50. Emma
EMMA
Today’s the day.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, my hands gripping the edge of the marble counter hard enough to make my knuckles go white.
My reflection stares back at me with dark circles under my eyes and a tightness around my mouth that hasn’t eased much in three months whenever I thought about Langford.
Three months of being locked down in the estate while the prosecution built their case against Langford. Three months of depositions, witness prep, and endless meetings with attorneys who treated me like a piece of evidence instead of a person. Three months of waiting for this moment.
Today I testify against the man who was like a father to me.
My stomach twists, and I press my hand against the growing bump beneath my dress.
The baby kicks, a flutter of movement that grounds me.
I’m six months pregnant now, the swell of my belly impossible to hide beneath the conservative navy dress I chose for court.
The fabric stretches across my breasts, which have gotten fuller, and falls to just below my knees in a way that’s professional and modest.
I look like a federal agent. I look credible. That’s what the prosecutors wanted. But I also look like your average woman, a mom-to-be, which they said will also lend credence to my testimony.
The bathroom door opens, and Rurik appears in the mirror behind me. His pale blue eyes meet mine, assessing my state with that intensity he always has. He’s wearing a dark suit that makes his broad shoulders look even more imposing, his jaw tight with barely controlled tension.
“You ready?” His voice is low, controlled.
“No.” The honesty escapes before I can stop it. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my dress. “You don’t have to do this. We can leave right now. Disappear before anyone knows we’re gone.”
The offer is tempting. God, it’s so tempting. But I shake my head. “I need to see this through. I need to watch him pay for what he did.”
Rurik’s fingers tighten slightly on my shoulders, then he leans down and presses his lips to the top of my head. “Then we’ll be there. Right behind you.”
The FBI and US Marshals wanted to put me in protective custody until after the trial.
They showed up at the estate with official paperwork and stern expressions, explaining that my safety couldn’t be guaranteed otherwise.
That Langford had connections who might try to silence me before I could testify.
My men told them to fuck off.
The memory makes my lips curve slightly despite everything.
Rurik, Eduard, and Artur stood in the main hall of the estate, arms crossed, expressions cold, and informed the federal agents that I’d be safer with them than in any government safe house.
That if anyone tried to touch me, they’d have to go through three Bratva families first.
The agents left without me.
I agreed with my husbands’ assessment. I’m safer here, surrounded by armed guards and men who would die before letting anyone hurt me. The baby kicks again, and I press my hand more firmly against my stomach.
“She’s active today,” I murmur.
Rurik’s hand covers mine, his palm warm against the swell of my belly. “She knows it’s an important day.”
We don’t actually know if the baby is a girl. We decided not to find out, wanting to be surprised. But Rurik insists it’s a daughter, has from the moment I told them I was pregnant. Eduard thinks it’s a boy. Artur doesn’t care either way, as long as the baby is healthy.
I turn in Rurik’s arms and press my face against his chest, breathing in the clean scent of his cologne. “I loved him. I actually loved Langford like he was family.”
“I know.” Rurik’s hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head. “That’s what makes this hurt so much.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I force them back. I can’t cry. Not now. Not when I need to be strong enough to face Langford in court and tell the world what he did to me. Besides, I don’t want to reapply my makeup.
Eduard and Artur are waiting downstairs when we descend. Eduard’s gray eyes are serious as he takes in my appearance, his gaze lingering on the swell of my belly before moving to my face. Artur’s usual crooked grin is absent, replaced by something harder.
“You look beautiful,” Eduard says quietly, moving to press a kiss to my temple.
Artur’s hand finds my waist, his fingers splaying possessively across my hip. “And terrifying. Langford’s going to shit himself when he sees you.”
The crude assessment makes me laugh despite everything. “That’s the plan.”
The drive to the courthouse is tense. I sit between Eduard and Rurik in the back of the armored SUV while Artur rides up front with the driver. None of us speaks. But what is there to say that hasn’t already been said?
My hands shake slightly in my lap, and Eduard notices immediately. His fingers thread through mine, squeezing gently. “We’re right there with you.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The courthouse is surrounded by media when we arrive. Cameras flash as our convoy pulls up to the secured entrance. I catch glimpses of reporters shouting questions, their voices muffled by the bulletproof glass.
Inside, the building is all marble floors and high ceilings that echo with footsteps and hushed conversations.
Federal agents are everywhere, their expressions ranging from curious to hostile as they watch us move through the corridors.
I recognize a few faces from my time at the Bureau, people I worked with before everything went to hell.
They stare at me like I’m a ghost. Which I suppose I am, in a way. Officially dead for months, now resurrected to testify against one of their own.
The courtroom is packed when we enter. FBI agents fill most of the seats, all of them here to witness one of their own go down. Their eyes watch my movement as I walk down the aisle, their gazes lingering on my pregnant belly before shifting to the three men flanking me.
Rurik, Eduard, and Artur take positions in the back row, their presence impossible to ignore.
They’re all wearing dark suits that make them look like exactly what they are: dangerous men who don’t belong in the audience area of a federal courtroom.
Several other family members are scattered among the seats, their expressions carefully neutral.
The FBI agents keep tossing nervous glances toward the back of the room, clearly uncomfortable with the Bratva presence. I catch one younger agent whispering to his partner, his eyes wide as he takes in my husbands’ cold expressions.
Good. Let them be nervous.
Langford is already seated at the defense table when I enter. He looks older than I remember, his silver hair thinner, his face drawn. But his posture is still straight and his expression composed. He doesn’t look at me as I pass, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him.
The prosecution calls me to the stand after the opening statements. My legs are unsteady as I cross the courtroom, my hand automatically going to my belly. The bailiff swears me in and I settle into the witness chair, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
The prosecutor is a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She walks me through my testimony, asking questions designed to build the case against Langford piece by piece.
I tell them everything. How I was investigating the bride auction network. How my operation was compromised. How I ended up chained on a stage while men bid on me like property. How I traced the betrayal back to Langford through financial records, access logs, and his own confession.
“And the men who purchased you,” the prosecutor says, gesturing toward the back of the courtroom. “Rurik Novikov, Eduard Balabanov, and Artur Lenkov. What was their role in all of this?”
I turn slightly in my seat, my gaze finding my husbands’. They’re watching me with identical expressions of fierce protectiveness, their bodies tense like they’re ready to intervene if anyone so much as looks at me wrong.
“Money was exchanged,” I say carefully, choosing my words with precision. “But they rescued me.” I pause, letting the distinction sink in before I turn to look directly at Langford. “Then they helped me find the mole.”
Langford’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
The testimony continues for another hour. The prosecutor walks me through the evidence, the recordings, and the connections between Langford and the auction network. By the time she’s finished, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’s guilty.
The defense attorney tries to discredit me during cross-examination, suggesting I’m biased because of my relationship with the Bratva. That I’m lying to protect my criminal husbands. But the evidence speaks for itself and the jury sees through his attempts.
When the verdict comes back, it’s unanimous. Guilty on all counts.
The judge sentences Langford to life in prison without the possibility of parole. The courtroom erupts with murmurs and whispers, but I barely hear them. I’m watching Langford’s face as the sentence is read, looking for some sign of remorse or regret.
There’s nothing. Just that same blank composure, like he’s already accepted his fate.
After the sentencing, I request permission to see Langford in the temporary holding cell where he’ll wait before being transferred to prison. The prosecutor tries to talk me out of it, but I insist. I need this. I need closure.
The holding cell is small and sterile, with concrete walls and a metal bench. Langford sits with his hands cuffed in front of him, his expensive suit looking out of place in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
He looks up when I enter, and something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. Or regret.
“Emma,” he starts, his voice rough. “I’m sorry. I need you to know that I’m—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, cutting him off. “You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to make yourself feel better by saying you’re sorry.”
His mouth closes, his jaw working.
I step closer to the bars separating us, my hands curling around the cold metal. “You were a father figure to me. After my parents died, you were all I had. I loved you. I trusted you completely.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.
“I never thought you’d betray me like this,” I continue, my voice shaking despite my effort to stay controlled. “I never thought you’d sell me to criminals. That you’d try to have me killed when I got too close to the truth.”
Langford’s expression crumbles slightly, genuine pain breaking through his composure. “I didn’t want it to be you. I hoped—”
“I don’t care what you hoped.” My voice rises, echoing off the concrete walls. “You made your choice. You chose your career, your connections, and your corrupt network over me. Over every woman who disappeared into that auction.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m not finished.
“But now I’ll sleep easy,” I say, my voice dropping to something cold and final. “Knowing you’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life. Knowing you’ll never hurt another innocent person. And that you’ll never have a life outside these walls.”
I lean closer to the bars, making sure he can see the determination in my eyes.
“And know this. After this moment, I will never think of you again. You are dead to me.”
The words hang in the air between us, absolute and irreversible. Langford’s face goes pale, his hands trembling slightly in the cuffs.
I turn and walk away without looking back, my spine straight and my head held high. The guard opens the door for me, and I step through into the corridor beyond.
Rurik, Eduard, and Artur are waiting for me near the courthouse exit. They straighten when they see me approaching, their expressions shifting from tense to relieved.
We don’t speak as we leave the building, the media shouting questions that we ignore. The SUV is waiting at the curb, engine running, and we slide into the back seat in perfect synchronization.
The moment the door closes, sealing us away from the outside world, I exhale slowly. The tension I’ve been holding for three months finally releases, leaving me boneless and exhausted.
“It’s over,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s finally over.”