43. Artur
ARTUR
I check my watch for the third time in as many minutes, my fingers drumming against the polished mahogany bar in the main hall. Seven-thirty. The captains and senior members from all three families will start arriving in half an hour and Emma still hasn’t come downstairs.
My stomach twists with an unfamiliar tension that has nothing to do with the political minefield we’re about to navigate tonight.
I’ve faced down rival bosses, negotiated deals worth millions, and walked into situations where one wrong word could start a war.
But waiting for Emma to appear in front of our combined families makes my pulse race in a way that feels dangerously close to fear.
This meeting could make or break everything we’ve been building.
Years of careful planning, secret coordination between the three of us, and the slow reconstruction of what our fathers tried to create before they died.
Tonight, we make it official. Tonight, we introduce Emma as our woman and announce the formal unification of the Novikov, Lenkov, and Balabanov families.
And if it goes wrong, we could be looking at internal rebellion or worse.
Rurik stands near the tall windows overlooking the front drive, his pale blue eyes focused on the security team’s movements as they position themselves around the estate.
He’s wearing a dark suit that makes his broad shoulders look even more imposing, his jaw tight with the kind of controlled tension I recognize from high-stakes negotiations.
Eduard leans against the opposite wall, his gray eyes thoughtful as he reviews something on his phone.
Probably the seating arrangements we spent two hours arguing over yesterday.
Who sits where matters in this type of meeting, and putting the wrong captains next to each other could create friction we don’t need tonight.
“She’ll be fine,” Eduard says without looking up, like he can read my thoughts.
“I know.” I pour myself a vodka I don’t really want and down it in one swallow. The burn helps, barely.
The truth is, I’m not worried about Emma’s ability to handle herself.
I’ve seen her face down Volkov without flinching, watched her stand up to all three of us when she thought we were wrong, and witnessed her navigate dangerous situations without batting an eye.
She’s strong, smart, and fearless, all qualities I admire in her.
But tonight is different. Tonight she’s not just Emma Moore, FBI agent turned captive turned…
whatever the fuck we are to each other now.
Tonight, she’s being presented as our wife to men who’ve spent their entire lives in the Bratva.
Men who believe women should be decorative and obedient, who view strength in a woman as a threat rather than an asset.
And Emma is about as far from decorative and obedient as it’s possible to get.
I love that about her. We all do. But I’m terrified these old-guard bastards will see her fire and decide she’s a liability instead of the asset we know she is.
“What if they don’t accept her?” I ask, voicing the fear I’ve been carrying all week.
Rurik turns from the window, his expression hard. “Then they leave. We made our choice.”
“And if they try to force the issue?”
“Then we remind them why forcing issues with us is a bad idea.” His tone is flat, final, and leaves no room for argument.
Eduard finally looks up from his phone, his gray eyes meeting mine. “The families will follow our lead. They always have. A few might grumble, but they’ll fall in line once they see we’re serious.”
I want to believe him. I want to trust that years of loyalty and respect will outweigh the shock of us claiming an FBI agent as our wife. But I’ve seen how quickly loyalty can turn when people feel threatened or confused.
Footsteps echo from the staircase, and all three of us turn simultaneously.
Krystal appears first, descending the stairs in a soft blue dress that makes her blonde hair glow in the chandelier light. She looks nervous but composed, her hazel eyes scanning the room before settling on us with a small, uncertain smile.
Then Emma steps into view behind her, and my mouth goes dry.
Holy fuck.
She’s wearing a fitted black dress that hugs every curve of her body in ways that make my cock harden immediately.
The neckline is modest enough to be appropriate but low enough to show the swell of her breasts.
The hem falls just above her knees, showing off her legs, and all I want to do is run my hands up her thighs right here in the hallway.
Her dark hair is down for once, falling in loose waves around her shoulders instead of pulled back in that practical braid she usually wears.
She looks absolutely fucking stunning, and I can’t take my eyes off her.
Neither can Rurik nor Eduard. I catch them both staring, their expressions shifting from professional composure to something much more primal.
Rurik’s jaw tightens, his pale eyes darkening as they travel down Emma’s body.
Eduard’s hand curls into a fist at his side, like he’s physically restraining himself from crossing the room and pulling her against him.
Emma reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops, her gray-green eyes narrowing as she takes in our reactions. “What are you staring at?”
The question comes out sharp and defensive, like she’s expecting criticism instead of the raw appreciation that’s probably written all over our faces.
“You,” I say, my voice rough. “You look incredible.”
Her cheeks flush slightly, and she crosses her arms over her chest in a gesture that’s pure Emma. Defensive, uncomfortable with compliments, and ready to deflect. “It’s just a dress.”
“It’s not just a dress,” Eduard says quietly, moving closer. His hand finds the small of her back, warm and possessive. “You’re beautiful, Emma.”
She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. “I feel ridiculous. I can barely move in this thing, and these shoes are going to kill me before the night’s over.”
I glance down at the heels she’s wearing, black and elegant but definitely not her usual boots. “You didn’t have to wear them.”
“Yes, I did.” Her tone is flat. “You said this meeting was important and that first impressions matter. So I’m playing the part.”
The words sting more than they should. Playing the part. Like this is just another undercover operation instead of her actual life now.
Rurik’s hand finds her chin, tilting her face up so she has to meet his pale blue eyes. “This isn’t a part, Emma. This is real.”
Something flickers across her expression. Doubt, maybe. Or fear. But she nods once, and Rurik releases her.
Krystal moves to stand beside Emma, her delicate frame a stark contrast to Emma’s curves. “You all look amazing,” she says softly, her hazel eyes warm with genuine affection.
Emma’s expression softens slightly as she looks at her friend. “So do you.”
The moment of tenderness is broken by the sound of vehicles pulling up the drive. I move to the window and count four SUVs, their headlights cutting through the evening darkness. The captains are arriving.
“Showtime,” I mutter, straightening my jacket.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of greetings and careful positioning.
The captains file into the main hall, their expressions ranging from curious to wary.
I recognize most of them. Men who’ve served our families for decades, who remember our fathers and the alliance they tried to build before everything fell apart.
They take their assigned seats around the massive table we had brought in specifically for tonight.
Rurik sits at the head, Eduard and me flanking him on either side.
Emma sits to my right, her posture perfect despite the discomfort I know she’s feeling.
Krystal is positioned near the far end, close enough to be included but not so prominent as to draw unwanted attention.
Rurik stands and the room falls silent immediately. His presence commands respect in a way that’s almost physical, and I watch the captains straighten in their chairs.
“Thank you for coming,” Rurik begins, his voice carrying easily through the large space. “Tonight marks a significant moment for our families. For years, we’ve operated separately, maintaining the divisions that formed after our fathers’ deaths. That ends now.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in. I watch the captains’ faces, reading their reactions. Some nod in agreement. Others exchange glances, uncertain.
“The Novikov, Lenkov, and Balabanov families are officially uniting,” Rurik continues. “We’ll maintain our individual operations and territories, but we’ll coordinate strategy, share resources, and present a unified front to anyone who threatens what’s ours.”
One of the older captains, a thick-shouldered man with graying hair who served under my father, leans forward. “This has been happening for years already. Why make it official now?”
“Because we’re ready,” Eduard says, his tone calm but firm. “We’ve spent years rebuilding trust, coordinating operations, and proving we can work together. Making it official gives us strength and sends a message to our rivals that we’re not divided anymore.”
Another captain speaks up, this one from Rurik’s family. “And the woman?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. I feel Emma tense beside me, her hands curling into fists beneath the table where no one can see.
Rurik’s pale eyes go cold. “Emma Moore is our woman, to be considered our wife. She’s part of this family now, and she’ll be treated with the same respect you show us.”
“She’s FBI,” the captain says flatly. “How do we know she’s not feeding information back to her handlers?”
“Because she’s officially dead,” I say, my voice sharp. “The Bureau declared her presumed deceased and closed her case. She has no handlers. No backup. No one coming to rescue her. She’s here because she chose to be.”
It’s not entirely true. Emma’s here because we bought her at an auction and refused to let her go. But the choice to stay, the decision to be part of this life, that was all Emma and I’ll be damned if I let these bastards question her loyalty.
A younger captain from Eduard’s family shifts in his seat. “What does she bring to the alliance? Beyond…obvious assets.”
The way he says it makes my blood heat with fury. I’m about to tell him exactly where he can shove his implications when Emma speaks.
“Intelligence,” she says, her voice clear and steady.
“I spent years investigating organized crime networks, including the Bratva. I know how federal agencies track operations, what patterns they look for, and how to avoid triggering investigations. I can help you move product, launder money, and coordinate shipments without drawing attention.”
The room goes quiet. Every eye turns to Emma, assessing her with new interest.
“I also know how to read people,” she continues, her gray-green eyes sweeping across the table. “How to spot lies, build cases, and gather evidence. Skills that work just as well for you as they did against you.”
One of the captains from Rurik’s family, a man in his fifties with sharp features, leans back in his chair. “And we’re supposed to trust you? An agent who’s spent her career trying to bring down men like us?”
Emma’s jaw tightens, but her voice stays calm. “I’m not asking for your trust. I’m telling you what I can do. Whether you believe me or not is your problem.”
The bluntness of it catches several captains off guard. I see surprise flicker across their faces, followed by something that might even be grudging respect.
“She’s got balls,” the older captain from my father’s time mutters, loud enough for the table to hear. “I’ll give her that.”
A few others nod in agreement. The tension in the room shifts slightly, not quite acceptance but not outright hostility either.
Rurik continues the meeting, outlining the structure of the unified families, the division of territories, and the coordination of operations. The captains ask questions, raise concerns, and debate details. Through it all, Emma sits beside me, her posture perfect, her expression neutral.
But I can feel the tension radiating off her. The way her breathing stays carefully controlled. The slight tremor in her hands that she hides by keeping them folded in her lap.
This is costing her more than she’s letting on.
The meeting stretches past two hours. By the time Rurik finally calls for a vote on the formal unification, my shoulders ache from tension, and my patience is wearing thin.
The vote passes. Not unanimously, but with enough support that the dissenters won’t risk open rebellion. Relief floods through me, warm and unexpected.
We did it. The families are officially united.
Of course, the voting was ceremonial. If more had voted against Emma, we would have ignored it.
As the captains begin filing out, several stop to speak with Rurik, Eduard, and me. A few even nod respectfully to Emma, acknowledging her presence if not quite accepting her yet.
I’m talking with one of the younger captains about shipping routes when I notice Emma swaying slightly in her chair. Her face has gone pale, and she’s gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Emma?” I move toward her immediately, my hand finding her shoulder.
She doesn’t respond. Her gray-green eyes are unfocused, her breathing shallow.
“Emma,” I say again, louder this time.
Eduard and Rurik are beside me in seconds, their expressions shifting from professional composure to alarm.
Emma’s eyes roll back and she starts to collapse.