30. Emil
EMIL
Iwalk into the living room expecting peace and quiet, maybe a drink before dinner, and instead I'm greeted by a disappointing scene.
Five women are sitting in my living room. Waiting for me.
Fuck.
Didn't they get the memo that I'm off the market? Or maybe they don't care? I announced my engagement weeks ago. The whole damn city knows I'm marrying Kiera Walker in less than three weeks.
I consider turning around and walking right back out before they see me. Pretend I never came in here and let Luca deal with this shit.
No such luck.
One of them spots me and her face lights up like I'm the answer to all her prayers. "Emil," she says, her voice dripping with honey. "We were hoping to speak with you."
Fuck my life.
I curse under my breath and force myself to walk into the room, taking a seat in the armchair farthest from all of them. My jaw is already tight with irritation.
These women are daughters and sisters of powerful Pakhans.
I recognize most of them from various meetings and gatherings over the years.
If they were anyone else, literally anyone else, I'd have them tossed out on their asses without a second thought.
My men would drag them to the gates and make sure they understood never to come back.
But I can't do that. Not with these women.
I have to be nice to them. Have to smile and nod and pretend I give a shit about whatever they came here to say. Because if I don't, if I offend them or their families, it could start a stupid war that nobody needs.
Politics. I fucking hate politics.
"What can I do for you?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
They launch into their rehearsed speeches. One talks about how her father sends his regards. Another mentions a business opportunity her brother wants to discuss. A third compliments the estate, the gardens, and the view. They're all dancing around whatever they really came here to say.
I tune most of it out. My mind is already elsewhere, thinking about the shipment coming in tomorrow, the meeting with the captains later this week, and the leads on whoever ransacked Kiera's apartment.
Then I feel it.
The shift in the air. The awareness that prickles across my skin like electricity.
I know the instant Kiera comes into the room. I haven't seen her yet, haven't heard her footsteps, but I can feel her presence like a physical touch.
My whole body comes alive. My heart jumps in my chest, my pulse kicks up, and suddenly, every nerve ending is on high alert. The boredom that was weighing me down lifts like fog burning off in sunlight.
I'm not bored anymore.
I look up, my gaze finding her immediately in the doorway.
She's standing there in jeans and a soft sweater, her short red hair still damp from a shower, and she's scowling. Not at me, but at the other women.
Is she jealous?
The thought hits me with a rush of satisfaction that's almost embarrassing. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't give a fuck whether she's jealous or not. But I do. God help me, I do.
I like it. I like seeing that flash of possessiveness in her blue eyes and the way her jaw tightens as she takes in the scene. She looks like she wants to march over here and stake her claim, and the idea makes something primal and satisfied settle in my chest.
She's mine. And she's starting to realize it.
One of the women is still talking, something about a charity event her family is hosting, but I'm not listening anymore. All my attention is on Kiera as she steps into the room.
She doesn't hesitate, doesn't wait for an invitation or permission.
She marches straight into the living room, her chin up and her shoulders back, and looks at the five women with an expression that could freeze fire.
"Ladies," she says, her voice cool and controlled. "I think it's time for you to leave."
The women blink at her like they can't believe what they're hearing. One of them opens her mouth to protest, but Kiera cuts her off.
"Now," she says firmly. "This is my home, and I don't appreciate uninvited guests."
As my bride, as the woman who's going to be my wife in less than three weeks, she has every right to say that. She has the authority to dismiss them without causing an issue with their families or their Pakhans. It's not an insult coming from her. It's just a fact.
The women bluster. They exchange glances, clearly debating whether to argue, but they must see something in Kiera's expression that tells them it's not worth it.
They stand, gathering their purses and coats with stiff movements and tight smiles.
"Of course," one of them says, her voice clipped. "We didn't mean to intrude."
"Then don't," Kiera says simply.
I watch them file out of the room, their heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and I have to bite back a smile. Kiera stands there until they're gone, her arms crossed over her chest, and then she turns to look at me.
"You're welcome," she says.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You looked like you needed it."
I did. I absolutely did. But I'm not about to admit that out loud.
"They're daughters and sisters of powerful men," I say instead. "You can't just throw them out whenever you feel like it." I'm saying this on purpose just to irritate her because I love seeing that fire in her eyes.
"I can when they're sitting in my living room looking at my fiancé like he's a piece of meat."
My fiancé. The words send a jolt of satisfaction through me that I don't bother to hide.
"Jealous?" I ask, standing and moving toward her.
"No."
"Liar."
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't back down. "Maybe I just don't like sharing."
"Good," I say, stopping in front of her. "Because I don't share either."
We stand there for a moment, the tension between us thick and electric. Then I reach out and tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
"Get dressed," I say. "Something nice. We're going out."
"Where?"
"You'll see."
She narrows her eyes at me, suspicious, but she doesn't argue.
Twenty minutes later, she comes back downstairs wearing a black dress that hugs her curves and makes my mouth go dry.
Her hair is styled, her makeup is subtle but perfect, and she looks like every fantasy I've ever had wrapped up in one beautiful package.
"Better?" she asks.
"Much."
I take her to one of my casinos. It's not the biggest one I own, but it's one of the nicest. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and plush carpets.
Not those dizzying designs most casinos have for carpeting.
The kind of place where money flows like water and everyone knows to treat the Pakhan with respect.
We walk through the main floor, past the slot machines and card tables, and I watch Kiera take it all in.
Her eyes are wide, her expression curious, and I can see the wheels turning in her head as she processes everything.
The soft glow of the lights catches the red in her hair, and I find myself distracted by the way she moves through the space—confident but not arrogant, interested but not naive.
She's aware of the guards following us too.
I caught her small frown when she'd noticed them, but she didn't say anything.
She didn't complain about them or demand they be sent away.
It wouldn't have happened, but I'm glad she didn't make a scene.
Maybe she's finally realizing how much danger she's still in.
"You own this?" she asks, turning to me with genuine wonder in her voice.
"Yes."
"How many casinos do you own?"
"Enough."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't push. We stop at the bar and I order us drinks. Whiskey for me, wine for her. We sit at a private table in the corner where I can see the entire floor, and we talk.
She asks questions about the business, about how the casino operates, and I answer honestly.
I tell her about the security measures, the cameras, and how we track every dollar that comes in and goes out.
Most women would pretend to understand or lose interest halfway through.
Kiera leans forward, her elbows on the table, genuinely engaged.
She's smart. She picks up on things quickly and asks follow-up questions that show she's really listening.
And she's not afraid of me. At least she's less afraid of me, and she isn't looking at me like I'm a monster.
She looks at me like I'm just a man, and it's refreshing in a way I didn't expect.
When she laughs at one of my dry observations about a drunk gambler at the blackjack table, the sound is unguarded and real and my body reacts to the sound.
"So you're telling me people lose their entire paychecks in here?" she asks, watching a man at the slots feed another bill into the machine.
"Every night."
"That's depressing."
"That's business."
She studies me for a moment. "Do you ever feel guilty about it?"
The question catches me off guard. No one asks me that. No one cares enough to ask. "No," I say, and it's the truth. "They choose to be here. I provide the service. What they do with it is their decision."
She doesn't look satisfied with the answer, but she doesn't push. Instead, she takes a sip of her wine and watches the casino floor with new understanding.
We have dinner in the private dining room upstairs.
The food is excellent, the wine is better, and Kiera relaxes as the evening goes on.
She tells me about her job in fashion, about the designers she admires and her dream of creating her own line someday.
I find myself actually listening instead of just waiting for her to finish talking.
She has ambition. She has dreams that have nothing to do with me or my world, and I respect that.
She laughs at my dry comment about one of the captains and his terrible taste in suits.
The sound is so genuine, so unguarded, that it makes my chest tighten.
This is what I want. This ease between us.
This connection. Not the forced politeness of business associates or the calculated flirtation of women trying to secure their position.
Just… this. Her. Relaxed and real, looking at me like I'm someone worth knowing.
"You're staring," she says.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I consider lying, but I don't. "Because you're beautiful when you're not angry at me." I grin. "But you're enchanting when you are angry, too."
She flushes, and I watch the color rise in her cheeks with satisfaction. She's not used to compliments, I realize. Her ex-boyfriend was a fool.
After dinner, I take her to the back offices.
It's the same routine as the horse races.
I want her to see how the money is counted, how the debts are tracked, and how everything is accounted for down to the last cent.
I want her to understand that my world isn't just violence and intimidation.
It's also meticulous, organized, and controlled.
The office manager is waiting for us, a stack of ledgers and reports spread across the desk. He straightens when we walk in, his expression respectful but nervous. He's never seen me bring a woman back here before. No one has.
"Pakhan," he says. "Everything is ready for your review."
I nod and move to the desk, Kiera standing beside me.
I'm hyperaware of her presence, the warmth of her body near mine, the subtle scent of her perfume mixing with the sterile smell of the office.
I start going through the numbers, checking the totals against the reports, and at first, everything looks fine.
Then I see it.
A discrepancy. Small, but there. The kind of thing most people would miss if they weren't looking closely. Five thousand dollars. Not enough to trigger immediate alarm, but enough to be noticeable if you know what you're looking for.
I flip back through the previous week's reports, my jaw tightening. There it is again. Another five thousand. And the week before that. Same amount. Same pattern.
"What is it?" Kiera asks, noticing the shift in my demeanor.
"Nothing," I say, but it's not nothing. I continue flipping through the ledgers, my mind already calculating. If this has been happening for a month, that's twenty thousand. Two months, forty thousand. Three months, sixty thousand.
I flip back further, my eyes scanning the numbers with new intensity. The pattern becomes clearer the more I look. Consistent withdrawals, always the same amount, always logged as miscellaneous expenses. Someone is being careful. Someone knows how to hide money in plain sight.
"Emil?" Kiera's voice pulls me back. She's watching me with concern. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," I say, but my mind is already elsewhere. Someone on my staff is stealing from me. Someone I trusted enough to manage the back office operations. The realization sits heavily in my chest, mixing with anger, betrayal, and the need for retribution.
I close the ledger carefully, my movements controlled despite the rage building beneath the surface. I can't let Kiera see how much this bothers me. Not tonight. Not when the evening has been so perfect.
"We should go," I say, my voice neutral.
She nods, but I can see the question in her eyes. She knows something is wrong. She's perceptive enough to notice the shift in my mood, the way my hand has tightened on the ledger.
As we walk back through the casino floor, my mind is already working through the possibilities. Who has access to the accounts? Who would be bold enough to steal from a Pakhan? And more importantly, what am I going to do about it?