Page 46 of The Pakhan’s Accidental Bride

The man is sitting in a chair in the center of the room, his hands tied behind his back. He's sweating, his eyes darting around nervously. Good. He should be nervous. This is the third time he's been late on his loan payment. The third fucking time.

I'd felt sorry for him at first. He has a wife and three kids and a decent job. But he likes to gamble. Can't seem to help himself. I've given him more chances than I usually do, more than he deserves. But my patience has limits.

The man immediately breaks into panicked explanations. "I know I'm late again, but if you could just give me one more week, I swear I'll have the money. My wife's mother is sick, and we had to pay for her medical bills, and⁠—"

"Stop," I say, holding up a hand.

He stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. I can see the exact moment he realizes his excuses won't work this time. His face goes pale, and a fresh sheen of sweat breaks out across his forehead. He starts trembling, the chair creaking beneath him as his body shakes.

"Please, Mr. Nikitin," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Please don't hurt me. I'll do anything. Anything."

But that's the problem with men like him. They always say they'll do anything, but when it comes down to it, they keep making the same mistakes. Keep gambling. Keep lying. And they keep thinking the rules don't apply to them until I prove otherwise. I can't let this slide. Sometimes mercy is weakness, and weakness gets you killed in this business. This man needs to understand that my generosity has a limit, and he's crossed it.

I walk slowly around the chair, letting the silence stretch. Luca leans against the wall, his arms crossed, watching. The man's eyes follow me, wide with fear.

"Do you know why you're in this room instead of my office?" I ask conversationally.

He shakes his head.

"This is what I call my interrogation room. It's where I bring people who require a bit more… convincing."

"Please," he starts, and then the words come pouring out in a rush. "Please, Mr. Nikitin, I'm begging you. I have kids. Three kids. They need their father. I'll get you the money, I swear on their lives. Just give me one more chance. One more week. Please."

He's crying now, the tears streaming down his face. He tries every tactic in his book. Pleading. Begging. Promising. Making excuses. But they won't work.

I let him babble. Let him get it all out. When he finally runs out of words, I lean down so we're eye to eye.

"You've had your chances," I say quietly. "Three of them, to be exact. That's two more than most people get. It's time you learned what happens when you don't pay up."

"No, please, I'll⁠—"

Luca raises an eyebrow, silently asking if I want him to take care of the problem. It would be easy. Luca's good at this kind of thing. Efficient. Clean.

But I shake my head. This one's mine.

I pull back my fist and punch the man square in the face. I feel his nose break under my knuckles, hear the crunch of cartilage. Blood spurts immediately, running down his face and dripping onto his shirt. He screams, the sound muffled and wet.

I hear a gasp.

I look up, and my blood runs cold.

Kiera is standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock and horror.

21

KIERA

Ishouldn't have followed them.

The thought screams through my mind as I stand frozen in the doorway, my hand still gripping the frame. The room before me is stark, bare walls and concrete floor, with a single chair in the center. A man sits in that chair, his wrists bound behind him, his face pale and sweating.

And Emil stands in front of him.

I watch, unable to move, unable to breathe, as Emil's fist connects with the man's face. The sound is sickening, a wet crunch that makes my stomach lurch. Blood explodes from the man's nose, flooding down his chin and onto his shirt in a crimson cascade.

The man howls. It's a pitiful, animal sound that makes every nerve in my body scream at me to run.