the Bureau closed the investigation so quickly.
Emma’s hands tremble slightly as she scrolls through the document, reading every word. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight with barely controlled fury.
“Hayes sold me out.”