Page 116 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

"What about personal relationships?" I press. "Friends who became enemies? Romantic entanglements that ended badly?"

"No." His voice is firm. "I keep my personal life separate from my professional life. And I don't have enemies, Emil. I'm not like you."

The barb is intentional, but I don't react. "Everyone has enemies," I say quietly. "Sometimes, we just don't know it yet."

He stares at me, and I can see the fear in his eyes. Not fear of me, but fear for his sister. Fear that his world, his carefully constructed life, might somehow be responsible for putting her in danger.

"If I think of anything, I'll let you know," he says.

"Do that." I stand, preparing to leave. "And come by the estate tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Dinner with your brothers."

"Why?"

"Because I'm asking you to." I hold his gaze, letting him see the steel beneath the civility. "And because Kiera would want you there."

He doesn't argue. He just nods, his expression resigned.

Luca and I leave the building and head back to the SUV. The drive home is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The answers I received from Devin and Kevin were pretty much what I expected. Neither of them seems to have any obvious enemies, no one who would go to the lengths of hiring a professional shooter. But tomorrow night at dinner, I'll dig deeper. Sometimes, people don't realize the threats in their own lives until someone forces them to look.

When we pull up to the estate, I'm already thinking about the next steps. I need to expand the investigation and look into Kiera's friends, coworkers, and anyone who might have a connection to her. The shooter is out there somewhere, and I'm running out of time to find them before they try again.

I head inside, intending to go straight to my office and start making calls. But when I push open the door, I stop short.

Kiera is sitting behind my desk, her posture rigid and her expression furious. In her hands is one of my surveillance folders.

She looks up at me, her blue eyes blazing with anger, and I know immediately that this conversation is not going to go well.

45

KIERA

Emil has been gone all day, and I'm going absolutely insane.

I woke up this morning to find a note slipped under my door saying he had business to attend to and would be back later. No explanation or details. Just a vague promise to return. And here I am, trapped in this massive estate with nothing to do but stew in my own frustration and anxiety about everything that's happened in the past few days.

The wedding is in less than two weeks. Arnie is somewhere in this house, beaten and bloodied in an interrogation room. Someone is trying to kill me. And Emil thinks he can just leave me here to deal with all of this alone while he goes off to do God knows what.

I try to distract myself by working on the wedding clothes and I spend a couple of hours in my room sketching modifications to my designs and planning out the construction. But my heart isn't in it. My mind keeps wandering to darker places. To the look on Arnie's face when I saw him tied to that chair. To the casual way Emil talked about giving him what he deserved.

Eventually, I give up on the designs and start wandering the estate. It's a massive place, all modern architecture and expensive furnishings. The floors are polished marble in some areas, rich hardwood in others. Artwork hangs on the walls, and everything is pristine, perfectly maintained by the army of staff that moves through the house like ghosts.

I walk through the library, running my fingers along the spines of leather-bound books. I peek into rooms I haven't seen before, finding a home theater, a wine cellar, and a gym that rivals Devin's place. Each space is more impressive than the last, but none of it feels real. It's like walking through a museum, beautiful but cold.

By early afternoon, I'm so restless I can barely stand it. I need something to do, something to occupy my mind. And that's when I find myself standing outside Emil's office.

The office is exactly as I remember it from the last time I was here. Large mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and leather chairs positioned in front of a fireplace. The windows overlook the gardens, offering a view of manicured lawns and carefully tended flower beds. It's a room designed to impress and intimidate. And it works.

I go to the bookshelves first, scanning the titles. There's a mix of Russian and English, everything from classic literature to business management texts to what look like legal documents bound in leather. I pull out a book at random, some thriller about international espionage, and settle into one of the leather chairs by the fireplace.

For a while, I actually manage to lose myself in the story. The protagonist is a spy trying to prevent a terrorist attack, and the action is fast-paced enough to keep my attention. But after an hour or so, my mind starts to wander again and I keep reading the same paragraph over and over without absorbing any of it.

I set the book aside and stand, stretching my arms over my head. My gaze drifts to Emil's desk.

I walk over to the desk and sit in Emil's chair. From this position, I can see everything. The computer monitor, dark and silent. The phone. The neat stack of papers in the corner. And there, in the center of the desk, a series of manila folders.

My heart starts to beat faster as I reach for the top folder. I know I shouldn't. I know this is a violation of privacy and a breach of trust. But I'm so angry and frustrated and scared that I don't care.

I open the first folder and my breath catches.