Page 113 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

The drive takes about twenty minutes. We end up in a part of the city I'm not familiar with, a neighborhood that's not quite upscale but not rundown, either. Just… ordinary. Luca parks in front of a nondescript building with tinted windows and a single door. There's no sign, no indication of what's inside.

Emil gets out and comes around to open my door. "Come on."

I follow him to the entrance, Luca trailing behind us. Emil knocks twice, pauses, then knocks three more times. A pattern or some kind of secret code. The door opens immediately, and a large man in a dark suit nods at Emil.

"Pakhan," he says, stepping aside to let us in.

Inside, the building is nothing like I expected. The front room is small and plain, with a desk and a few chairs. But Emil leads me through another door, down a hallway, and into a much larger space. The lighting is dim, the walls are paneled in dark wood, and there are several tables scattered throughout the room. People are gathered around them, cards in hand, with chips stacked in front of them.

A card house. Another one of Emil's gambling businesses.

"This way," Emil says, guiding me with a hand on the small of my back. His touch is warm through the fabric of my sweater, and I'm acutely aware of how close he is. How his presence seems to fill the space around me.

We walk past the main tables and through another door into a private room. This one is smaller, more intimate. A single round table sits in the center, surrounded by plush leather chairs. The lighting is better here, focused on the table itself. Three men are already seated, cards and chips in front of them. They look up when we enter, and I see recognition flash across their faces.

"Pakhan," one of them says, half rising from his seat.

"Sit," Emil says, his voice casual but commanding. "We're just here to play."

He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit, feeling the eyes of the other men on me. They're all older, probably in their forties or fifties, and dressed in expensive suits. They look like businessmen. Successful, powerful, and by the stack of money in front of them, they're probably loaded, too.

Emil takes the seat next to me and signals to someone I hadn't noticed standing near the door. A moment later, a woman approaches with a tray of chips. Emil takes a stack, a huge stack, and sets it in front of me.

"For you," he says.

I stare at the chips. There have to be thousands of dollars’ worth here. "Emil, I can't…"

"You can." He leans closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "Play. Have fun. Don't worry about losing."

One of the men across the table chuckles. "Your lady doesn't play?"

"She plays," Emil says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Deal her in."

The game starts, and I focus on my cards. It's been a while since I've played poker, but the rules come back to me quickly. I'm cautious at first, folding more often than I bet, trying to get a feel for the other players. But as the hands progress, I start to relax. The chips in front of me grow and shrink with each round, and I find myself genuinely enjoying it.

There's something freeing about this. About sitting here, playing cards, and not thinking about weddings or shooters or the fact that I'm marrying a man who terrifies and fascinates me in equal measure. For a few hours, I can just be, just exist in this moment without the weight of everything else pressing down on me.

Emil plays beside me, his movements confident and precise. He's good at this, I realize. Really good. He reads the other players easily, knowing when to fold and when to push. And he's relaxed in a way I haven't seen before. His shoulders are loose, his expression almost content.

I win a hand, and a grin spreads across my face. "Yes!"

Emil glances at me, and there's genuine warmth and affection there. Like he's pleased to see me happy.

"Nice play," he murmurs.

The conversation at the table flows around us. The men talk about business deals and investments. I'm not paying much attention, too focused on my cards and the thrill of the game. But gradually, I become aware that the talk isn't just general conversation. It's more pointed and deliberate.

"Heard there was some trouble at one of the clubs last week," one of the men says, his tone casual. "Shooting, wasn't it?"

Emil doesn't look up from his cards. "There was."

"Any idea who's behind it?"

"Not yet." Emil discards a card and draws another. "But I'm working on it."

Another man, the one sitting directly across from me, leans back in his chair. "Word on the street is someone's making a move. Trying to destabilize things."

"Is that what the word on the street says?" Emil's voice is mild, but there's an edge to it now.