Page 107 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I shake my head. "No. I'm not okay. Zach called me. He knows where I am. And I'm pregnant, and I have no idea how to handle any of this."

The words tumble out before I can stop them. The fear from the phone call finally cracks something inside me, and suddenly I can't hold it in anymore.

Sharon reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "We'll figure it out," she says. "One thing at a time."

"I don't even know which one of them is the father," I whisper.

"I know." Her voice is gentle. "But you're going to have to tell them eventually."

A noise behind us has me turning toward the doorway. Ekaterina is standing there in her nightgown and robe, her dark eyes fixed on me. There's no doubt in my mind that she just heard me say I'm pregnant and don't know who the father is.

44

ALEX

The underground hall beneath Nick's waterfront property is massive, stretching nearly a hundred feet in length with exposed steel beams overhead and industrial lighting casting harsh shadows across the assembled crowd. This place was built decades ago for exactly this purpose: private meetings that can't be interrupted, overheard, or raided without significant warning.

Every major captain from all three organizations is here tonight. Russ's men stand near the left side of the room wearing dark suits and expressions that range from curious to openly hostile. Nick's captains occupy the right, their body language controlled and watchful. My own people fill the center and back, arms crossed and faces hard. The atmosphere is thick with suspicion, territorial pride, and old grudges that have simmered for years between families who've competed for the same resources, routes, and influence.

I stand near the front beside Nick and Russ, all three of us dressed in dark suits that feel more like armor tonight than clothing. Nick's black hair is pulled back, his green eyes scanning the room with cold calculation. Russ looks deceptively relaxed in charcoal gray, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. I'm wearing navy with a white shirt, no tie, my hands loose at my sides even though my mind is running through every possible outcome of this meeting.

This is the moment everything either comes together or falls apart.

Russ steps forward first, and the room goes silent. I expected him to open with threats or carefully worded speeches about loyalty and tradition. Instead, he's blunt.

"The criminal world is changing too fast for isolated families to survive," Russ says, his voice carrying easily across the hall. "Political pressure is increasing. Federal attention is tightening. Rival groups are consolidating power. Internal betrayal is becoming more common and more dangerous. Any family standing alone right now is vulnerable, and we all fucking know it."

A few captains shift uncomfortably, but no one argues. Russ has always been good at cutting through bullshit to get to the truth people don't want to admit.

Nick steps forward next, his tone colder and more controlled. "The financial advantages are obvious. Combined shipping access through multiple ports. Expanded territory control without constant border conflicts. Shared political influence that reaches higher than any single family could manage alone. Stronger enforcement power that discourages outside interference."

He pauses, letting the words settle. Several captains are nodding now, their expressions thoughtful rather than resistant.

I move forward to finish the pitch. "The merger has already been quietly underway for months whether everyone in this room realized it or not. Shipments have been coordinated. Security has been shared and resources have been pooled during emergencies. What we're proposing tonight isn't theoretical. It's formalizing what's already working."

The room is quiet for a long moment. Then one of Russ's older captains speaks up, his voice rough with skepticism. "And what happens when the three of you disagree? Who makes the final call?"

"We don't operate by majority vote," Nick says flatly. "Decisions that affect all three families require unanimous agreement. If we can't agree, we don't move forward until we can."

"That sounds like a recipe for gridlock," another captain mutters.

"It's a recipe for careful planning," I counter. "Rash decisions get people killed. This structure forces us to think through consequences before acting."

Russ pulls a folder from the table behind us and holds it up. "To prove how serious we are about this, I'm going to show you something we've kept quiet until now. Even from those of you who've been in the know."

He opens the folder and starts passing around photographs and architectural plans. The images show three separate mansions, each designed with distinct styles but clearly part of a unified compound. There's a massive central gathering house surrounded by gardens, training facilities, guest houses, and enough land to house private security and future expansion.

"We purchased this land together nearly a couple of years ago," Russ says. "Foundations are already being built. These aren't plans for someday. This is happening now."

The atmosphere in the room shifts almost immediately. Captains lean forward, studying the photographs with new interest. I watch their faces carefully, noting the moment resistance begins to fade. They're realizing the merger was never theoretical. We've already committed resources, money, and planning to making this permanent.

One of my captains, a younger guy who's always been sharp, speaks up. "The younger generation already works together more naturally than the older men ever did. Half of us have been coordinating informally for years. This just makes it official."

Several others nod in agreement. Another captain points out that combined power would make us nearly untouchable locally. The federal government might still be a threat, but smaller rivals and opportunistic politicians would think twice before challenging a unified Bratva presence.

By the middle of the meeting, I realize most of the room isn't simply accepting the merger. They're excited by it. The possibilities are becoming real in their minds, and how this will mean a stronger future for their own families.

The door at the back of the hall opens abruptly and one of my captains enters, dragging another man inside. The second man is restrained with zip ties, his face bloodied and swollen, his shirt torn. I recognize him immediately as one of the lower-level logistics coordinators connected to port scheduling who has worked for my organization for three years.