29. Kiera
KIERA
Istare at my phone for a long moment before finally dialing my boss's number. It's Tuesday morning, exactly one week since the honor fight, and I can't put this off any longer.
"Kiera," my boss answers on the second ring. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I lie. "But I need to take some more time off. For wedding planning."
There's a pause. "Wedding planning? I thought you were sick."
"I was. I am. But I'm also getting married in three weeks, and there's a lot to do." The words taste bitter in my mouth. Three weeks. That's all the time I have left before I become Mrs. Emil Nikitin.
"Oh. Well, congratulations." She sounds genuinely pleased, which makes me feel worse. "Take all the time you need. We'll manage here."
"Thank you. I really appreciate it."
I hang up and toss the phone onto the bed.
I can't tell her the real reason I'm not coming back to work.
Can't explain that someone tried to kill me, that my apartment was ransacked, and that there are people actively looking for me.
I can't say that the only reason I'm still alive is because I'm trapped in a Mafia boss's estate with armed guards at every entrance.
I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room and scowl at my expression. I look almost defeated, which is not even close to the truth. Maybe I can't do anything about the wedding situation, but I'm far from being conquered.
Emil's injuries from the fight with my brothers are almost completely healed. Just a faint yellow bruise under his left eye and a small cut on his cheekbone that's already scabbing over. The man heals like a damn superhero.
The past week has been strange. I've spent most of my time sparring with Luca, learning self-defense techniques that go beyond the basic moves my brothers taught me growing up.
Luca's patient but demanding, pushing me until my muscles scream and sweat drips down my back.
I'm getting better, faster, and stronger.
But I still can't shake the feeling that I'm being trained for a war I never signed up for.
I've had meals with Emil, breakfast and dinner mostly, but he's been so busy, I haven't spent much time with him otherwise. He disappears into his office for hours, takes calls in Russian that I can't understand, and meets with men who all carry guns under their expensive suits.
I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Part of me is relieved to have space, to not feel his intense focus on me every second. But another part, a part I don't want to acknowledge, misses him. Misses the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
I'm trying to make the best of this situation.
Really, I am. But I'm still pissed that I'm being forced to marry him.
Forced. That's the word that keeps echoing in my head.
I don't have a choice. If I don't go through with this wedding, my brothers' lives are in danger.
Jack especially, with his cop's instincts and his private investigation into Emil's organization.
No matter how good looking Emil is, and God, he is gorgeous. No matter how much money he has, and it's clearly a fortune. No matter how incredible he is in bed, and that's an understatement. I don't want this lifestyle.
I've seen the guys coming and going from the estate all week.
Men in dark suits with bulges under their jackets that can only be weapons.
They nod respectfully when they see me, call me "Miss Walker" in accented English, but their eyes are cold and calculating.
These are dangerous men. Killers, probably.
And I'm supposed to be their Pakhan’s wife.
A knock on the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
"Miss Walker?" A woman's voice, soft and accented. "The seamstress is here for your fitting."
Right. The wedding dress. Because apparently, I need a custom gown for this forced marriage.
I open the door to find one of the household staff, a middle-aged woman whose name I still haven't learned. She leads me downstairs to a sitting room I haven't been in before, where a seamstress has set up a portable mirror and a dress form.
The seamstress is older, maybe sixty, with sharp eyes and quick hands. She speaks in rapid-fire English mixed with Russian, gesturing for me to stand on a small platform while she pins and tucks the white fabric draped over my body.
"You are so lucky," she says for what must be the tenth time. "To marry the Pakhan. Such a powerful man. Such a handsome man."
I force a smile and say nothing.
"Almost every single woman in the city would give their right arm to be in your shoes," she continues, her pins flashing as she works. "And a few who aren't single, too, if you know what I mean."
I don't agree, but I keep my mouth shut. What would be the point? She wouldn't understand. No one would understand unless they were living it.
The fitting takes over an hour. By the time she's done, my feet hurt from standing and my jaw aches from clenching it so hard. The seamstress packs up her supplies, still chattering about how fortunate I am, and finally leaves.
I barely have time to change back into my jeans and sweater before another knock sounds at the door.
The wedding planner.
She's younger than the seamstress, maybe forty, with perfectly styled blonde hair and a tablet clutched in her manicured hands. She sets up in the same sitting room, spreading fabric samples and color swatches across the coffee table like she's preparing for battle.
"Now," she says briskly, "let's discuss the ceremony. I'm thinking traditional Russian Orthodox, very formal and elegant. Gold and white color scheme, of course. Roses, lots of roses. And for the reception—"
"Wait," I interrupt. "I don't want something that formal."
She blinks at me like I've spoken a foreign language. "But you're marrying the Pakhan. It has to be formal. It has to be grand."
"Why?"
"Because that's what's expected. This is a statement, Miss Walker. A declaration of power and unity. The entire organization will be watching."
I'd never been one to plan my wedding as a child.
While other girls dreamed about white dresses and flower arrangements, I was more interested in sketching fashion designs and playing soccer with my brothers.
I'd never imagined a big, formal wedding like the one this planner is describing. It sounds suffocating.
"I want something smaller," I say firmly. "More intimate. Less… showy."
"That's not possible."
"Why not?"
"Because the Pakhan’s wedding is a public event. There will be hundreds of guests. Important people. You can't just—"
"I can, and I will." My voice rises. "If I'm being forced to marry him, the least he can do is let me have the wedding I want."
The planner's eyes widen. "Forced? Miss Walker, I don't think—"
I wince. I shouldn't have said that. I wave my hand with a quick dismissive move. "Forced to marry him in a ceremony," I say, trying to improvise. "Can you tone it down or not?"
"I… I can't. The Pakhan’s family, his organization, they expect—"
"Get Emil," I snap. "Get him in here right now."
She hesitates, then pulls out her phone and makes a quick call.
Five minutes later, Emil walks into the sitting room.
He's wearing dark slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoos on his forearms. His hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it, and there's a tension in his shoulders that suggests I've interrupted something important.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his dark eyes moving between me and the planner.
"She wants a circus," I say, gesturing at the fabric samples. "I want something simple. She won't listen."
Emil looks at the planner. "Explain."
The planner launches into the same speech about tradition, expectations, and public declarations. Emil listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable.
When she finishes, he turns to me. "What do you want?"
"Something small. Just family and close friends. No gold and white color scheme. No hundreds of roses. No statement."
"The organization expects—"
"I don't care what they expect," I cut him off. "This is my wedding too. If I have to go through with it, I should at least get some say in how it happens."
Emil studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing options, calculating consequences. Finally, he looks at the planner.
"Find a middle ground," he says. "Keep it formal enough to satisfy tradition, but scale it back. Smaller guest list. Simpler decorations. Work with what Kiera wants."
"But Pakhan—"
"That's an order."
The planner's mouth snaps shut. She nods stiffly and starts gathering her samples.
"No," I say. Both of them look at me. "No middle ground. The least you can do is let me have the wedding I want. Not some compromise. Not some watered-down version of what your organization expects. What I want."
Emil's jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he's going to argue. Then he nods once, sharp and final.
"Do what she says," he tells the planner.
The woman looks like she might faint, but she nods and quickly packs up her things. The moment she's gone, Emil turns to me.
"Anything else?"
"No."
He studies me for another moment, then leaves without another word.
I stand there in the empty sitting room, my heart pounding. I won, I think. I actually won something.
It's a small victory, but right now, I'll take what I can get.
I head upstairs and take a long, hot shower, letting the water wash away the tension from the fittings and arguments. When I'm done, I dress in comfortable clothes and make my way downstairs. I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Food, maybe. Or just a change of scenery from my bedroom.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear voices coming from the main living room. Multiple voices. Women's voices.
I pause, curiosity overriding caution, and move quietly toward the sound.
When I reach the doorway, I freeze.
Emil is sitting in one of the leather armchairs, relaxed and commanding, while several women are arranged around him on the sofas and chairs. They're all beautiful, all dressed in expensive clothes, and all looking at him with expressions that range from admiration to outright hunger.
It looks like a lord holding court to a bunch of ladies.