Page 103 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

Nick spreads the photograph across the kitchen table like he's laying out evidence at a crime scene. The glossy surface catches the overhead light, making the image almost too clear. Marla and Sharon, frozen mid-laugh outside the Ivory Wolf, completely unaware they're being watched.

There's nothing written on it. No threats, no demands, no cryptic messages. That's what makes it so disturbing. It's not about what's written. It's about what isn't. Someone took the time to follow Marla, photograph her, develop the image professionally, and leave it for us to find alongside Sharon. It's deliberate. It's personal. And it's been going on for weeks, since Marla first went there and met me.

"Fuck," I mutter, staring at the photo. My hands curl into fists on the table.

Marla stands near the doorway with Sharon pressed against her side. Both women look pale and shaken. Sharon's hands are trembling slightly despite the blanket my mother wrapped around her shoulders earlier. Marla's jaw is tight, her blue eyes fixed on the photograph like she's trying to will it out of existence.

Alex leans against the counter with his arms crossed, his expression dark and calculating. Nick stands beside the table, his green eyes cold as he studies the photo like it might reveal something we haven't already figured out.

My mother moves through the kitchen as if nothing is wrong, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets. She's been here less than a day and already acts like she owns the place. But that's how she is. She needs to be busy when she's nervous, and her favorite thing to do is take care of others.

"Everyone sit," she says firmly, not looking up from the cutting board where she's chopping vegetables.

Nobody moves.

"I said sit." Her tone sharpens, and suddenly we're all moving toward the table like we're kids being scolded. Even Alex pulls out a chair without argument, which almost makes me laugh. If things weren't so serious, I would laugh and tell him what a coward he is.

My mother has this way of taking command without raising her voice or making threats. It's infuriating. She just expects compliance, and somehow she gets it. Even from three pakhans who don't take orders from anyone else.

"You're all going to eat," she continues, setting a large pot on the stove. The scent of onions and garlic fills the kitchen as she works. "You've been running around like headless chickens, and nobody's had a proper meal. Sit. Eat. Then you can go back to your plotting and planning."

She doesn't look at any of us directly, but I can tell she's watching everything. The way Sharon trembles. The protective way Marla keeps close to her friend. How Alex and Nick position themselves near exits and windows even while sitting. My mother misses nothing, never has.

"Ma," I start, but she cuts me off with a look.

"Don't 'Ma' me, Rustik. Sit down."

I sit.

The kitchen fills with the sounds of cooking: the sizzle of meat hitting the pan, the rhythmic chop of her knife against the cutting board, and water boiling on the stove. She moves between tasks seamlessly, and I realize she's creating normalcy in the middle of chaos. It's what she's always done. What she did after my father died, when everything fell apart and I had to step up as pakhan years before I was ready.

Sharon refuses to leave Marla's side all afternoon. She follows her from room to room like a shadow, never more than a few feet away. When Marla sits on the couch, Sharon sits beside her. When Marla moves to the window, Sharon follows. It's like she's afraid if she lets Marla out of her sight, something terrible will happen.

I can't blame her. She was just kidnapped, locked in a warehouse, and used as a pawn in someone's fucked-up game. Of course she's terrified.

Marla handles it with more patience than I expected. She doesn't complain or try to get space. She just lets Sharon stay close, occasionally reaching over to squeeze her hand or murmur something reassuring.

Nick's in the other room taking a call from his brother Mark, keeping his voice low and controlled. I can hear bits and pieces through the open doorway.

"No, you don't need to worry about it," Nick says. "Just stay at the penthouse for a few more days. I'll let you know when it's safe to go back to your place."

Mark says something I can't make out.

"It's business," Nick replies, his tone final. "Family stays separate from business. You know that."

He ends the call and returns to the kitchen, his expression unreadable. He catches my eye and jerks his head toward the hallway. Alex notices and follows without a word. The three of us gather in the small office at the back of the mother-in-law building. It's the first time we've had a serious meeting that isn't entirely about Marla or Sharon, and the shift is somewhat welcoming, if that makes any damn sense.

"We need to talk about the merger," Nick says, closing the door behind us.

Alex nods. "Agreed. This situation is escalating faster than we anticipated."

I lean against the desk, crossing my arms. "Someone's testing us. They're looking for fractures between our organizations."

"And they're finding them," Alex adds grimly. "The warehouse attack exposed security weaknesses. Sharon's kidnapping proved they can reach our informants. The photo shows they've been watching Marla since before any of this started."

Nick's jaw tightens. "The mayor's involvement complicates things. He's been on the payroll for years, but if his son is actively working against us, that changes the dynamic. We can't touch Zach without political blowback."

"Not yet," I say. "But we can make it clear that coming after what's ours has consequences."