Page 128 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

"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?"