Page 103 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

"Take me to him," I say, my voice cutting through their conversation.

Both men turn to look at me. Emil's expression darkens immediately.

"No."

"Emil." I walk toward them, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. "I know who it is. Take me to him."

"Kiera, you don't need to⁠—"

"Now." I cross my arms over my chest, meeting his gaze with all the determination I can muster.

Emil studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face. I can see the war happening behind his expression, the desire to protect me battling with wanting to please me.

"Fine," he finally says.

We walk through the estate in tense silence. Emil's hand rests on the small of my back, a possessive touch that would normally make me bristle. Right now, I barely notice it.

My heart pounds as we move through the familiar hallways. The marble floors gleam under the soft lighting, a perfect framework for the expensive art on the walls.

But as we walk, the surroundings begin to change. The marble gives way to plain tile. The artwork disappears. The lighting becomes harsher, more utilitarian.

We descend a set of stairs and the hallway grows darker, more industrial. The temperature drops as we go deeper. It's cooler down here, almost cold. I rub my arms, wishing I'd grabbed a jacket. My damp hair makes me shiver.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Emil asks quietly.

I nod, not trusting my voice. We stop in front of a heavy metal door. Luca opens it, and the three of us step inside.

The interrogation room is exactly as I remember it from the last time I was here. Sparse, cold, and intimidating. A single chair sits in the center under harsh fluorescent lighting that buzzes faintly overhead.

The smell hits me first. Sweat and blood and fear. It's a smell I recognize from the last time I was in this room, watching Emil beat a man who'd failed to pay his debts.

And tied to that chair is Arnie.

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Emil wasn't supposed to touch him. To hurt him. He'd promised me! I didn't know what his men did with Arnie that night at the club when they'd taken him out, just before the bullets flew. I'd pretty much forgotten about it. But now?

His face is a mess. One eye is swollen shut, the skin around it purple and black. Blood has dried under his nose and on his split lip. His shirt is torn, revealing bruises on his ribs and chest. Some of the bruises are fresh, dark purple and angry. Others are older, yellowing at the edges.

When he sees me, his eyes go wide. Wild. Panicked. He starts squirming in the chair, the ropes binding his wrists and ankles creaking with the movement. Muffled sounds come from behind the gag in his mouth. He's trying to say something, trying to scream, but the fabric muffles everything into desperate, animal noises.

"What happened to him?" I demand, whirling on Emil. "What did you do?"

Emil's expression doesn't change. He looks at Arnie with the same cold detachment he might give a piece of furniture. There's no anger in his face. No satisfaction. Just… nothing.

"We looked at your hospital records," he says calmly. "From when you were with him. Cracked rib. Multiple bruises. Contusions consistent with being grabbed and shaken."

My stomach drops.

"We talked to your neighbors," Emil continues. "The ones who heard you crying through the walls. The ones who heard him yelling at you, calling you names."

"Emil—"

"We talked to your coworkers. The ones who noticed when you came to work with makeup covering bruises. The ones you lied to about falling down stairs."

I can't breathe. The room feels too small and suddenly too hot despite the cold air.

"So we gave him what he gave you." Emil's voice is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather. "Cracked rib. Bruises. And then some."

Horror crashes over me in waves. I look at Arnie, at his battered face and terrified eyes, and I feel sick.