49. Kiera
KIERA
Isit at the breakfast table, staring unseeing at my plate of food. The scrambled eggs have gone cold, the bacon congealed in its own grease. My fork rests in my hand, but I can't remember the last time I actually used it. The voices around me blur into white noise, distant and meaningless.
Pregnant.
The word echoes in my mind like a bell that won't stop ringing. The doctor said I'm pregnant. Actually pregnant. With Emil's baby.
That's why my stomach has been so upset. That's why I fainted last night. Not stress, not lack of food, and not the terror of someone threatening my brothers. A baby. A tiny human growing inside me right now, at this very moment, while I sit here pretending to eat breakfast.
I'd begged the doctor not to say anything to Emil yet. The words had tumbled out of me in a desperate rush, my hands gripping his arm with enough force to leave marks. "Please," I'd whispered. "Please don't tell him. Not yet. I need to tell him myself. I need time to process this first."
The doctor had looked uncomfortable, his professional ethics warring with his loyalty to the Pakhan.
But he'd nodded eventually, agreeing to give me twenty-four hours before he had to report his findings.
Twenty-four hours to figure out how to tell Emil that our complicated arrangement has just become infinitely more complicated.
But how am I supposed to do that? How do I even begin that conversation? And more importantly, how do I feel about this news? I don't even know if I'm happy. Terrified, yes. Overwhelmed, absolutely. But happy? I can't sort through the tangle of emotions enough to find that particular thread.
The men continue talking around me, their voices rising and falling in urgent discussion.
I catch fragments of conversation, pieces of information that don't quite connect in my distracted mind.
Something about the shooter running away when Emil and Luca arrived at the meeting place last night.
Something about tire tracks and cigarette butts and evidence that might lead nowhere.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, then jerks away like I've been burned. I can't do that. I can't give anything away. Not yet. Not until I've figured out what I'm going to say.
"If not from the Mafia, then who in the world was trying to shoot her?"
The question cuts through my fog, and my head snaps up.
I blink, trying to focus on the conversation I've been ignoring.
Emil is looking at my brothers, his expression grim and thoughtful.
Kevin is leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his face pale with worry.
Jack has his cop face on, analytical and controlled, but I can see the fear in his eyes.
Devin looks like he wants to hit something. Kaleb just looks tired.
"That's what we need to figure out," Emil says, his voice steady and calm despite the gravity of what he's saying.
"My men have been investigating every angle within the Bratva.
Every family, every grudge, and every possible connection.
And they've come up empty. Whoever this is, they're not part of my world. "
"Then whose world are they part of?" Jack asks, his detective instincts taking over. "Someone has to be behind this. Professional shooters don't just randomly target people."
"No, they don't," Emil agrees. "Which means we're missing something. Some connection we haven't considered yet."
I should be paying more attention to this, should be engaged in the conversation about someone literally trying to kill me.
But all I can think about is the life growing inside me, the impossible reality that's just been dropped in my lap.
How can I focus on shooters and threats when I'm going to be a mother?
The thought sends a wave of nausea through me, and I have to swallow hard to keep from running to the bathroom again. I take a small sip of water, forcing it down past the lump in my throat. If they're trying to kill me, then that means my unborn child is in danger, too.
"We should go to the police," Kevin says. "File a report and get official protection."
"No," Emil and Jack say at the same time. They look at each other, and something passes between them. An understanding, maybe. Or just a shared knowledge of how useless that would be.
"The police can't protect her from this," Jack continues, his voice heavy with resignation. "Not if it's a professional. And if Emil's right, if this isn't connected to the Bratva, then we don't even know where to start looking."
The conversation continues, but I tune it out again. My mind is spinning, trying to process everything at once and failing spectacularly. A baby. Emil's baby. The words don't feel real, don't connect to anything tangible in my reality.
Finally, mercifully, breakfast ends. Emil stands, his expression grim and thoughtful. "Library," he says, his tone making it clear this isn't a request.
My brothers exchange glances but follow without argument. We all move through the estate together, a strange procession of tension and unspoken worry. Kevin walks beside me, his hand briefly touching my shoulder in silent support. Devin and Kaleb bring up the rear, their expressions troubled.
The library is warm and comfortable, filled with leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Luca is already there, standing by the window with his usual watchful posture. He must have slipped away during breakfast.
Emil gestures for everyone to sit. My brothers settle onto the various chairs and sofas, their body language wary. I sink into one of the armchairs, grateful to be off my feet. The nausea is still there, a constant reminder of the secret I'm carrying.
Emil remains standing, his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful as he surveys all of us. The silence stretches for a long moment before he speaks.
"We're not getting married today," he says without preamble.
My heart lurches. "What?"
He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration. "It's too dangerous right now. I was rash last night, demanding that we marry today. That was a mistake."
Relief floods through me so powerfully that I have to grip the arms of the chair to steady myself. I just found out I'm pregnant. I wasn't ready to get married today too. The timing would have been impossible, overwhelming, too much to process all at once.
"Thank God," Kevin mutters, and I see the tension drain from his shoulders.
Jack leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "So, what's the plan? We can't just sit around waiting for this person to make another move."
"We won't be," Emil says. "My men are investigating every angle. We'll find whoever's behind this."
"And in the meantime?" Devin asks. "What happens to Kiera?"
"She stays here. Protected." Emil's tone brooks no argument.
Kaleb shifts in his seat. "What about our lives? Work? Mark and I have the adoption process to think about."
"I've already made arrangements," Emil says. He looks at me carefully, his dark eyes searching my face. "Are you all right? You've been quiet all morning."
"I'm fine," I lie, acutely aware of my brothers watching me. "Just tired. Last night was a lot."
He accepts this with a nod, though I'm not sure he believes me. "Get some rest. We'll talk more later."
They continue talking for another hour, the conversation turning to logistics and safety protocols. I participate when necessary, but mostly I just listen, my mind elsewhere.
My brothers retreat to their guest rooms. After they're gone, after Emil and Luca disappear into his office to coordinate security, I finally escape to my room, closing the door behind me and leaning against it with my eyes closed.
My hand goes to my stomach again, and this time, I let it stay there. A baby. I'm going to have a baby.
The week that follows is strange. Time moves both too fast and too slow, days blurring together while individual moments stretch into eternity.
Emil talks to my boss at the magazine, somehow convincing them to extend my leave of absence.
I don't ask how he managed it. I'm learning not to ask those kinds of questions.
I spend most of my time in my room, working on the wedding clothes.
They're mostly finished now, the designs complete and construction solid.
But I keep finding little things to adjust, tiny details to perfect.
The embroidery on Emil's jacket could be more intricate.
The beading on my dress could use another layer.
The hem needs to be exactly the right length.
I know I'm stalling and using the work as a distraction from everything else.
From the pregnancy I haven't told Emil about.
From the shooter who's still out there somewhere.
I still haven't shown Emil what I've created.
The clothes hang in my closet, hidden behind other garments, waiting for the right moment.
I wonder if he'll be pleased when he sees them.
Or if he'll be angry that I took such liberties with something so important.
The wedding is supposed to be a statement, a declaration of power and unity.
Will my designs live up to that? Or will they fall short?
The questions circle endlessly in my mind, mixing with all the other unanswered questions until I can't tell one worry from another.
I see Emil at meals, but our conversations are stilted and brief.
He's busy with his men, coordinating the search for the shooter, managing his businesses, and handling the thousand details that come with being a Pakhan.
I'm grateful for the distance. It gives me time to think and process, to figure out what I'm going to say when I finally tell him about the baby.
But the thinking doesn't help. Every time I try to imagine the conversation, my mind goes blank. How do you tell a man you barely know, a man you're being forced to marry, that you're carrying his child? What words could possibly be adequate for that?
The nights are the worst. I lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, my hand on my stomach, feeling nothing but knowing something is there.
Something growing, changing, becoming. The responsibility of it terrifies me.
I'm going to be someone's mother. But what kind of life will my child have living with the Mafia? Will its life constantly be in danger?
One night, sleep proves particularly elusive. I've been tossing and turning for hours, my mind refusing to quiet, my body restless and uncomfortable. Finally, I give up and climb out of bed, padding across the room to the window.
The estate grounds are dark, lit only by strategically placed security lights that cast long shadows across the manicured lawns. I can see the shapes of guards patrolling, their movements precise and professional. Everything looks peaceful. Safe.
My gaze shifts to where three of Emil's men emerge from a side entrance, moving with careful coordination. They're carrying something between them, something long and heavy wrapped in black plastic. A body bag.
My breath catches in my throat. My hand flies to my mouth, pressing hard against my lips to keep from making a sound.
I watch as they load the bag into the trunk of a dark sedan, their movements efficient and practiced.
Obviously, this isn't the first time they've done this, and it likely won't be the last.
The car pulls away, its taillights disappearing into the darkness beyond the estate gates. The men return inside, and the grounds are quiet again. Peaceful. As if nothing happened.
But I know what I saw. And I have the sickening, terrible feeling that I know who was inside that body bag.
Arnie.