50. Emil
EMIL
My estate feels like a damn train station this morning.
I stand at the window of my office, watching the chaos unfold below.
Kevin is on the terrace with his phone pressed to his ear, pacing back and forth while he handles some work crisis.
Jack is in the gym, working out with two of my guards who look like they're trying not to show how impressed they are by his form.
Devin is in the kitchen arguing with my chef about protein ratios and meal prep strategies.
And Kaleb is in the library on a video call with Mark, their voices carrying down the hallway.
My estate is massive, but somehow, with Kiera's four brothers staying here, the place feels crowded. Like we're all tripping over each other no matter where we go.
Except for Kiera. She's been staying in her room. A lot. And that bothers me more than I want to admit. I've seen her at meals, of course. She sits quietly, picks at her food, answers questions when asked but doesn't volunteer much. She's withdrawn and distant.
Last night at dinner, she barely touched her plate, just pushed the food around with her fork while her brothers talked and argued around her.
When I asked if she was feeling all right, she gave me a tight smile and said she was fine.
But I could see the lie in her eyes. Something is wrong. And I need to know what it is.
I leave my office and head upstairs, my footsteps echoing on the marble floors. The hallway leading to her room is quiet, the morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows and casting geometric patterns on the walls. I knock once on her door, then wait.
"Come in," her voice calls out, muffled through the wood.
I open the door and find her sitting on the bed, still in her pajamas, a simple tank top and shorts that show off her legs. Her red hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it, and there are shadows under her eyes that suggest she didn't sleep well.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice gentle.
She looks up at me, and I see something flicker in her blue eyes. Wariness, maybe. Or exhaustion. "Morning."
"I was thinking," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "Last week, I was supposed to take you to look at some properties. Buildings and lots I'm considering for new ventures. We had to postpone because of everything that happened."
She nods slowly, not saying anything.
"I'd like to do that today. If you're interested." I watch her face carefully, looking for any sign of what she's thinking. "Get out of the house for a while. Just you, me, and Luca. Some guards, of course, but we can have some space."
For a moment, I think she's going to refuse. Her expression is guarded, her body language closed off. But then she takes a breath and nods.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Give me twenty minutes to get ready."
"Take your time."
I close the door and head back downstairs, finding Luca in the security office reviewing camera feeds. He looks up when I enter, his expression questioning.
"We're going out," I tell him. "Property tours. Get the car ready and assemble a security team. Four guards should be enough."
Luca nods and starts making calls. I return to my office to grab my phone and wallet, then wait in the foyer. True to her word, Kiera appears exactly twenty minutes later.
She's wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes. She's put on just enough makeup to hide the shadows under her eyes. She looks beautiful, but there's a tension in her shoulders that I don't like.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Ready."
The drive into the city is quiet. Kiera sits beside me in the back of the SUV, staring out the window at the passing scenery. Luca is in the front passenger seat, and two guards follow in a second vehicle behind us. The other two guards went ahead to secure the first location.
Our first stop is a warehouse district on the edge of downtown.
The building I'm considering is an old brick structure with good bones but in need of renovation.
The property manager meets us at the entrance, a nervous man in an ill-fitting suit who keeps glancing at my guards with wide eyes.
He gives us a tour, pointing out the features and potential of the space.
High ceilings with exposed beams. Original hardwood floors that could be refinished.
Large windows that let in natural light.
Kiera walks through the space, her footsteps echoing in the empty rooms. She runs her hand along the brick walls, looks up at the ceiling, and peers out the windows at the street below. But she doesn't say much, just nods occasionally when the manager asks if she has questions.
We spend about forty-five minutes there before moving on to the next location.
The lot is empty now, just a flat expanse of concrete and weeds surrounded by a chain-link fence.
But the location is prime. Close to public transportation, walking distance to restaurants and shops, and in an area that's gentrifying rapidly.
Kiera stands at the edge of the lot, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the empty space. I move to stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"What do you think?" I ask.
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "It has potential."
Her voice is flat. Emotionless. Like she's reading from a script.
We visit two more properties, an office building and a restaurant space in a trendy neighborhood that's currently vacant. At each location, Kiera is polite but distant. She answers when spoken to, nods in the right places, but there's no spark. No engagement.
By the time we finish the last tour, it's nearly one in the afternoon. My stomach is growling, and I can see the exhaustion in Kiera's face.
"Lunch," I say. "I know a place."
The restaurant is owned by another Bratva family, one I have a good relationship with. It's upscale Italian, the kind of place where you need a reservation weeks in advance unless you're connected. Which I am.
The manager greets us at the door, his face breaking into a wide smile when he sees me. "Pakhan Nikitin! What an honor. Your usual room is ready."
He leads us through the main dining area, past tables filled with well-dressed patrons, to a private room in the back. It's intimate, with dark wood paneling, soft lighting, and a single table set for two. The door closes behind us, giving us privacy.
Kiera sits down across from me, her movements mechanical. A waiter appears immediately, pouring water and presenting menus. I order for both of us without looking at the menu. Pasta, salad, wine for me and sparkling water for her.
When the waiter leaves, I lean back in my chair and study her. She's staring at the table, her fingers tracing patterns on the white tablecloth. The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Kiera," I finally say. "What's going on?"
She looks up at me. "What do you mean?" she asks, but her voice lacks conviction.
"You've been withdrawn and distracted. You barely eat, you stay in your room, and when you do come out, you look like you're somewhere else entirely." I keep my voice gentle but firm. "Talk to me. What's going on inside your head?"
She's quiet for a long moment, her blue eyes searching my face. Then she takes a breath and says, "What happened to Arnie?"
The question hits me like a punch to the gut. I should have known this was coming, should have anticipated it. But somehow, I'd forgotten about the man while I focused on everything else.
I consider lying and telling her that Arnie is fine, but I decide to tell her the truth. "He was dealt with," I say carefully. "You'll never have to worry about him again."
Her face goes pale. "Dealt with," she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's what you call it?"
"Kiera…"
"I saw them last night." Her words come out in a rush now, like a dam breaking. "I couldn't sleep, so I went to the window. And I saw your men carrying a body bag. Loading it into a car. I know it was him. I know what you did."
Fuck.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I gave orders for it to be handled discreetly. You weren't supposed to know."
"But I do know." Her voice is shaking now.
"He hurt you," I say, my voice harder now. "What did you think was going to happen?"
"I don't know!" She's crying now, tears streaming down her face, and she looks furious about it. Furious that she's showing this emotion, that she's breaking down in front of me. "I don't know what I thought. But I didn't think… I didn't want…"
I start to reach across the table, wanting to comfort her, but she jerks away from me, pulling back like my touch burns her
"Don't," she says, her voice breaking.
"Kiera, please…"
"I'm pregnant." The words come out in a rush, desperate and angry and terrified all at once. "I'm pregnant, Emil. And I don't want the father of my child to be a murderer."