41. Rurik
RURIK
I watch Emma from across the study, her dark hair falling loose from its braid as she leans over the laptop. She’s been at it for hours, cross-referencing financial records and communication logs, searching for the final piece of evidence that will prove Langford’s betrayal beyond any doubt.
The photograph of Langford and Volkov together sits on the desk between us, damning and undeniable.
But Emma keeps circling back to it like she’s hoping the image will change if she looks at it enough times.
Like maybe she’ll discover it’s photoshopped or taken out of context or anything other than what it clearly is: Her mentor working with the man who orchestrated her capture.
The pain she’s trying to hide is written all over her face. In the tight set of her jaw. The way her gray-green eyes keep going distant before she forces herself to focus. The tremor in her hands when she thinks no one’s watching.
Langford meant everything to her and now she has to accept that he sold her out to a criminal network that wanted to turn her into an asset.
I want to go to her. Want to pull her into my arms and tell her it’ll be okay. But I know Emma well enough by now to understand she needs to work through this on her own terms. Comfort will come later, after she’s processed the betrayal and decided what to do about it.
Eduard appears in the doorway, his gray eyes finding mine immediately. “We need to talk.”
I nod and follow him into the hallway, leaving Emma to her research. Artur joins us moments later, his dark eyes serious.
“Volkov’s people have been making moves,” Eduard says quietly. “Nothing direct, but they’re testing our security. Watching the estate and tracking our shipments.”
“He’s planning something,” Artur adds, leaning against the wall. “The question is what.”
I’ve been expecting this. Volkov doesn’t give up on assets he wants, and we’ve taken two from him now. Emma, who he spent months tracking and planning to acquire. And Krystal, who he trained for a year to be his perfect intelligence gatherer.
The man’s furious, and furious men make dangerous decisions.
“I need to meet with him,” I say, the decision forming even as I speak it. “Before this escalates into something we can’t control.”
Eduard’s jaw tightens. “That’s a risk.”
“Everything’s a risk right now.” I pull out my phone and start typing a message to one of my contacts who has connections to Volkov’s organization. “But an all-out war with him helps no one. We need to find common ground.”
“Common ground with a man who tried to buy Emma right in front of us?” Artur’s voice carries an edge. “Good fucking luck with that.”
“I’m not looking for friendship,” I say flatly. “I’m looking for a truce. Something that keeps both our operations running without constant conflict.”
The response to my message comes back within minutes. Volkov will meet this afternoon at a neutral location. No weapons, minimal security, just the two of us talking like civilized men instead of enemies preparing for war.
I don’t trust it for a second, but I go anyway.
The meeting place is a private club in the financial district. Volkov is already there when I arrive, seated in a leather chair near the window with a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
His pale gray watch my approach, assessing and calculating. “Novikov,” he greets with a nod.
I take the seat across from him without responding to the pleasantry. A server appears immediately, offering drinks I decline. This isn’t a social call.
“Let’s skip the bullshit,” I say, keeping my voice low and controlled. “You want Emma. We’re not giving her up. You want Krystal back. That’s not happening either. So where does that leave us?”
Volkov’s lips curve into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.
“Direct. I appreciate that.” He takes a sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch.
“You understand my position. I invested significant resources into acquiring and training both women. Their value to my operations is considerable.”
“And you understand mine,” I counter. “Emma isn’t a captive or an asset. She’s our woman. We care about her. And Krystal is her best friend, which makes this a family issue, not a business one.”
Something flickers in Volkov’s expression. Not quite understanding, but maybe recognition. “Family.”
“Yes.” I lean forward slightly, my hands resting on the arms of the chair. “You know what that means in our world. You know the lines we draw and the prices we pay to protect what’s ours.”
Volkov is quiet for a long moment, his pale eyes studying my face. “I had plans for Emma Moore. Specific plans that required her particular skills and access.”
“Those plans are dead,” I say flatly. “Find another way to accomplish whatever you were trying to do.”
“And Krystal?”
“Stays with us. She chose to leave you. We’re honoring that choice.”
Volkov’s jaw tightens, the first real crack in his controlled facade. “You’re asking me to walk away from significant investments.”
“I’m telling you that continuing to pursue them will cost you much more than you invested.” I hold his gaze without flinching. “We don’t want war with you, Volkov. But we’ll burn everything to the ground before we let you take either of them.”
The threat hangs between us, clear and absolute. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to refuse. That this meeting will end with nothing accomplished except confirming we’re on a collision course.
Then Volkov sets down his glass with deliberate care. “I need something in return.”
“What?”
“Information.” His pale eyes are cold, calculating. “Emma Moore was investigating the auction network. She uncovered connections that go deeper than simple trafficking. I want to know what she found.”
My instinct is to refuse immediately. Giving Volkov access to Emma’s investigation feels like a betrayal. But if it buys us peace and keeps both women safe, maybe it’s worth considering.
“I’ll discuss it with her,” I say carefully. “But I’m not promising anything.”
Volkov nods once. “That’s all I ask. For now.”
The meeting ends shortly after, both of us standing and shaking hands like civilized men instead of criminals negotiating over human lives. But the tension doesn’t ease. If anything, it’s worse now because we both know this truce is temporary at best.
I leave the club and head back to the estate, my mind already working through contingencies. Volkov will honor the agreement as long as it serves his purposes. The moment it doesn’t, he’ll make his move.
We need to be ready.
The drive back feels longer than it should, traffic crawling through the city streets.
By the time I pull through the estate gates, evening has settled over the grounds.
Lights glow warm in the windows of the main house, and I can see guards moving through their patrol routes with practiced efficiency.
Everything looks normal. Peaceful, even—if you don’t look at the guns the guards are carrying.
I head inside and go straight to the study, expecting to find Emma still buried in research.
She doesn’t hear me. She’s concentrating so hard she doesn’t even realize anyone is in the room with her.
The laptop is open on the desk, the screen glowing in the dim light.
But it’s not financial records or communication logs displayed.
It’s an email.
My blood goes cold as I move closer, reading the message she’s typing. The recipient field shows an address I don’t recognize, but the content is clear enough.
Emma is reaching out to someone. Sending information and communicating with the outside world despite the restrictions we put in place specifically to keep her safe.
Betrayal bites at my neck. We gave her access to FBI systems on the condition that she wouldn’t send outgoing messages. We trusted her to follow that one simple rule because breaking it could alert the mole that she’s still alive.
And she’s doing it anyway. Despite the safety and security messages we had in place. How the hell had she gotten past those anyway?
I stand there in the doorway, watching her fingers move across the keyboard, and feel something crack open in my chest. After everything we’ve shared. After this morning when we told her how we feel. After she promised to stay.
She’s still planning to leave us.
The realization settles over me like ice water, cold and undeniable. Emma Moore is an FBI agent first, and everything else second. Including us.