43. Kiera
KIERA
The words hit me like a slap to the face.
My stomach drops, and heat floods my cheeks.
I'm mortified. Absolutely mortified. Kaleb's students, who are supposed to be learning about literature and history, know more about Emil than I did when I agreed to marry him.
They know he's a "bad man". They've heard things.
The kind of things that make people whisper and stare.
"I…" I don't know what to say. My throat feels tight, and I can't look at Emil, can't bear to see whatever expression is on his face right now.
Kaleb must see my distress because he reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.
"Hey, it's okay. I shut it down immediately.
Told them they should never pay attention to gossip, that rumors are just that, rumors.
I explained that people love to make up stories about successful people, especially when they don't understand their business. The kids dropped it after that."
I nod, but the mortification doesn't fade. It sits heavily in my chest, making it hard to breathe. "Thank you," I manage to say.
Mark clears his throat. "For what it's worth, we think you're handling everything really well, Kiera. This whole situation is… complicated. But you're strong. You always have been."
I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Strong? I don't feel strong. I feel trapped. Confused and terrified. And now, humiliated.
Emil hasn't said a word. He's sitting beside me, his posture relaxed and his expression neutral. Like this conversation doesn't bother him at all. Like being called a "bad man" by kids is just another Tuesday evening for him.
Maybe it is.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I try to engage in the conversation, try to smile and laugh at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere.
When we finally say our goodbyes and head back to the SUV, I expect Emil to take me straight home to the estate.
Instead, he gives Luca an address I don't recognize.
"Where are we going?" I ask, turning to look at him.
"I thought we could make a stop before heading back." His dark eyes meet mine, and there's something in his expression I can't quite read. "Unless you're too tired?"
I should say yes, should insist on going home. But curiosity gets the better of me. "No, I'm fine. Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The drive takes about twenty minutes. We end up in a part of the city I'm not familiar with, a neighborhood that's not quite upscale but not rundown, either.
Just… ordinary. Luca parks in front of a nondescript building with tinted windows and a single door.
There's no sign, no indication of what's inside.
Emil gets out and comes around to open my door. "Come on."
I follow him to the entrance, Luca trailing behind us. Emil knocks twice, pauses, then knocks three more times. A pattern or some kind of secret code. The door opens immediately, and a large man in a dark suit nods at Emil.
"Pakhan," he says, stepping aside to let us in.
Inside, the building is nothing like I expected.
The front room is small and plain, with a desk and a few chairs.
But Emil leads me through another door, down a hallway, and into a much larger space.
The lighting is dim, the walls are paneled in dark wood, and there are several tables scattered throughout the room.
People are gathered around them, cards in hand, with chips stacked in front of them.
A card house. Another one of Emil's gambling businesses.
"This way," Emil says, guiding me with a hand on the small of my back. His touch is warm through the fabric of my sweater, and I'm acutely aware of how close he is. How his presence seems to fill the space around me.
We walk past the main tables and through another door into a private room.
This one is smaller, more intimate. A single round table sits in the center, surrounded by plush leather chairs.
The lighting is better here, focused on the table itself.
Three men are already seated, cards and chips in front of them.
They look up when we enter, and I see recognition flash across their faces.
"Pakhan," one of them says, half rising from his seat.
"Sit," Emil says, his voice casual but commanding. "We're just here to play."
He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling the eyes of the other men on me. They're all older, probably in their forties or fifties, and dressed in expensive suits. They look like businessmen. Successful, powerful, and by the stack of money in front of them, they're probably loaded, too.
Emil takes the seat next to me and signals to someone I hadn't noticed standing near the door. A moment later, a woman approaches with a tray of chips. Emil takes a stack, a huge stack, and sets it in front of me.
"For you," he says.
I stare at the chips. There have to be thousands of dollars’ worth here. "Emil, I can't…"
"You can." He leans closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "Play. Have fun. Don't worry about losing."
One of the men across the table chuckles. "Your lady doesn't play?"
"She plays," Emil says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Deal her in."
The game starts, and I focus on my cards.
It's been a while since I've played poker, but the rules come back to me quickly.
I'm cautious at first, folding more often than I bet, trying to get a feel for the other players.
But as the hands progress, I start to relax.
The chips in front of me grow and shrink with each round, and I find myself genuinely enjoying it.
There's something freeing about this. About sitting here, playing cards, and not thinking about weddings or shooters or the fact that I'm marrying a man who terrifies and fascinates me in equal measure.
For a few hours, I can just be, just exist in this moment without the weight of everything else pressing down on me.
Emil plays beside me, his movements confident and precise. He's good at this, I realize. Really good. He reads the other players easily, knowing when to fold and when to push. And he's relaxed in a way I haven't seen before. His shoulders are loose, his expression almost content.
I win a hand, and a grin spreads across my face. "Yes!"
Emil glances at me, and there's genuine warmth and affection there. Like he's pleased to see me happy.
"Nice play," he murmurs.
The conversation at the table flows around us. The men talk about business deals and investments. I'm not paying much attention, too focused on my cards and the thrill of the game. But gradually, I become aware that the talk isn't just general conversation. It's more pointed and deliberate.
"Heard there was some trouble at one of the clubs last week," one of the men says, his tone casual. "Shooting, wasn't it?"
Emil doesn't look up from his cards. "There was."
"Any idea who's behind it?"
"Not yet." Emil discards a card and draws another. "But I'm working on it."
Another man, the one sitting directly across from me, leans back in his chair. "Word on the street is someone's making a move. Trying to destabilize things."
"Is that what the word on the street says?" Emil's voice is mild, but there's an edge to it now.
"That's what I've heard." The man meets Emil's gaze. "But you know how it is. Rumors and gossip. Hard to know what's true."
I glance at Emil, and understanding dawns. This isn't just a casual game. He's interrogating them, using the relaxed atmosphere to get information and find out what they know about the shooter.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. I don't want to give anything away or let the other players realize I've caught on.
The game continues, and so does the conversation.
Emil asks questions, subtle and indirect, weaving them into the flow of talk so smoothly that it almost seems natural.
The other men answer, some more forthcoming than others.
They mention names, families, and territories.
Pieces of a puzzle I don't fully understand.
I win another hand, but the thrill is gone now. I'm too aware of what's happening and conscious of the fact that this isn't just a game.
One of the men, the oldest of the group with silver hair and sharp eyes, sets down his cards and looks directly at Emil. "You want my honest opinion, Pakhan?"
"Always."
"The shooter isn't from any of the families." He says it with certainty, his voice firm. "I've been listening and asking around. And I haven't heard a single hint that it was a hit from any of the families. Plus, the shootings were too sloppy to be Mafia. We don't miss. Not like that."