45. Kiera
KIERA
Emil has been gone all day, and I'm going absolutely insane.
I woke up this morning to find a note slipped under my door saying he had business to attend to and would be back later.
No explanation or details. Just a vague promise to return.
And here I am, trapped in this massive estate with nothing to do but stew in my own frustration and anxiety about everything that's happened in the past few days.
The wedding is in less than two weeks. Arnie is somewhere in this house, beaten and bloodied in an interrogation room. Someone is trying to kill me. And Emil thinks he can just leave me here to deal with all of this alone while he goes off to do God knows what.
I try to distract myself by working on the wedding clothes and I spend a couple of hours in my room sketching modifications to my designs and planning out the construction.
But my heart isn't in it. My mind keeps wandering to darker places.
To the look on Arnie's face when I saw him tied to that chair.
To the casual way Emil talked about giving him what he deserved.
Eventually, I give up on the designs and start wandering the estate.
It's a massive place, all modern architecture and expensive furnishings.
The floors are polished marble in some areas, rich hardwood in others.
Artwork hangs on the walls, and everything is pristine, perfectly maintained by the army of staff that moves through the house like ghosts.
I walk through the library, running my fingers along the spines of leather-bound books.
I peek into rooms I haven't seen before, finding a home theater, a wine cellar, and a gym that rivals Devin's place.
Each space is more impressive than the last, but none of it feels real.
It's like walking through a museum, beautiful but cold.
By early afternoon, I'm so restless I can barely stand it. I need something to do, something to occupy my mind. And that's when I find myself standing outside Emil's office.
The office is exactly as I remember it from the last time I was here.
Large mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and leather chairs positioned in front of a fireplace.
The windows overlook the gardens, offering a view of manicured lawns and carefully tended flower beds.
It's a room designed to impress and intimidate. And it works.
I go to the bookshelves first, scanning the titles.
There's a mix of Russian and English, everything from classic literature to business management texts to what look like legal documents bound in leather.
I pull out a book at random, some thriller about international espionage, and settle into one of the leather chairs by the fireplace.
For a while, I actually manage to lose myself in the story.
The protagonist is a spy trying to prevent a terrorist attack, and the action is fast-paced enough to keep my attention.
But after an hour or so, my mind starts to wander again and I keep reading the same paragraph over and over without absorbing any of it.
I set the book aside and stand, stretching my arms over my head. My gaze drifts to Emil's desk.
I walk over to the desk and sit in Emil's chair. From this position, I can see everything. The computer monitor, dark and silent. The phone. The neat stack of papers in the corner. And there, in the center of the desk, a series of manila folders.
My heart starts to beat faster as I reach for the top folder. I know I shouldn't. I know this is a violation of privacy and a breach of trust. But I'm so angry and frustrated and scared that I don't care.
I open the first folder and my breath catches.
It's a profile on Kevin, my oldest brother.
There are photos of him, some candid shots taken without his knowledge.
There's information about his marketing firm, clients, and financial records.
Details about his daily routine, the places he frequents, and the people he associates with.
It's thorough and invasive and absolutely infuriating.
I grab the next folder. Jack. Same thing. Photos, financial records, and information about his work as a police officer. There are notes about his investigation into Emil, details I didn't even know about.
The third folder is Devin. The fourth is Kaleb. And then there are more. Folders on my coworkers at the fashion magazine. Folders on Sarah and Jess, my best friends. Each one contains the same level of detail, the same invasive documentation of their lives.
By the time I hear footsteps in the hallway, I'm shaking with rage. I don't bother to put the folders away. I don't try to hide what I've been doing. Instead, I sit there behind Emil's desk, one of the folders clutched in my hands, and wait.
The door opens and Emil walks in. He's wearing dark jeans and a black Henley, his hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual. But when he sees me sitting at his desk, his expression hardens.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
I hold up the folder. "What the hell is this?"
He closes the door behind him and walks further into the room. His movements are controlled and deliberate. "You went through my desk."
"You have files on my brothers. On my friends. On people I work with." I stand, slamming the folder down on the desk. "You've been spying on them. What gives you the right?"
"I have every right," he says, his tone matter-of-fact. "These people are going to be in our lives. I need to know who they are, what they're capable of, and whether they pose a threat."
"A threat?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "My brothers aren't a threat. Sarah and Jess aren't threats. They're just normal people living normal lives."
"Normal people can be dangerous," Emil says.
He moves to the desk and picks up one of the folders, flipping it open.
"Your friend Sarah has a gambling problem.
She owes money to some very unsavory people.
Your coworker at the magazine has connections to a rival organization. These are things I need to know."
"This is an invasion of privacy," I say, my voice rising. "You can't just dig into people's lives like this. It's wrong."
"It's business," he counters. "Not personal. I'm protecting you, Kiera. Protecting us. If there's a threat, I need to identify it before it becomes a problem."
"You're treating everyone I care about like suspects in some kind of investigation." I shake my head, feeling tears of frustration prick at my eyes. "This isn't protection. This is control."
His jaw tightens. "Call it whatever you want. I'm not apologizing for doing what's necessary."
"Of course you're not." I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. "You never apologize for anything, do you? You just do whatever you want and expect everyone else to fall in line."
He stares at me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he turns and walks toward the door. "I'm going to bed. You should do the same."
"That's it?" I call after him. "That's all you have to say?"
He pauses in the doorway, his hand on the frame. "Tomorrow, we're going to look at some property, buildings I'm considering purchasing, and I want you to come with me."
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Because I'm asking you to." He glances back at me, his expression softening slightly. "I thought you would want to get out of the house. Oh, and your brothers are coming for dinner tomorrow night."
Before I can respond, he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
I stand there in his office, surrounded by the evidence of his surveillance, and feel the weight of everything pressing down on me. I should leave. I should grab those folders and march out of here and never look back.
But I don't. Because he's right about one thing. There is a threat out there. Someone is trying to kill me, and I don't know who or why. And as much as I hate to admit it, Emil is the only one who seems capable of protecting me. My plans to leave him will just have to wait.
I gather up the folders and stack them neatly on the desk, trying to put them back the way I found them. Then I leave the office, closing the door behind me. Luca is still in the hallway, and he gives me a knowing look but doesn't say anything.
Back in my room, I can't stop thinking about what I saw.
The level of detail in those files is staggering.
Emil knows things about my brothers that even I don't know.
He knows about Sarah's gambling, about connections I never suspected.
Part of me is angry about the invasion. But another part, a part I don't want to acknowledge, is impressed by his thoroughness.
I get ready for bed, washing my face and brushing my teeth in the ensuite bathroom. The marble countertops are cold under my hands, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look tired and worn down. Like someone who's been fighting a losing battle for too long.
I'm pulling on my pajamas, a simple tank top and shorts, when my phone rings.
The sound makes me jump. It's late, well past ten o'clock. Who would be calling me at this hour?
I pick up the phone from the nightstand and look at the screen. The caller ID shows Unknown.
My finger hovers over the decline button. It's probably a spam call. Or a wrong number. But something makes me answer it anyway. Some instinct I can't explain.
"Hello?" I say, pressing the phone to my ear.
There's a pause, just long enough to make me think no one is there. Then a male voice speaks, low and distorted like it's being run through some kind of filter.
"You need to meet me within the hour, or one of your brothers will die."